by Megan Derr
Dixie nodded and slid the gun into the holster he was already wearing. He hated firearms on a good day, but there was a time and a place for everything. "That storm gonna keep us from getting the hell out of here?"
"We'll be gone before the storm hits," Byron said. "Unless something goes wrong, but according to Minder, he can keep a blizzard from being a problem, at least for a little while." Dixie's brows rose at that. Byron shrugged. "He hasn't lied about his abilities yet."
"Except what level they really are," Dixie replied with a soft snort. "But I guess I'd prefer to be taken for a low-level if I were him, too." He pulled out his phone. "Run final checks." The phone chimed at him and set to work, running through a series of tests to make certain it would be able to sync with everyone else and handle all the little things Dixie might need to do.
Shoving it in his pocket, he sat down to pull on his boots. By the time they were both laced up, Greg and Leland had stirred and were well into their own prep work. A silent, gloomy bunch if ever he saw one, but he didn't exactly feel like cheering things up himself.
Still, this job could get them all killed if anything went wrong—or much, much worse. Wasn't the time to be avoiding each other and acting like strangers. "I don't know about the rest of you, but whenever I get to open a can of whoop ass on one of the Dogs, I'm usually pretty damn chipper about it. We ain't going to our own execution, lord almighty."
Opposite him, Greg looked up and smiled hesitantly. Dixie fucking hated it, would rather have the familiar grin he was half-gone on, but it was better than nothing. "Who the hell still says 'can of whoop ass'?"
"Me," Dixie retorted.
"Lame."
"Pretty sure you're all lame according to modern culture standards," Byron said. "It's a sad day when the alien is savvier than the natives."
Greg laughed as he went back to work on his boots. They laced all the way to his knee, seemed to fit him so well they must have been custom work. Standing, he packed up his own bag of goodies and slung the duffle over one shoulder, a ski-mask held loosely in his other hand. "Party time?"
"Just about," Byron said and pulled a dark blue ski-mask over his own head. "Leland and I will be on the north edge. Once Dixie has the systems down, we'll work on securing the landing pad and ordering in our chopper. The rest is up to the two of you."
Dixie glanced at Greg, who gave another hesitant smile that almost immediately collapsed. "We got it," Dixie said. "This is the easy part. The hard part comes later."
Byron frowned. "Dixie—"
"Let's get moving," Dixie cut in, hefting his own bag over his shoulder. "Sooner done, sooner finished. I don't know about ya'll, but I am really damned tired of this cold."
"A-fucking-men to that," Greg muttered.
Byron heaved a sigh, but didn't say anything, only signaled for them to follow him as he led the way out of their hole and down the tunnel to the lookout. Byron threw his bag in the snow, then hauled himself up and out. Dixie fell into step right behind him, followed by Leland and finally Greg.
The night air was sharp, cold enough to sting with every breath. Dixie rolled his cap down so the mask covered his face. He silently ordered his systems to scan, and his left eye flicked through several filters as it made absolutely certain nothing was out there that shouldn't be.
Nearby, Byron had pulled out a fancy set of binoculars to do the same. They looked at each other and nodded. "Clear," Bryon said. "Let's move out."
They hauled across forest and field, a monotony of crunching steps, panting breaths, and the occasional string of cusswords. By the time they reached their destination, Dixie was ready for a hot toddy. Preferably one that was all whiskey and to hell with the rest of the ingredients.
Byron's hands moved briskly as he signaled that he and Leland were headed off. Dixie signed an acknowledgement, one hand resting lightly on his gun as he covered them. When they were out of sight, he turned to Greg, who was kneeling in the snow and pulling equipment out of his bag.
A few minutes later, Dixie's eye flashed as he got the go signal from Byron. He motioned to Greg, didn't even need to see his face to know he was grinning ear to ear behind that mask. Hefting his bag, Greg darted out of the tree line and headed for the house, and Dixie followed close behind.
