My boots clopped against the pavement, the warm, humid air causing me to perspire against my blouse and blazer combo. I looked right, then left, then right again, and started to cross. All clear.
A squeal of tires to my right drew my attention. A sedan had turned onto the street and was heading toward me, accelerating. It was fifty yards back, plenty of room for me to get off the road and onto the sidewalk before he collided with me. Hell, I could just leap over him, if I wanted to. I kept a watchful eye, looking to see what he did–
He sped up. Squealed his tires. Put pedal to metal.
That was cause for alarm. Not serious, because I was me, but still. You don't see a pedestrian in the street and gun it, at least not if you're normal human being. I set my feet, prepared to glare him down.
He continued to accelerate.
Now he was thirty yards away, speeding toward me, passing the FBI office. I wondered what the hell he was playing at as I reached for my pistol, sliding my jacket back to draw–
And suddenly I was wrenched by an agonizing – and very familiar – pain.
My brain pounded like it was going to explode, my ears filled with something like icepicks, stabbing in either canal in a simultaneous rhythm of murderous intensity. I went from ready to draw my pistol to wishing for death, swift and sure, just so it could be over. My legs turned to pure jelly and my head throbbed with the intensity of a metal concert turned up to 1,000 decibels behind my eyes.
I didn't even feel my knees hit the pavement. My eyes were squinted closed from the agony, the pure, brain-killing agony. It was like a telepathic attack, except not – it worked my brain like a double-barreled shotgun/machine gun combo firing straight into my skull with an infinite mag.
It was a sonic weapon. But not a little pussy sonic weapon like they'd used on Bridget over the course of weeks or months. No, that was a toy for babies and little birdies. This was the big boy, the nuclear version of it, and it was pointed on me, humming through my bones like I was standing next to the bass speaker at a concert.
Prying my eyes open, another sound broke in – barely – over the anguish of the weapon. It was an engine gunning, and I split my eyelids enough to see a grill coming at me–
Then the sedan smashed into me, my face, my body, and I went flying, limply, into darkness.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Chapman
“...And I think that's our key takeaway so far on engagement on Instaphoto this month. More of that, amirite?”
The director of product development for Instaphoto was...hell, what was her name? Chapman couldn't remember, didn't really care. Instaphoto was an afterthought, an acquisition he'd picked up because photo sharing was hot, and because he could buy it and integrate it into his empire with ease, squashing it as a competitor before it got into Socialite's weight class.
“More of that, absolutely,” Chapman said, forcing a smile. “I'm liking your targets, your growth curve is great.” He glanced at her, trying to be sincere in his delivery. Instaphoto might not have been his passion but she was killing it on revenue targets. It was a cash cow, and had been since they'd taken it off the developers' hands and started properly milking it. If he had a gift, it was figuring out how to maximize the cashflow on a business that others couldn't quite figure out how to monetize. It was why he was on top of the heap, raking it in. Provide a service, find the money, go to town.
Chapman's intercom beeped, interrupting him in the midst of composing the next stanza of his song of praise for this particular underling. “Just a sec,” he said, and hit the button. “Yes?”
“Mr. Chapman, you have a call from Devin in special projects regarding that thing you handed off to them this morning.”
Chapman raised an eyebrow. That “thing” he'd handed off was surveillance of Sienna Nealon, because he couldn't afford to sit around and watch her all day himself. “Perfect. Let them know I'll be online in a few minutes. And kindly reschedule this meeting with a little more time – say an hour on next Thursday? Uninterrupted? Once things calm down here.” He hit the cutoff button without bothering to wait for acknowledgment. One of his assistants would see to it. “Really – truly proud of what you're doing here. Want to hear more about it next Thursday, okay?” He forced a smile. “Sorry for the reschedule.”
“I know you're busy, thank you – I'll make sure that I bring something worthwhile to discuss in that extra time.” She was flushed, pleased – good. She saw herself out, too, which made her better than most. Everyone wanted a piece of his time. And he had so few pieces he wanted to part with, really.
