More noises from above, and the sound of splintering wood. Spencer broke into a jog, double-timing up the steps. No telling how long those behind him would be held up at the door, and he hated having the enemy at his back. He came across another scene — three men, stacked in a small pile, with the broken haft of the José Canseco bat pinning all three together like some macabre shish kebab. He hadn’t heard gunshots this time — Volk was moving to the top of the building, and killing everyone he came across. Spencer leaned down, checking a personal communicator on the chest of one man. The radio was set to Spencer’s band.
Damn Volk all to hell.
Their target was going to be on the eighth floor, assuming Morgan had been straight with him about that. It didn’t much matter either way; everyone in this facility was fair collateral damage. All he needed was Everard dead, and then he could claim the gift. He passed the fifth floor marker, and more dead soldiers.
The door to the stair well slammed open, and Spencer was pushed back violently. Everard!
The man was fast, grabbing Spencer’s rifle and tossing it away. Spencer dropped into a fighting crouch, pulling a combat knife from his belt. Everard’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t back off.
“You know what this is, don’t you?” Spencer waved the knife between them. “Silver blade. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what that feels like.”
Everard didn’t say anything, watching the edge of the knife, his hands clenched. Spencer would need to be careful here — Everard was strong and fast despite his lack of experience. No IT programmer in the world could stand up to battlefield experience, no matter what roids they were taking. Spencer feinted with the blade, and Everard flinched back. Spencer caught the other man in the groin with the tip of his boot, felt the steel toe go into something soft, and brought his fist around into a teeth-crunching blow to the jaw. His knife whipped in to cut his throat, finishing the job—
But Everard wasn’t there. He’d danced back, grabbing the fire extinguisher bolted to the wall. Everard held the red cylinder in front of him like a shield.
“You’re right.” Everard spat out a bloody tooth. “You don’t have to tell me what it feels like. There’s no words. But I don’t think you understand.”
“Understand what?” Spencer moved the knife back and forth, light from the window catching the blade. He’d had the silver etched into it by a man who did all his work for him. The man hadn’t asked questions, doing what he was asked. Spencer could see the lines of silver on the blade, almost like writing. Beautiful, in a way.
Everard swung the cylinder, hard and fast. It caught Spencer in the shin, and the pain was blinding. He went down on one knee, but brought the knife in an overhand strike to —
A hand closed around his wrist as Everard caught the swing. He let the extinguisher fall beside them, then lifted up Spencer with the one hand around his wrist. Such strength! They were face to face now, Spencer breathing heavily, Everard not at all.
“You don’t understand — that first hit was free. We’re not in the same game, you and I. I’m done playing.”
Everard’s fist caught him in the stomach, and the air rushed out of him. Spencer felt himself tossed against the wall, bouncing off like a Raggedy Andy doll. He tried to block, hands in the way as Everard’s kick caught him in the stomach. He went down on all fours, and felt a hand grab the back of his jacket. Everard hauled him up again.
“You hurt my friends. By God, if you’ve hurt that little girl — but no more.” The man spat out more blood. “I can’t change what I am, but I can stop you.”
Everard tossed him over the side of the railing, watching as he fell into the darkness at the bottom. Spencer thought hitting the ground would be the worst, but he was wrong. Hitting the ground didn’t hurt at all. But the fall — that lasted a lifetime.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Elsie hurried. It wasn’t something she was used to; that’s what staff were for. People like Sam existed to make sure she didn’t have to hurry. But Sam wasn’t here — God only knew where he was; he hadn’t responded to her call.
She reached the door leading to where the girl was. She needed to grab Adalia and — again — rush. If Elsie was a judge of character — and that was something she prided herself on — Valentine Everard would be on his way. That was all part of the plan. What wasn’t part of the plan was Sam dropping out of contact; he was supposed deal with Adalia while she gathered up Birkita. Putting on a hazmat suit took precious time, and time was something she didn’t have right now.