Roger House's fancy cabin was a pain in the ass in several ways, but the first hurdle was that there was no access at all on the first floor. According to the blueprints it went down one story below ground, the ground level was completely enclosed, and there was limited access on the second floor. Most of the natural light was provided by way of special-made skylights that were covered by heavy duty steel panels at night. As were the windows and doors, sealing House up at night.
Too bad all the panels in the world couldn't keep out clever little kittens.
Greg vanished through the nearest wall as they reached the house and Dixie circled around to the back. The door there was one story up, and the staircase and landing up to it had been retracted. Dixie could scale the wall easily enough, but he'd just be clinging to it waiting to fall. There wasn't even a door, yet, that was covered by a metal panel the same as every other access point, and the only way to through was a control panel inside the house.
Just as he was starting to get twitchy, Dixie got a text. Okay, I'm here. I've got the cover off the panel. What's next?
Should be a slot along the bottom, off to the right. See it?
Yep.
That's where you put my bug. Just slide it and let it work.
Here goes nothing.
A couple of minutes later, Dixie's left eye flared as his software went to work, hiccupping the system in a way that would make it think the blip was harmless, giving them enough wiggle room that Dixie was able to open the back door.
It was smart of House not to have any access panels on the outside of the house, but not smart enough. Dixie grinned as the protective metal panel slid up and the door swung open. A rope came tumbling down and Dixie quickly climbed up. Greg offered a hand at the top and hauled Dixie inside. Rolling to his feet, Dixie closed and locked the door, then ordered the panel back down, and all was back as it should be right as the window provided by the hiccup closed.
Dixie lightly touched Greg's shoulder, the closest they could get to a victory crow at present. Now for the next part. Full scan, alert at once if Robert House stirs. He rolled his mask up to see better; nearby, Greg had done the same. Dixie signaled him to wait, then headed off following memorized blueprints. Thankfully, there were no motion sensors or cameras to deal with. House had apparently tried, once, but the mountain itself made it all too difficult to maintain—especially the motion detectors. House was going to regret not working a little harder at the problem, but it was probably going to be way, way down on his list of regrets by the end of the night.
The panel guarding the control room took ten minutes to get past, but only because Dixie was being super cautious. Once inside the control room, things got trickier. The hiccup he'd caused to get inside was one thing—the system was accustomed to that kind of blip, given the way the location would fuck with the power even on a good day. If the power was down too long, however, alerts were sent out.
So he was gonna have to kill the power while making the rest of the world think everything was running fine. And ensure that House wouldn't be able to bring the systems properly back online any time soon. Easiest way to do that was to get up close and personal.
Reaching into one of his pockets, Dixie pulled out a special cord. He found the correct port on the computer and plugged it in, then connected the other end to the back of his neck.
Unregistered user.
Dixie snorted and took care of that with barely a thought. When his software had made him and the system old friends, he settled in to the rewriting.
Twenty minutes later, he disconnected and sent out a group text. System is ours. Let's party.
Returning to Greg, he said, "Got the smoke?"
Greg nodded, lifted the inn
ocuous looking metallic blue canister he'd pulled out of his bag. "Let's go."
Hefting his bag, Dixie followed Greg up the stairs and down the hall to House's bedroom. "Here goes nothing," Greg muttered, then phased through the door. Dixie strained to hear anything, but between Greg's ability to be silent when he really wanted and all the expensive soundproofing, all Dixie heard was his own pounding heart.
A couple of minutes passed and then Greg pulled the door open and held an arm out. "All yours."
"Let's get this over with, then," Dixie said, swallowing the nerves that ratcheted up as it finally sank into every crevice of his mind that this was it. Soon they'd have the chip, and not long after that, he'd be back inside the Mason System. An idea started by his granddaddy and made to flourish by his daddy. An idea that had gotten them both killed in the end, and Dixie's mama alongside them.
And soon Dixie would join them, and that would be the end of the Mason family.
He stepped into the room, head buzzing faintly from the lingering traces of the gas used to make sure House stayed unconscious until they were long gone. Greg had cleared away most of it, but there was still residue.