Once the door was shut, Jaime popped over to the multi-display and logged in, getting the VPN rolling and the RAT for Nealon's phone up.
It was black. Looked like there might have been a crack in the screen. Hm.
“What's going on here, Devin?” Chapman asked, picking up a mic and entering the special voice chat server they'd set aside for conferring on this project.
“I, uh, took a look at your work from last night,” Devin's voice came on.
Chapman froze. “Oh?” The implication was hanging; had Devin seen that he'd hacked into Baltimore's camera system? Devin seemed pretty white hat, based on what Chapman knew of his resume. That could be awkward.
“Yeah,” Devin said, and hit the screenshare to show Chapman what he was working on. “I took a liberty or two – behind some VPN protection.” He sounded nervous. “The, uh, cameras outside that FBI office? The encryption is weak tea, boss.”
Chapman looked at the screen; sure enough, there was a DC street in front of him. He'd seen surveillance pics, knew this was Nealon's office. “Okay,” he said, still feeling a little nervous that Devin had caught on to what he was up to, hacking-wise. Not the end of the world, but it could be a pain if Devin decided to squeal.
“This was two minutes ago, let me speed it up for you.”
The screen started to advance quickly. Ah – there. Nealon walked out the front door of the FBI office, head on a swivel like she was expecting hell to come rushing from every direction. What a savage.
She crossed the street, moving in fast motion, with the unnatural gait exaggeration fast-forward produced. Then the picture – and her gait – went to normal, just as she was about to cross the street about half a block from the office.
Then she stopped, halfway across.
Chapman watched, leaning in.
It didn't take long to see the source of her pause. A car racing at her.
“Move, dummy,” Chapman said.
Then the air around her distorted, and she dropped, hitting her knees.
“Whoa–” Chapman started to say.
The car hit her before he could get it out.
Nealon went flying, flipping, really – and down she came on another screen, landing on a two-door coupe, crushing the top and shattering the window. She hung there, ass partially drooping through the smashed windshield, looking like she'd been folded up and thrown like a three-pointer. Watching her tumble, ragdoll style, through the air? It had been almost unreal.
“Holy shit,” Chapman said, right into the mic.
“Yeah. But wait – it gets worse,” Devin said.
Chapman's eyes widened. She looked like she was already dead; how the hell did you get worse from there? He settled back to watch and find out for himself.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Sienna
I opened my eyes to a glaring sun, to pains beyond easy counting, to the taste of blood and at least three teeth scattered inside my mouth like stray corn kernels. Blood mingled with sweat in my eyes, which I could barely get open, and my ears rang like distant alarms, sounding through the streets of Washington DC.
My shoulder hurt; my back hurt. I was at an absurd angle, neck cast to the side. I could feel my toes, luckily. Everything north of them hurt, too. Shins, calves, knees – whatever. All of it. The shoulder, though, that was maybe the worst. Except for the chest. And the back.
Triage was out the window. I
was broken, irreparably, at least in the short term. Couldn't even string two thoughts together other than:
I'm busted.
Because I was. I could barely even tell what position I was in, though I felt like it was akin to having some asshole leave the seat up and toppling in the toilet in the middle of the night. Whatever liquid I was feeling beneath my ass was too warm to be water, though. Blood was slipping down my body, pooling in whatever clothing could catch it.
Shadows moved just outside my vision. Like darkness dancing with the light around it.
I couldn't see them. Couldn't tell who they were. Couldn't tell if they were male, female, dogs or cats.
Well, I could kinda rule out quadrupeds, but only just. They were bipedal shadows.
With long black extensions on one hand, each. A strange pattern that even my messed-up head could pick up on, though it didn't render a verdict on what I was looking at immediately. That came moments later, from a different part of my brain, like a distant shout I could barely hear over the ringing.
Guns.
