Oliver Invictus (Annals of Altair Book 3)

by Kate Stradling

  Unsettled, Oliver averted his gaze.

  Wythe chuckled. “Not a big talker? I can respect that.”

  They escorted the trio to a utilitarian elevator, where a dozen bodies crowded inside.

  “Watch my boy’s hands,” Wythe said with a chuckle. “He can pick a pocket with his eyes closed.”

  As Ben shifted a sour glare upon his parent, the underlings around him stepped away, leaving a buffer of space. The elevator climbed several floors and opened to bright sunlight courtesy of floor-to-ceiling windows. No furniture or fixtures marred the expanse. It was an office, but stripped to bare floors and naked girders. They were high enough off the ground for a decent view of the Bay Area, with the San Francisco skyline in the distance.

  “Not bad, eh?” said Wythe, gauging his son’s reaction. Ben kept a neutral expression until the man continued. “This building’s scheduled for demolition, so it makes a perfect lair.”

  Ben’s eyes bugged, and he started forward. “Are you crazy? That gives the GCA free license to blow us up if they find out we’re here!”

  “Psh.” His father waved limp fingers at him, brushing aside his concern. “The full demolition isn’t scheduled for another month. They’re salvaging fixtures from top to bottom, and there’s still plenty of work on the lower floors. That means the electricity’s still on and no one outside will bat an eyelash at a few bodies coming and going.”

  “But—”

  “Son, we’re not going to be here long enough for the government to find out. This is a business negotiation, not a battlefield.” He escorted them to the opposite side of the floor, to a corner office whose walls and door yet remained. Nearby stood two folding tables laden with monitors and computer equipment. Oliver recognized a view of the underground parking garage amid several images upon the screens.

  Sparta had either tapped into the building’s remnant security feeds or had set up their own. An upward glance revealed a camera nestled near the ceiling. As usual, he was being watched.

  Wythe ushered them into the office with the broad smile of an eager host. “You won’t mind cooling your heels in here, I’m sure. Don’t try anything stupid unless you want to reap the consequences. They won’t be good.”

  “Dad—” Ben started, but his father firmly shut the door. A lock tumbled into place from the other side.

  “What now?” Oliver asked, noting another camera tucked in the upper corner of the room.

  Ben raised his zip-tied fists high above his head and slammed them downward, jerking his wrists apart. The restraint snapped. “Do you need help?” he asked Jenifer.

  She shook her head and efficiently repeated the action.

  “Why’d they bother if those things are so flimsy?” Oliver asked.

  “For temporary restraint, and to annoy us,” said Ben. He dropped to his belly and peered in the gap beneath the door, but whatever he saw only dampened his mood all the more. He cast a frank glance over his shoulder. “We’re going to get you out of here, Oliver.”

  Surprised that this was his main concern, the teen said, “Wouldn’t it be easier to ditch me? They said they were willing to let you two go.” Ben’s expression hardened. “They don’t seem like bad people. Your dad was outright happy to see you.”

  “If he were angry and vindictive, he’d be easy to hate. This isn’t about personality. It’s ideology.”

  “He said this was a business negotiation.”

  “So he can have more ammunition for the future,” said Ben.

  Jenifer laid a tentative hand on Oliver’s elbow, drawing his attention. “Altair’s purpose is to dismantle and rebuild the government machine one cog at a time. Sparta wants to blow it up and start over from scratch. They’re like the Brotherhood, but with better discipline and deadlier resources.”

  He clamped his mouth shut. After everything he’d seen of the GCA and its draconian reach, starting from scratch didn’t sound like such a bad idea—in theory. The Prom-F memorial with its ever-scrolling list of casualties presented a reality he could not accept.

  If Sparta triggered a revolution according to that pattern, countless people would die. He already shouldered enough guilt for not preventing his school’s destruction when he’d had the chance. How could he actively ally himself with people who saw such carnage as a viable means to an end?