Moving over to a wide stretch of clear floor, Dixie laid out a tarp. He then went to the bed, yanked the blankets off, scooped House up and carried him over to the tarp. Unzipping his bag, he swiftly set up lights, not wanting to waste time or risk anything messing with the house system.
He turned back to House and quickly got his shirt off and out of the way. Flipping him over, Dixie then dug out another tool kit and set to work.
Anyone given a Mason Chip first underwent the same surgery Dixie had endured, though where they all got one port and very limited system wiring, he had three (better grade) ports and full system wiring. Picking up a scalpel, Dixie swiftly slit House's neck open right along the scar left behind. Greg came up then, face twisted in a grimace but stubbornly set, and he took care of the blood while Dixie swapped scalpel for tweezers.
He carefully extracted the chip, set it aside, and drew out a dummy chip that would convince the Mason System that all was well for a little while. Any momentary blip would be attributed to an error, and it would hopefully be hours yet before anyone realized House's chip was not where it should be.
Dixie exhaled raggedly, then set to work patching House up and doing his best to delay how long it would take him to notice something was wrong. He'd probably notice immediately no matter what they did, but any edge they could give themselves, the better.
When he was patched up, Dixie got him back in his clothes and dragged him over to his bed. Greg threw the blankets back over him while Dixie broke down and cleaned up their work station, stowing the bloody instruments and rags in a special bag.
The Mason Chip was gently stowed in a special case that went in the pocket right over his heart. Mason Chip in hand, on our way to you.
Well done, Byron replied.
Throwing his bag over his shoulder, Dixie led the way back downstairs and out of the house, eye flashing as he locked everything up tight again and triple-checked all his delay tactics were in place and ready-steady.
Byron and Leland waited for them on the landing pad, and Byron looked a little too evil mastermind pleased with himself. Dixie lightly cuffed his shoulder. "Stop looking so smug. The helicopter was the easy part."
"Let's see you summon a helicopter with a trustworthy pilot to the middle of blizzard, fucknowhere when we're conducting acts of a dubious nature."
"Shut up," Greg groaned. "I'm cold and you're using too many words."
Byron bowed and motioned to the helicopter. "Into the chariot, kitty cat."
Greg gave Byron a kick as he passed.
Byron's levity faded as he met Dixie's gaze. "So we finally have it."
"Yep."
"Dixie—"
"Let's get moving, the clock is ticking." Dixie hustled into the helicopter and took the seat opposite Greg. Byron slid in next to him, and Leland next to Greg. A couple of minutes later, they were in the air. "Glad we beat the storm."
No one replied, but he didn't particularly care. Months and months of planning and it was over in a flash. All the things that could have gone wrong, hadn't. Ordinarily, he'd be ecstatic at a job so goddamn well done.
But ordinarily he wasn't successfully stealing the chip that was probably going to kill him.
And he didn't know what to think about the fact he was more upset about hurting Greg than his own pending demise. Well, no, he didn't want to die. He wanted to live more than anything. But he'd long ago grown as resigned to his own death as anyone could. He'd known this was how it would end from the moment he'd made the choice to escape the G.O.D.
Leaving someone hurting though… That he couldn't stand. He remembered how it felt to be the one left behind. Not that he thought he and Greg were anything like his parents…
But he liked too much thinking that maybe they could have tried to be. Stupid as that was. Pointless as that was. They were fighting against the G.O.D.—they were all going to wind up dead eventually.
Maybe Matt and Karl had had the right of it after all, enjoying what they could while they could and ignoring the consequences.
And maybe his dumb ass should have admitted that sooner. What was done, was done, though, as his mama used to say. You got the sense of a drunk butterfly, boy. Now let's get this mess cleaned up before your father comes home.
He reached up reflexively to touch his cheek, where he could feel the ghost of a thousand motherly kisses before she ran her fingers over his hair and then swatted his butt playfully to send him on his way to the cleaning closet.
Letting his hand fall, he settled back in his seat and dozed off because he was going to need all the brain power he could possibly muster.
