She waited, heart pounding in her ears as light footsteps silently prowled across the wood floor, growing closer.
One step. Then another.
Quinn held still, her leg beginning to cramp and the hard floor hurting her knee. She remained crouched, weighing her options, knowing she didn’t have many.
The silent steps drew closer, Quinn sweating despite the comfy temperature, and she readied herself. When a leg in camo pants appeared, she stabbed the injector into his calf. He whipped around, spotting her, then dropped with a thud.
She crouched down again, listening for weapons fire, for movement, for any sign of backup muscle. When she detected none, she ventured to pop her head over the couch. It was clear. She scurried to the door and waited. She could wait here, until the other two came to investigate, and she could pick them off one by one.
But that wouldn’t work. They would know not to come that way after the first guy didn’t respond to their hails. And time was ticking on her sleeping Jays downstairs, who would wake up soon enough. She needed to get out, before she turned two enemies into eight.
She glanced at her watch, estimating how much time she had. Another fifteen minutes, at best. Better make it five to be on the safe side.
Five minutes felt like an hour. Waiting, wondering, knowing she was surrounded.
But after those minutes passed, no one else had entered. Finally, crouched low, she headed to the control room again and found the location of the two guards. One waited by the front door, the other covered the south side of the house. She had only one choice.
She headed to one of the bedrooms on the east side of the house. Quinn took her energy weapon and sliced through the thick, UV-blocking glass, just enough to weaken the pane. Then she grabbed a chair from the desk and heaved it at the glass, enough to make a loud clatter.
She dropped the chair and ran into the control room. Sure enough, the guy guarding the front door headed to the east side of the house. With Halstead’s handbag of goods slung across her chest, Quinn escaped out the front door and bolted for the wall.
Just as she began to scale it, she heard a man call out. Someone saw her. She scrambled up the wall, her padding hampering her agility and the rough stone scraping against her clothing. Just as she reached the top and was about to flip to the other side, the pain hit her and she heard a sizzling sound.
They’d shot her in the leg with an energy weapon.
Somehow, she got over the wall, gracelessly plummeting down the other side and dropping to the ground with a thud. She gasped for breath, the wind knocked out of her, momentarily forgetting the searing pain in her leg.
What if I can’t walk? What if they crippled me?
Then crawl, damn it!
She spotted the bag nearby, its contents partly scattered on the desert floor. She crawled over, stuffing it all back inside and tossing the strap over her head as she hauled herself to her feet. She grunted as the pain spread through her leg, readying herself to run off into the darkness like a wounded jackrabbit. But something clobbered her from behind, hard enough to send her straight to the ground again. Someone had attacked her.
One of the guards.
Chapter 31
Quinn ate dust, a puff of it shooting into her mouth and eyes as she felt the dense weight of a man on her.
She wasted no time recalling what Wyatt had taught her, and she prepared to fight. With all her force, she jabbed her elbow into the guard, hoping the shot landed somewhere useful. There was a grunt and a brief delay as she rolled over and away, buying her time to reach for her weapon. Before she could get it, however, he went for his and Quinn’s eyed widened, knowing she had only a moment before she met her demise.
She drew back her leg and kicked him as hard as she could, exhaling with the effort, surprising even herself at how hard it hit, knocking his weapon from his hand. Unable to reach her energy weapon, she wasted no time getting her brass knuckles on. She considered going for the cojones, until she remembered the Jay she’d fought at the Linden home, who’d worn protection. Instead, she landed the punch in his face, forcing him back down to the ground again.
The punch wasn’t enough, though, and he came for her and bear hugged her, strong arms trapping her. She thrashed about, sweat mixing with dust and saliva as she tasted gritty mud, and threw her head back until it collided with his face, a hard crack and his grunt telling her she’d lucked out. She reached behind her and began scratching at his face, searching for purchase until she found it, her fingers digging into something soft, then digging some more until he cried out in pain.
She pulled away, hoping she could break loose from his grip. When she did, she pulled out her weapon, bumbling and nearly dropping it as he lunged at her. Never looking at his face, not wanting to see the damage she’d done, she pulled the trigger and aimed it at his legs. Down he went, a flurry of dust rising as he hit the ground. Quinn took off running.
She ran west, her tunnel vision seeing only the path ahead. She finally turned to look behind her. She spotted another guard scaling the fence. She ran harder, headed for the hills.
Sweat poured from her, her gait and pace hindered by her fake hips and boobs, the latter misshapen and maladjusted like some twisted child’s doll. She wheezed and her throat burned as she inhaled more dust, sweat coating every inch of her. She tripped over a rock, causing her to stumble and almost fall. Her leg throbbed, and it felt like the wound was spreading, tearing open further as she ran.