Her card opened the locked door, and she opened it to see Adalia on the bed, speaking through the mirror to Birkita. Her daughter saw her come through the door, and waved.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hello.” Elsie smiled, but felt it tight and stretched on her face. “I’m here to get Adalia. We’re going to come meet you.”
The girl — Adalia — was looking up at her. “We’re going to meet Scarlett?”
“That’s right.” Elsie walked shut the door behind her, then walked over to Adalia. “You haven’t been too worried, have you?”
“At the noises?” Birkita looked paler than usual. “I can’t make the cameras outside show me what’s going on.”
“There’s been a bit of a complication. Some of the staff have … well, they’ve resigned.”
“So what’s with the explosions?” Birkita pulled her wig off, scratching her scalp. “That’s what they are, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” Elsie never lied to her daughter. Or rather, she tried not to. Some things were not worth concerning her with. Like the late stage of the cancer. Or how you’re going to make her well again and what the cost will be. “There’s some people trying to stop you getting better.” That much was true, at least.
“Why would they do that?” Adalia’s forehead was wrinkled in confusion. “If anyone met Scarlett, they’d want her to get better.”
“Of course they would. And on that — would you like to go see Birkita? You must be dying to meet her in person.”
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to have visitors.” Birkita watched them both through the glass. “Won’t I get sick?”
Elsie smiled, this time some genuine warmth seeping through. “Well, that’s why we’re coming to see you. That very special man I told you about is here.”
“Valentine!” squealed Adalia. “He’s here?”
“Mr. Everard is on his way up as we speak.” Elsie saw Adalia snatch up a damaged toy of some kind. It might have been a dog or a pony at one stage. She held it up to the glass.
“See? I told you it was magic.” She was grinning with the naive enthusiasm of youth.
Birkita was grinning back. “You did. It looks like your wish worked.”
“Wish?” Elsie looked back and forth between the two of them, Adalia here and Birkita’s image on the screen. “What did you wish for?”
“Don’t say!” say Birkita. “If you say, it won’t come true.”
“It’s okay.” Adalia was still grinning, happy and ignorant of her future. “My wish came true. I wished for Valentine to come and save you, Scarlett. Birkita, I mean.”
How curious, thought Elsie. “You wished for Valentine to save … to save Birkita?”
“Yes.” Adalia stroked the toy’s mane. So — it was a horse. “Because she’s sick.”
“You didn’t wish for someone to come get you?” Elsie looked down at the girl, so small and fragile on the bed.
“No.” Adalia got off the bed. “They’ll come and get me whether I use a wish or not.” And with that, she headed towards the door. “Can we go? I want to see Scarlett! Maybe she can make a wish on Prancer.”
“Maybe she can.” Elsie took Adalia’s hand, swiping her card across the door lock. It clicked green and opened. They stepped out into the plain corridor. When she’d had the hospital designed, she wanted no confusion — no distractions — from the primary purpose of the facility, which was her daughter’s life. All things here focused on t
hat one outcome and the small staff on premises knew their way around. It helped that most of the facility was just empty rooms — when her daughter was better, Elsie would re-purpose it into something finer, perhaps a school.
“How far is it?” Adalia didn’t pull away from her hand. The child was so trusting. Elsie was sure she’d never been that trusting — it was a mistake you could never recover from.
“Not far. We’ll go to a room up here, where we’re going to get ready to make Birkita better. You can wait there as I go get her.”
“Okay.” Adalia skipped along, her pony in one hand. Something small and lost inside Elsie tugged at her. This is wrong, and you know it.
She crushed the thought, before it could grow into a worm of doubt. Doubt was worthless — second-guessing yourself made you fall before your weakest enemy. There was no time for these sorts of concerns, not now and not here, of all times and places. In a few minutes her daughter would be fighting off the cancer, the virus in her body making her strong, and in a few weeks she would be well. Elsie would look back on this and know it was all worthwhile.