  A sweeping glance around their holding area showed nothing useful. The floors were concrete, the walls bare. Unlike the chamber he’d shared with Cedric in the mine, the doorframe was steel instead of rotting wood. The windows, floor-to-ceiling on two adjacent walls, were too thick to break and too high above the ground to survive a fall.

  “I might be able to squeeze into the ventilation ducts,” said Jenifer, pointing toward the exposed ceiling.

  “Don’t bother.” Ben leaned against the metal door, one arm propped high. “Ducts aren’t that big, and they have visuals on every angle of this building. They want us to try to escape. It gives them justification to threaten us with more than just confinement.”

  Oliver scoffed. “They need justification?”

  The man flatly met his gaze. “In their minds, they’re the good guys. The government might menace and torture to get their way, but Sparta will go through the motions of diplomacy first. As much as it pains me to say, I think our best option is to wait.”

  “For what?” said Oliver.

  “For the Rosses to appear.”

  A chill coursed down his spine and his voice pitched higher than he would have liked. “What makes you think they’re coming here? Wouldn’t they meet them somewhere else?”

  Ben pretended not to notice his agitation. “Sparta’s people aren’t gearing up to head out. I can guarantee they’ve already contacted Abel, and they’d need you in close proximity to the meeting place. If Stone is looking for you too—which, there’s no reason to assume otherwise—they’re not going to cart you around from waypoint to waypoint. They’d take you straight to their intended meet and tell Abel to come to them. My dad did say this was a business negotiation.”

  Oliver’s hand strayed up to his throat, as if he could ward off the panicked memory of fingers crushing his windpipe. “But he said this was his home base. Shouldn’t he meet the Rosses on neutral ground?”

  “Consider this neutral ground,” Ben said. “If they’re smart, they won’t tell Abel you’re here.”

  But if Kennedy tried to project, Abel would know there was a powerful null on the premises. If he had any indication that Oliver was in the area—from the splinters of the Brotherhood trying to stop his hijacking of their organization, for example—then he would draw his own conclusions.

  Did he still want Oliver dead, or had he already evened that score?

  Chapter 31

  Pawn to King's Bishop

  Sunday, March 10, 12:54 PM PDT, Oakland

  The room was sweltering. Presumably the building’s air conditioning units had already gone, which left the heat from the windows to steadily build. Ben and Jenifer had long since discarded their coats, and sweat beaded their brows. Jenifer had pushed her long sleeves up to her elbows. Oliver, miserable in his sling, lay upon the concrete next to the door, where the meager gap allowed a faint stirring of air.

  Conversations echoed from the open space beyond. He closed his eyes on a stifled breath and focused on a set of footsteps that approached. Were they coming toward the bay of computers nearby, or…?

  The feet paused by the folding tables, and low voices exchanged a garbled conversation. Then the person moved onward to the door, a pair of black boots visible through the narrow gap. With an internal groan, Oliver rolled out of the way.

  The lock disengaged and the door swung inward.

  Hart poked his head inside. “Comfy in here?” When Ben speared him with a glare, he laughed. “It won’t be much longer. The Rosses have arrived in the parking garage.”

  Oliver tensed, his limbs frozen and his gaze fixed upon the exposed pipes in the ceiling.

  “If you’re
smart, you’ll keep the null out of this,” said Ben. “Abel Ross has already tried to murder him twice.”

  “We know what we’re doing.” He started to withdraw, but Jenifer spoke up.

  “Do you have a portable fan or something? It’s roasting in here.”

  After a moment’s consideration, Hart dug into his pocket and tossed a small item at her. “Battery-operated,” he said, smiling.

  It was a cheap, hand-held device. Jenifer scrambled to turn it on as the door shut, its meager relief better than the stale heat that slowly enveloped them. Oliver resumed his position by the exit, but the mechanical whir drowned out any noise from beyond the room.

  He didn’t need those external sounds, though. A pulsing awareness gradually built within him, one he had come to associate with Kennedy Ross. She was getting nearer, and she was testing projections all along the way.

  “Turn off the fan,” Oliver said. “They’re here.”