Then a crack sounded in the night air. A rifle. A round whizzed past her, way too close. The guard had chosen a traditional firearm rather than an energy weapon. Which meant she had a good lead on him. But she was also an easy target out here with nothing to hide behind.
Quinn began darting back and forth in a random zigzag pattern, making herself a more challenging target for the gunman. Another tip from Wyatt.
Forty more yards. Then shelter.
Another round whizzed past her as she zigged right, ducking down as far as she could, sucking in air as fast as her lungs could process it. Then something hit her, knocking her flat on her face until she ate dust again. A moment later, a bullet pierced her arm. He’d shot her, twice.
Move!
She rolled sideways just as another round hit the ground where she’d fallen. Part of her thought about playing dead, but she tossed that idea out right away, as any assassin worth his weight would keep loading his target with rounds until he felt sure she was dead meat. There was only one solution. Keep going.
Somehow, Quinn managed to scramble to her feet and she began to sprint with the desperation of someone who had nothing to lose. She kept zigzagging, knowing it was only a matter of time until he got her again, and thankful for the fact that he carried only a semi-automatic weapon and not a full auto.
Two more shots whizzed past her, one ricocheting off a nearby rock. She finally reached the hill and ran behind it, enshrouding her in darkness. She stopped to catch her breath. Safe for the moment, she realized she was hyperventilating, dizziness turning everything too bright. She forced herself to slow her breathing and take a deep breath, and she coughed from all the dust and the raspy dryness of her throat.
Deep breaths, Quinn.
She staggered, the pain of her wounds making themselves known in her leg and arm. How long would it be until she collapsed? She didn’t know, and didn’t have the luxury of waiting to find out. She had no choice but to keep to the hills, running until she couldn’t.
Quinn continued west. It would take her farther and farther away from the dune buggy, but it was her best option in case the guard pursued. Out here, he was less likely to find her, and she would see him coming if he approached. She could survive long enough to buy herself time to assess her options.
If she didn’t bleed to death first.
After limping west for what seemed like forever, she finally stopped to rest, the pain in her leg and arm screaming at her. She sat down, took off her jacket, and took stock of her situation.
>
Her leg was gashed from calf to ankle, oozing and coated in dust, probably getting more infected by the moment. Her arm bled, but the round had only sliced through some muscle tissue. She searched elsewhere, patting herself everywhere, knowing there was another wound somewhere, the one that had knocked her down.
She looked for something to stem the bleeding in her arm, and had only one option. She unzipped her pants, yanking them down to her knees but no further, not wanting to pull the fabric from her leg wound. She undid her fake hips and pulled them off, and she tore at the fabric and padding. And that’s when she saw it. A chunk of the padding was missing. The guard had shot her in the fake hip. That’s what had sent her to the ground.
Quinn tied off her arm wound, then took another look around as she held her breath and listened closely. Nothing. Not yet.
She left all her padding there and continued west-southwest, estimating her distance as best she could in order to eventually circle around and wind up back at her buggy. She just hoped it was still there and not staked out by her enemies, that she’d parked far enough away. But the more time that passed, the more likely the remaining guard would call for backup. She needed to get to that buggy and get the hell back to the city.
As she limped in the darkness, only the crescent moon to guide her, she thought of Jones. She missed him more than anything right now, his strength and know-how, but also just having him there, beside her. Out there in the desert, shot up and pursued by a deadly crew, she felt alone. Before, alone felt okay, even preferable, as it meant not getting into complicated entanglements, not endangering others. Now, it felt like shit.
She shook off that thought, telling herself it was better this way. That if she didn’t make it out of this alive, nobody got hurt. Sure, they might shed a tear at her funeral, but they’d go on with their lives. They wouldn’t suffer like she had when her mom died, or when she lost Wyatt.
Then, in her pained and exhausted stupor, she saw the truth.
That was why she didn’t get close to people. She’d always thought that being a mindjacker made relationships difficult, that her job prevented her from settling down. But it was the other way around. She used the job as an excuse to avoid the pain and loss that came with forming attachments.
She trudged on, adrenaline wearing off and more pain setting in. And thirst, too. Intense thirst, with no water for miles. She tried to process everything that had happened—her lost job, what she found at Olmos’s place—but her mind kept wandering to more pressing thoughts. That she longed for water, for salty chips and a salt-rimmed glass filled with a premium diablo… for her friends.
Keep moving. Stay alive. Then find that buggy and scram.