There was nothing for it; my arms didn't move. I couldn't move. Every attempt failed, because my mind was failing. I'd been battered beyond the ability to hold a thought together, too wrecked to make a sentence, too smashed to lift a hand.
They closed in, and in. The black weapons raised, becoming part of the main shadow.
They're taking aim.
So helpful, that. But I couldn't move, so it didn't matter.
My brain fuzzed; blackness seeped in.
Then, somewhere, over the sound of the ringing, the shooting started.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Chapman
“She got rekt,” Devin singsonged, quiet awe mixed with distinct amusement.
Chapman felt a little sick. The traffic cameras in this area were in HD; maybe Devin thought it was a videogame, but Chapman knew what was happening. Yeah, he really didn't like Nealon, but he didn't need to see her get wiped out.
Four guys in black hoods were advancing, long guns out. What kind? Hell if he knew. They all looked like AR-15's to him, every rifle did, really.
Executioners, he thought, a little poetically. But he turned his head away.
There was no sound, so he wasn't going to hear it, wasn't going to see it. He'd mention it in his next call with Wu, who'd undoubtedly be pleased to hear this loose end was so nicely tied off. For Jaime's part, he wasn't sure what to think about it, so he tried not to. It was just a thing that happened, far away from here and far, far, from his important deal with Huang. That there was a human being lying on top of a car about to catch a bunch of bullets thousands of miles away?
Well, that didn't bear thinking about, either.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Devin chimed in, and Jaime didn't dare open his eyes. “Who the – aww, man!”
Now Chapman looked; Devin had moved the screens so he got the full feed.
Holloway – that damned chimp – had come charging out the office door and thrown himself into it. Covering behind a car, he was firing like mad. No sound, but you could see the barrel flashes. Two of the black hoods were down. The other two...
They were each advancing in a different direction. Covering behind cars, one firing, the other moving up.
“Oh, damn, oh dayum...” Devin whispered. “They're coming for him...”
And they were. They looked well-armed; he watched one of them cover behind a car, drop a magazine, load a fresh one as his partner fired. Holloway was ducking, but the guy on the right was circling around him...
There was really nothing Holloway could do. Chapman watched until he didn't want to see it any more. The guy on the left was firing, the guy on the right was circling...
Chapman closed his eyes as Devin yelled, “Yes! Oh! Pinched that pig!”
He opened them again to see that, yeah, they got him all right. Both of the black-clads were moving now. Holloway was laid out on the sidewalk. Under the HD camera, Chapman could see what looked like brains on the pavement, and he squinted his eyes shut. “Can you...shift that? I didn't want to watch a snuff film today.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, sorry – this is just...wow. Intense, you know? Do we have to...turn this over to the FBI?”
“Let's not,” Chapman said, opening his eyes. Devin had shifted camera views down the block, to Nealon, who was unmoving, on the car. Still. She twitched, stirred–
“Guess she's not dead yet,” Devin said. “Oh. Nope. Here they come for her.”
And they were. Both of the men in the hoods were walking up the street, guns at the ready, dropping old clips and cramming fresh ones in. They started to raise their guns as they approached her, and Chapman waited for the flash–
Something appeared behind the closest guy, something big and white like it was appearing almost out of thin air.
It was a tiger! A white one.
“Whoa!” Devin shouted. “What!”
The tiger ripped the gunman up as he started to spin. Didn't even get the gun around and he got shredded. Chapman squeezed his eyes closed again.
“Holy – it's going after the – ohhhhhhhHHHHHH!”
“What?” Chapman asked, not daring to peek. He'd seen a lot of blood just now. He didn't shrink at the sight of blood, exactly, but...come on, that was a lot. That guy had gotten eviscerated, he was pretty sure, though it was hard to tell from that angle. “What happened?”
“The tiger ripped up the other guy,” Devin said in quiet awe. “Just tore him, like, in half. So brutal.” He sounded pleased.