  Ben settled on the opposite side of the door, his ear to the gap. Jenifer stowed the fan and lay flat on her stomach between them, her chin propped on her wrists. Oliver, lying on his good shoulder, fixed his gaze upon what he could see in the vast room beyond.

  Afar off, the industrial elevator opened, and several bodies shuffled off. The conversation carried across the expanse.

  “Well, this is a momentous meeting,” said Hart, a smile in his words. “On behalf of our organization, I sincerely hope we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement.”

  “Cut to the chase. I know what you want, but I’m curious about what you think you can offer.” Abel’s voice sent a shiver down Oliver’s spine. He picked out a pair of scuffed boots, with a set of worn sneakers hovering just behind.

  How many people had the Rosses brought with them? Had Sparta confiscated their weapons, or had they been permitted to keep them as a sign that this was neutral territory?

  “Straight to the point,” said Hart. “I can respect that. Our offer is this: we bring you under our umbrella, give you safe passage out of the country for now and a chance for revenge against the GCA sometime in the future.”

  “Too vague. What if we’re not interested in running away?”

  “You’d be wise to let the tumult around you die down. It doesn’t matter how powerful a projector you have if the GCA decides to terminate her with a drone strike. The kill order’s already been issued, and the complicit media stands ready to explain it away. Are you really going to risk your daughter’s life?”

  A sullen silence met this question.

  “As I said—”

  “We have demands of our own,” said Abel, his words tight. The scuffed boots shifted, and the sneakers moved behind them, all but a sliver out of view from the gap beneath the door.

  “That’s only natural,” said Hart. “What are they?”

  “My second daughter, Liberty, was taken to Prom-E.”

  “We can’t retrieve her on this excursion, but we can certainly arrange a recovery—once the tumult has died down and they’re not expecting an attack.”

  Abel grunted. “That’s not good enough. We want the man responsible, this General Stone. And we want both the null-projectors who escaped from Prom-F, and we want them all before Kennedy agrees to help you. I know the value of a strong projector. You won’t see the likes of her for a century.”

  “You’re overestimating,” Hart brusquely said. “There are projectors stronger than her, both in the Altair network and working within the GCA. She is valuable, I’ll give you that, but comparables do exist.”

  “Then I guess you’d better recruit one of them.” Abel’s boots turned toward the elevator, but he only got three steps.

  “Wait,” said Wythe, joining the conversation for the first time. The boots paused. Oliver, his heart in his throat, hung upon every word that followed, expecting his own doom pronounced at any moment. “We only brought a skeleton crew with us. We don’t have the resources to go after Stone right now, but we’re perfectly capable of kneecapping the GCA when we’re at full strength.”

  A cynical chuckle escaped Abel’s throat. “I want Stone and the pair of nulls, and I’m not settling for anything less. It’s not that difficult of a request. Stone has one of them with him, and the other is hiding somewhere in this building.”

  Oliver froze, as if someone had poured a vat of ice water over him. His blood curdled in his veins and his breath was shallow in his nostrils.

  Abel continued, smugness dripping from his voice. “My little Button knows when her projections don’t work, and everyone knows that high-level null-projectors are the rarest of the rare. One of the Brotherhood splinter cells tried to collect him this morning, only for a mystery group to intervene. And here you are, mystery group. I must say, it’s bad faith for you to pull a null into this meeting—almost as if you assumed we would strike against you.”

  Not a soul moved among the clustered bodies. The air fairly crackled with animosity, but when Wythe spoke, he sounded careless of the accusation.

  “It’s hardly a matter of bad faith. There are several groups looking to take you out of commission right now. It only stands to reason that we would neutralize as many as we can. After all, we want to keep your little Button safe from those who would lock her away for the rest of her life.”

  Abel grunted. “You might as well bring the kid out. If you don’t, we might think you’re trying to pull something shady.”

  The shoes belonging to Wythe shifted toward those of Hart, indicative of a whispered consultation. When Hart started toward the metal door, Oliver wrenched away, sitting up, his eyes wild.