“It’s just here.” Elsie tapped her card against the lock of another featureless door, and it swung open to show a stark medical theater. A metal chair sat near the door, away from the tall floor to ceiling windows, and a surgical table took up the middle of a room. The metal chair had a set of drips and bags hooked up to it. One of her staff was already here; he’d obviously prepared the room. “You’re alone?”
The man looked up, surgical mask covering his mouth. It didn’t matter — all the worthy expressions were in the eyes. “My assistant left with the, ah—”
“Explosions, yes.” Elsie looked down at Adalia. “This girl isn’t afraid of those explosions. I need more like her on staff.”
“Ah hah. Yes.” The man’s laugh was forced, and he took a cautious step back. “Is she..?”
“No.” Elsie pushed Adalia towards the metal chair. The girl trotted over and sat down. “She’s insurance.”
The man looked between Elsie and Adalia. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Elsie walked to the door, opening it. She looked back over her shoulder at the man. “You don’t need to understand. Prep the chair.”
“Prep … she’s a little girl!” The man’s eyes were open wide.
“Oh, come now, doctor. You’re on my staff because you’re willing to go to exceptional lengths for science.”
“She’ll die!”
“She’ll do no such thing,” said Elsie. “That wouldn’t be useful. But there’s someone coming who may need … extra encouragement. It must look authentic, Doctor.”
She shut the door without looking back. The man would do as he was asked — she’d seen it in his eyes. He’d had the opportunity to sign on to cutting edge research and knew the stakes. A man like that wouldn’t back away now; he needed to know the answer. That kind of enthusiasm was a resource to be tapped; such men were largely ignorant of how easily they could be played, of how their moral compass spun, unable to find North, when presented with any kind of academic accolade.
Biomne was built using such men.
She’d arrived at the vaulted door leading to Birkita’s room, her feet walking the path without her noticing. She placed her hand against the door, then stopped. The chatter of gunfire was clear, forces storming the building against the Ebonlake team she controlled. Spencer had been an asset, but she’d miscalculated his allegiance. She’d figured him as a straight mercenary without ideals; she’d been wrong about that. Elsie frowned — she was so rarely wrong about the motivations of men. She’d cut him loose, but not before he’d managed to fracture the Ebonlake company from within. They’d offered her a discount.
As if a discount would make up for the death of her daughter — if it came to that.
No time for the hazmat suit. It was too late for that anyway — today Birkita would live free, or … she stamped down on that thought as well. There was only one outcome Elsie would allow. She swiped her card across the lock.
“Please identify yourself.” The recorded voice was male; she detested computer systems with female voices. As if women were somehow easier to talk to, weaker, more pliable. The softly cultured tones from the machine were British.
“Elsie Morgan.”
“Welcome, Ms. Morgan. I have detected stress anchors in your voice.”
“It’s been a busy day.”
“Duress avoidance phrase recognized.” The door locks disengaged with a soft hiss of air, and the heavy door eased open on hydraulic lifters. “Enjoy your stay.”
She walked into the dark airlock, orange hazmat suits lining the walls. She faced a door, a small screen mounted beside it showing Birkita’s life support signs. Her daughter’s cortisol was elevated, as was her heart rate — normal reactions, considering the circumstances. She placed her palm against the screen, and the interior door clicked open.
“Mom! You’re not wearing a suit!” Birkita looked at her, half in alarm and half in excitement. “Is it … is he here? Is it time?”
“Soon.” Elsie held out her hand. “Let’s go.”
Birkita looked around her at the room where she’d spent the last year, eyes drifting past the toys, the television, and lingering on the bed. “I’m not coming back here, am I?”
“We’ve got to hurry.” Elsie tried to keep the anxiety from her voice. “There’s not much time.”
Birkita ignored her — her, of all people — and walked slowly to the bed. She touched one of the posts, hand lingering against it. Something fierce crept into her voice. “Good. I hate it. I hate it all, and I just want to leave.” She turned, grabbing for something on the floor — the wig. Birkita jammed it on her head, red curls slightly lopsided. “I’m ready.”