“Did you record any of this?” Chapman asked, reaching up and killing the screen share.
“Huh?” Devin sounded like he was coming out of a food coma. “Well, yeah, I mean–”
“Delete it,” Chapman said. “Now. And change the VPN settings. We never log in via those IP addresses again. Hell, we never log in via that country again. Got it? I want that gone from our servers, no personal copies, Devin? You hear me?”
“Dude, but that vid needs to be online. It's–”
“Devin,” Chapman said, voice in full boss mode. “We just watched someone murder an FBI agent. I don't need to be questioned about this, and neither do you. This company doesn't need it. Make that shit vanish from our servers. Let it be DC police's problem, you hear me?”
Devin sounded crestfallen. “Yeah. I gotcha. Makes sense.”
“You know someone's going to leak something as choice as that,” Chapman said, trying to adopt a conciliatory tone. “Give it a few days, you'll be able to search it. I just don't want it connected to us or Socialite. You get me?”
“I got you, boss,” Devin said. “On it. In twenty minutes there'll be no sign left.”
“Good,” Chapman said, and turned off his mic and logged out of the chat server just as Devin cut the feed. Ugh. That had been properly disgusting. And Sienna Nealon was still alive. Talk about a rough morning.
Still, whatever Huang had done – and Chapman was pretty sure he was behind that little show – Jaime didn't want anything to connect to him. As long as he was clear of the fallout, Huang could play all the murder games he wanted.
That video, though...Chapman shuddered. He didn't need to see that – or anything like that, really – for the rest of his days. Trying to put it out of his mind, he marshaled his thoughts about his next meeting, though he found he couldn't fully get it out of his head, no matter how much he tried.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Sienna
I woke to the familiar beeping of hospital machines, and more. To shouts, to talking, to the bustle of people trying to save my life.
“Stop,” I said, brushing off gloved hands that were working on me. My clothes had been cut off, and someone was probing my midsection. “Ow!”
“Prep for peritoneal lavage,” someone said.
“Don't bother,” I said, slapping away another hand so forcefully that the bearer took a step back from the gurney. “I'm healing as we speak. Any internal injuries will work themselves out on their ow
n. You try and put me into...” I wavered for a second, consciousness threatening to fade, “...surgery and you'll just make it worse.”
Pushing my eyes open – and past the blinding light above me – I could see a bunch of doctors and nurses with surgical scrubs on, gloved to the hilt. They were peering into my face.
“What?” I asked, raising a hand to brush at my upper lip. It was bloody beyond belief, and as I wiped it away, something hard and lumpy was waiting there. “Hey, is this a tooth?” I tried to pluck at it but some or maybe even most of my fingers were broken.
“Uh...yeah,” one of the doctors said, but he sounded a little uncertain. “Listen, you need–”
“Dude, I don't need shit from you,” I said, and slapped his hand lightly. He recoiled in pain. “Leave me alone. I'm going AMA here and I'll clear out as soon as I can walk. Save your treatments for people who can use them.”
There was some muttering, which I caught. Mostly disbelief. Someone asked, “Can you believe her?” Someone – the voice of reason – mentioned my ability to heal in muted, though profane – terms.
When they'd all cleared out, I was left with one nurse, and the machinery still beeping.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You don't remember?” She sounded pretty calm about it. I peered at her for a moment, trying to figure out if, like last time I'd ended up in a hospital, she was a relative of mine.
She wasn't. She was African-American. My eyes were still blurry, but that much I could see. Also, I didn't recognize the voice. “I remember...” I thought back. I'd gotten hit by a sonic attack, then run over by a car. Plowed into, anyway. Then...
“There was a war zone on that street,” she said. “Or so the paramedics told us. Dead people everywhere.”
I brushed my head. “How...how many? And...how did they die?” My head felt like it was filled with cottony fuzz. Whether that was the product of the concussion that probably ensued post-car crash, or the sonic attack, I didn't know.
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