The lack of noise woke him a short time later, along with a gentle shake of his shoulder. Dixie dragged his eyes open and stared into Greg's eyes, a soft, warm brown he never grew tired of. "Arrived already?"
"It's been almost an hour," Greg said with a faint smile that faded when Dixie didn't say anything. "Are you okay?"
Dixie forced a smile. "Just discombobulated. It's been a long few months, and now everything is going a hundred miles an hour. And I ain't been in the Mason System for a long time. But I've dawdled enough, huh? I'm sure Byron is about ready to drag me inside himself."
"Leland is distracting him." The familiar grin Dixie liked too much appeared. "He's actually pretty good at that."
"Everybody's got a weakness," Dixie replied and finally rolled up and out of his seat, half-stumbling out of the chopper. When he'd gotten his legs under him properly, he headed for the cabin Byron had bought three months ago and outfitted with enough bells and whistles to put Dixie's old digs back at G.O.D. headquarters to shame.
The centerpiece was the fancy chair and support systems that would keep him comfortable and healthy (ish) while he lost himself in the Mason System and went head-to-head with one of the nastiest pieces of the G.O.D.
The remaining space on the first floor was given over to a couple of foldout sofas and a small kitchen. Up a ladder to the loft was another pair of beds. The whole place smelled like dusty furniture and the evergreen trees outside.
Grabbing up his duffle that someone had dropped by the door, he hauled up to the loft where he already had a bag filled with clothes and other miscellany waiting for him. He'd just stripped down and pulled on a pair of soft fleece pajama pants when Greg appeared, throwing a bag on the floor before hauling himself up and over the edge. He looked at Dixie, then looked away and walked slowly over to the other bed.
Dixie pulled on a t-shirt, then a lightweight hoodie. The systems and equipment would worry about his body temp, so he didn't want to wear too much and risk overheating. But he didn't much want to come out of the system and start freezing his balls off either. Stuffing his clothes into the duffle, he pulled out the small, dark-stained jewelry case he'd put at the bottom of the bag, carefully wrapped in his mama's favorite scarf to ke
ep the box from getting dinged and scratched.
Wasn't much in it. His folks had never had money or inclination for jewelry, but what was there was precious.
He ran his hands over the dark green cashmere scarf. It was worn from years of use, but still soft and vibrant. Mama had worn it on all special occasions, along with the broach Daddy had bought her back when they first started dating.
Opening the jewelry case, he pulled out the broach: a little enamel piece of a bright blue butterfly perched on the paw of a brown and gold cat.
"What's that?" Greg asked.
Dixie smiled, chuckled softly. "Daddy always said the butterfly must be drunk or crazy to mess with a cat this way. Said it was something that needed to belong to Mama. She kept it through three years of dating and fifteen years of marriage."
"Oh," Greg said, voice barely audible but the sadness in it loud and clear. "I don't—" He broke off, turned away.
"Don't what?" Dixie pressed, though he could guess.
Greg sighed, then his shoulders squared and he turned around. "I don't understand you. I was sure we… we could have had something. I'm not crazy, right? So why do you always pull away? You're best friends with Byron, you two are thick as thieves, but every time I try to be more than a joke or a good lay—" He broke off, glared down at the t-shirt tightly clenched in his hands. "Am I not good enough?"
"Ah, hell, I never meant for you to think such a damned fool thing." Closing the space between them, Dixie tugged the t-shirt loose and got Greg into it, smoothing the fabric down over that lithe little chest. "You're good enough for a prince and definitely too good for me. Don't you ever think otherwise, understand me?" He tweaked Greg's nose, smile briefly at the nose-wrinkling scowl that got him. "Mama always said I had the sense of a drunk butterfly, and I've yet to be able to prove her wrong."
"Butterflies can't get drunk," Greg replied, looking about ready to throw his hands up. "So if it's not that you don't think I'm worthwhile, what the hell is it? I thought—" He bit his lip, looked down. "It was a shitty fucking thing to do and I know it, but I was kind of hoping when I told you to back off that you wouldn't, that you'd say something, do something, to change my mind. But you didn't, and then I didn't know how to take it back."