Elsie nodded at her daughter. “It’s good you want to leave, for what’s to come.”
They walked through the door, past the orange suits, and into the corridor. Birkita’s bare feet whispered across the tiles. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.” Elsie walked beside her daughter, but didn’t hold her hand. She’s too old for such things. “You’ll need that fire before the day is done.”
“This man.”
“Mr. Everard?”
“Yes, Valentine. Adalia talks about him all the time.”
“She does? That’s nice.” Elsie was distracted by the sounds from the direction of the elevator. She hadn’t fired a gun in her life, and had seen no more than a couple of poorly acted action movies — enough for a lifetime — but instinct told her violence was approaching.
“Is he a nice man?”
“What?” Elsie stopped, looking at her daughter as Birkita walked forward a few more steps.
Birkita slowed, then looked back at her. “I asked whether he’s a nice man.”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to Adalia.”
“Then it doesn’t matter.” Elsie started walking again, the briskness in her stride matching her tone. “Ah, here we are.” She swiped the card against the door lock, opening the door. Her daughter stepped through.
“What’s going on?” she asked, a hand covering her mouth.
“What is necessary.” Elsie closed the door behind them. The doctor had put Adalia in the chair, the metal clamps on her wrists hunching her forward slightly. The girl was sniveling.
Birkita rushed towards her. “Take these off!” She grabbed at the metal clamps, trying to remove them.
“Doctor.” Elsie waved a hand. The man grabbed Birkita’s shoulders, pulling her back.
“No! What are you doing?” Birkita tried to struggle against the man. It was comical in a way, thought Elsie. Her daughter had wasted away in that room, all skin and bones, and thought to wrestle with a grown man. She’d learn over time which fights were worth fighting. Elsie had learned those lessons; if you only fought when you could win, you got a reputation for winning.
“It’s okay.” Adalia sniffed. “Scarlett, it doesn’t hurt m
uch. The man said that I needed to sit like this for you to get better.”
“What about those?” Birkita was still struggling, but the fight had gone out of her. Perhaps she was just tired — Elsie wasn’t sure.
“The drip?” The doctor looked at Elsie. “It’s medicine.”
Birkita looked between them. “Medicine? She’s not sick.”
Elsie frowned. “Birkita. Do you want to get better or not?”
“I … I do.”
“Then this is necessary.”
The door thudded as something heavy hit the outside of it. Perfect. The handle clicked and rattled as someone tried to open it from the outside. Everard had arrived, and soon—
The lock splintered, the door crashing inward and one hinge giving way. Adalia screamed, and Birkita and the doctor stumbled back towards the window, knocking the table aside. Surgical tools clattered in a stainless heap onto the floor. The door hung at a crazy angle; Volk pushed it aside, wrenching it off the remaining hinge, and tossing the door across the room. It bounced against the plate glass, the windows bulging a little as they held.
Oh no. “What are you doing here!”
The Russian smiled an ugly smile that went all the way to his eyes. His hands and face were covered in blood, big red streaks flowing down from his mouth, and more was matted in his hair. He walked over to where the doctor was holding Birkita.
“Deti?” He looked Birkita up and down, one hand reaching up to touch one of the red locks of the wig. “You keep children here?”
Birkita trembled, hunching back into the doctor, trying to get away from Volk’s blood-stained hand. The doctor was scrambling back and he let Birkita go. His heel caught against the floor and he fell to the ground. Volk shoved Birkita aside, and Elsie’s daughter stumbled against a wall, hitting her head and slumping to the ground.
Volk had picked up the doctor in one hand. The doctor — to his credit — had grabbed one of the scalpels from the ground in his fall, and was cutting at Volk’s arm. The Russian didn’t seem to notice, each cut leaving a gash that healed over within seconds.
The Night's Champion Collection: A supernatural werewolf thriller trilogy Page 33