  “Keep your head on,” said Ben, climbing to his feet. He helped Jenifer and Oliver both up. The lock flipped and the door opened, but he barred entrance to their captor.

  “Eavesdropping?” Hart wryly asked. “We need the null, Junior.”

  “We’re all coming.”

  The man shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Oliver filed out sandwiched between his two handlers. Every step sounded like a death knell in his ears. Sparta minions surrounded the broad, bright room, tranquilizer guns at the ready for any escape attempts. Even so, he eyed the concrete staircases in diagonal corners, and the open elevator in the middle of the floor. Anything to delay meeting his would-be killer’s gaze.

  A quick glance showed him six additional men in Abel’s entourage. Kennedy stood beside her father, her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed tight. A corner of her mouth pulled to one side, her contempt almost palpable. Her curls were frayed and matted from weeks of living hand-to-mouth.

  Abel, equally greasy, wore an expression of pure triumph. His scruffy beard framed a voracious smile, and his hollow eyes locked on Oliver like a beggar staring at his next meal. He looked scrawny next to the bearish Wythe, but he made up for the poor hygiene and lack of stature in sheer conceit. When the captive trio stopped in front of him, he asked, “Still in a sling, kid?”

  “Shouldn’t you be wrapped in one yourself?” Jenifer asked.

  He favored her with a voiceless sneer and turned to Wythe. “The null is mine. I have a score to settle with him.”

  Wythe only looked amused. Hart stepped forward. “We’d have to be colossally stupid to allow that. At the moment, the null is all that keeps us free of you daughter’s projections—by your own admission, she’s already tried to use them.”

  “Button won’t project without your say-so,” said Abel. “If we’re going to be allies, the null is more liability than asset.”

  To this declaration, Wythe fixed his attention on Kennedy. “You gonna let your old man use you like a pawn?” She lifted her chin in defiance, which only amused him all the more. To her father he said, “The fact is, Ross, you’re in no position to negotiate, and certainly not for the life of a null-projector. You’re outnumbered and outgunned in your crusade, and you’re fast coming to the end of your resources. As you said, let’s cut to the chase.”

  Something flashed across Abel’s face. Was it arrogance? Deris
ion? Oliver’s stomach churned with misgivings for what that look meant, for whatever card the man yet had up his sleeve.

  A chirp emitted from the array of computers by the window. “Sir?” said the tech who manned them, and the uncertainty in his voice drew the attention of the whole room. His gaze remained fixed upon the screen. “There are two military drones and a convoy of vehicles approaching our perimeter.”

  Abel indulged in a chuckle. “Looks like Stone and the second null are delivering themselves into your hands. Time to pay the piper.” And he rubbed his fingers to his thumb, exultant.

  Wythe was at him in an instant, wrenching him from the ground by his collar. “What did you do, you back-stabbing little—”

  “Hey, hey.” Abel raised harmless hands, but his entourage brandished their weapons. Two dozen Sparta laser-sites fixed on them. Wythe’s powerful hands remained fisted in his shirt, but he slacked his grip to return Abel’s feet to the floor.

  Abel’s voice turned wheedling. “Consider this the start of a beautiful alliance—a test, of sorts, to prove you can deliver the support you claim. Getting out of here should be a piece of cake.”

  Wythe shoved him roughly away. “How much time do we have?” he asked the tech.

  “It depends on whether they storm the building or try to blow it up. Maybe two minutes before the drones open fire.”

  “They won’t open fire,” said Abel, readjusting his wrinkled shirt. “If Stone knows the high-level null is here, he’ll want him back alive—and there’s no reason he shouldn’t know.”

  “Especially if you’re the one who tipped him off,” said Hart with a grim set to his jaw.

  “Who, me?” Abel’s brows arched. “There’s been enough chatter on unsecured channels that his resources must have picked it up. But I’ve got your ticket out of this mess right here.” He looped an arm around Kennedy’s shoulder, tucking her to his side. “This little girl can turn all those big bad men against themselves with only a thought. All we have to do is kill the null who’s stopping her.”