The Osiris Contingency
Page 27
When the medics turned to reach for the silver instruments, Damian leaned forward to brush the backs of his fingertips along her cheek. Her eyes looked wildly to him, wide and frightened as he murmured, “When you wake up, this will just feel like a nightmare. Nothing more.”
As the medics moved into position on either side of her head, Liane looked up at the bright lights above her, watching how they blurred as the tears welled up within her eyes.
The steel walls muffled the screams that soon filled the room, keeping both Liane’s suffering and the secrets of the Agency well away from the city it controlled.
CHAPTER 33
Across town, a mansion stood on a quiet street. It looked like any of the other residences, save for the extensive surveillance system and armed guards patrolling with dogs. The gates opened to admit a black limousine, which pulled up to the front door to allow Adrian to emerge. She walked up the low stairs and entered, waiting until the door shut behind her to hang her coat on the rack with a sigh. Since before dawn she’d been doing endless damage control with the media and the Party over the explosion that had rocked through the city center, as well as the further explosions in a forgotten bunker on the edge of Whitechapel. She’d done a brilliant job of spinning the incidents, proclaiming that her security forces had uncovered and attacked a foreign terrorist cell.
When challenged if the show of force had been excessive, she’d retorted in an authoritative voice, “The security and safety of the city was deemed a worthy enough cause to warrant it.” The images of her saying those words had been playing nonstop on the news feeds, her striking face filling every screen for hours. A perfect performance.
Still, it had been a long, exhausting day, and it was good to be home.
She moved through the center hallway, over marble floors and Persian carpets. The interior of the mansion was exquisite,
beautifully furnished with antiques and filled with rich fabrics. The fireplaces and electric candles were turned on in each room, providing a low, dim light as she passed through to the kitchen. She sighed as she went, massaging the aching muscles in her neck as she went to see the meal her personal chef had left
covered on the counter. The plate was still warm, steam rising from the roast quail, truffle risotto, and foie gras. Her mouth
watered at the delicious aromas, and she savored them for a
moment before beginning to eat. When she was full, she turned to the fine wine chilling in the ice bucket, carrying her glass with her as she went upstairs to the master bathroom.
There was a full bath waiting for her next to a lit gas fireplace. Dancing flamed reflected off the cut-crystal vases full of imported flowers. The water itself had been delicately scented with orange blossoms, and after undressing she sank into the warmth with a contented sigh. As she reclined back, sipping from her wine glass, she couldn’t help but marvel at how far a person could rise in the world. Her lackeys would have never believed that the poised Prime Minister had been born on the streets in one of the worst parts of London. She’d known real hunger out there, nearly starvation, and had suffered more pain and degradation than she cared to remember. Compared to life before, the hard, harsh world of the Agency had seemed like heaven. Now here she sat, surrounded by beauty, luxury, and more power than she had ever dreamed possible.
It was never a comforting thought because it was always
accompanied by the raw, ferocious desire to stay right where she was. The key to that, of course, was the Agency. Having Damian as the head of it was a comfort, though he had been so petulant and ill-tempered over the past few weeks he was almost useless. Thank God the girl had been recovered in one piece. Just having her back had already made him more manageable, and if the
sullen little bitch was what it took to keep Damian happy, then let him have her.
Anything to make Adrian’s life just a little easier.
She rose from her bath some time later, pulling a silk and
velvet robe around her as she headed to the front of the house and her study. The lamps within the room lit up as she entered, revealing an interior in shades of cream and ivory alongside
priceless oil paintings.
Her assistant had come and gone, leaving the usual reports. Damian’s briefing on the extermination of the rebels and Liane’s capture was on top; Adrian shoved it aside. It didn’t matter how Damian had managed it. All that mattered was that the threat had been eradicated.
But under the report was something odd. A cream envelope stamped with a Germanic postmark and addressed to Adrian. It had made it through the mail screening process, so what was
inside was neither dangerous nor deadly. She arched one groomed brow, then slit the end of the envelope open.
A small, portable drive clattered onto the slick surface of her desk. She picked it up, turning it over in her hand before picking up a tablet and sliding the drive inside. There was only one file on the drive; a video file. Setting the tablet on the desk, she sat down in her chair and began the projection.
The lens flared to life, and a shimmering image of Owen’s head and shoulders appeared above the tablet. Adrian leaned forward, her eyes sharpening in recognition.
“Hello, Prime Minister,” said Owen, his face hard and unyielding. “You may not remember me, but I remember you. You knew me as Agent seven-four-six-three hundred, but my real name is Owen. If you are watching this then I’m already dead. This will have been sent to you by my compatriots abroad, who you already know as Black Sun.”
Adrian stiffened in her chair, not a trace of a smile on her lips anymore.
“I was chosen to give you this message,” Owen went on. “I may have failed in my efforts, but I am just a small part of a much larger plan. Black Sun lives on, as does the secret of the Ragnarok Resolution.”
She drew in a sharp breath at the mention, though Owen’s
recording remained impassive and indifferent as he went on, “Yes, Prime Minister, we know. We know everything, and soon the world will know it. You have lived like a god in this world, killing whomever you pleased and keeping this country in the grip of your terror. But Ragnarok is coming, the time when even gods can die...”
The projections flickered and then was gone, leaving only Adrian sitting rigid and staring into the darkness. Slowly she stood, walking over to the windows and looking out at the city; at her city. The skyline was just visible over the tops of the adjacent homes, glimmering against the night sky. Its inhabitants were going about their business, unknowing of the danger that loomed on its horizon.
Adrian lifted her chin, a resolute gleam in her eyes. So Black Sun had survived; what did that matter? She’d survived far worse than a ragtag army of mods with a vendetta; enemies far cleverer had come after her before, and she’d managed to defeat all of them. This terrorist rabble would be no different, especially now she had Damian and his Agent back in the game.
She gave a small, slow smile. Even if Black Sun became a
problem, there was always the Ragnarok Resolution. Not
desirable, but exceedingly useful.
Satisfied and secure, Adrian turned and headed towards the hall, her mind already considering her next move.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Virginia Soenksen has always enjoyed creating new worlds and characters, and at some point, started writing her ideas down. An art historian and associate director of a museum, she also writes about Japanese textiles. She lives in the Shenandoah Valley and enjoys finding inspiration through travel. Follow her on social media for more information on the next exciting chapter in the Genetics Chronicles.
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ISBN: 978-1-62006-175-6 (Trade paperback)
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