A while later, upon approaching yet another hill, Quinn realized she was lost. She had no service in the open desert… only people with money could afford that. Which meant only one choice: climb one of the hills to get oriented. Even if it meant exposing herself.
Quinn staggered her way up a hill, her leg throbbing the whole way. The higher she got, the more exposed she felt, like a bullet would find its way into her real hip at any moment. She began to slip on the steep hill, the soil eroded from its lack of plant life. She sank to her knees as she got close to the top, then peeked her head over the summit.
There it was, El Diablo in the distance, its lights illuminating the sky with a dull glow. Then she spotted the road ahead, where it curved to the west. She knew where she was.
Suddenly, she saw something else in the distance. Movement. A human, walking at a brisk pace.
Quinn cursed. The guard, tracking her footprints. Because the desert decided that would be the day it would produce no wind to erase them.
She had two options. She could retrace her tracks back toward him and ambush him, hoping her wounded self and her energy weapon could win. Or, she could circumvent him, get to the buggy, and drive away. In her weakened state, she had to avoid confrontation, if possible. It could work, if she hurried.
She climbed down quickly and limped her way in the direction of the buggy, increasing her pace and using the stars to keep her on track. After what seemed like forever, she still hadn’t found it. Then, finally, she saw something glimmering in the moonlight.
The buggy.
After taking a good look around, she jumped in, started it up, and took off as fast as she could.
She sped though the dirt, kicking up a pile of dust, taking the corners like Wyatt had taught her, skidding but staying on course. Then she heard it again. A loud crack. Then another. But no whizzing. She had too much lead on him now.
Quinn drove like a madwoman, headed to town. She couldn’t return to the place where she’d rented the buggy. They might look for her there, or even be waiting for her. No, she would have to drive as close as she could to the city and ditch the buggy.
Finally, she arrived at the warehouse district on the outskirts of town, miles from the underground and the buggy rental joint. She drove as close to the city as she could before she pulled over on a quiet street, not wanting to get busted by a cop for driving a buggy within city limits. The last thing she needed right now was the cops questioning her.
As she parked, she realized she needed to call Yolanda, to warn her not to send another set of agents after Hector Olmos, to avoid the power players completely until Quinn could produce the evidence she’d gathered.
The evidence. Halstead’s purse, filled with goodies, including Quinn’s phone that was loaded with pictures. Quinn patted herself, then looked around the buggy.
A shroud of dread descended upon her.
It was gone.
Chapter 32
Quinn stood at the front desk of the Midtown medical clinic she’d stumbled to, waiting as the sleek-haired woman with the bright pink fingernails checked her computer.
“Our records show that your insurance is no longer valid,” the woman said, her tone almost disapproving. “As of today.”
Quinn cursed. God damn the Protectorate. “Well, as you can see…” Quinn pointed at her shoulder wound, then lifted her shredded leg. “I need treatment.”
The woman’s lip curled ever so slightly, as if her shiny Midtown clinic had never seen such carnage. “You’ll have to pay out of pocket. We’ll need a deposit right now, in the amount of—”
“Look at me!” Quinn snapped. “Do I look like I have cash on me right now, lady?”
She pursed her lips. “There’s no need to raise your voice. It isn’t my fault you let your insurance lapse.”
Quinn stared at her, wanting to grab the woman’s sleek hair and yank it as hard as she could. Just to wipe that sneering, judgmental look off her face. Instead, she took a deep breath and leaned forward. “You can’t refuse treatment because I can’t pay up front. I need treatment, and I’m going to stand here until you get off your ass and get me a fucking doctor.”
The woman let out an angry sigh. “Fine. Have a seat and someone will call you.”
Fortunately, it was a slow night in Midtown, so Quinn got in quickly and got patched up. They gave her just enough painkillers to get her through the next twenty-four hours, probably assuming that someone who looked like her would abuse them or resell them underground.
After they released her, she cleaned herself up in the bathroom, scrubbing the dirt from her face and teeth. She kept her pants rolled up to avoid dirtying her bandaged leg, and cleaned off her jacket and put it on again.
Inside one of the stalls, Quinn sat down and heaved a giant sigh. She was grateful for her meds. For being alive. But she cursed herself for the lost evidence.
She’d had it when she scaled the wall at Olmos’s house. She’d had it when she dropped to the other side and some of the contents had fallen out. She’d stuffed them back inside… and that’s when the guard attacked her. In her desperation to get away, she’d left it behind.
How could she have made such an error? She’d risked her ass, gambled it all on that night—and almost died—for nothing.
Quinn s
hook her head. It felt like the night the Borelli job blew up in her face, when she’d also ruined her favorite red dress, found out Noah was jacker police, and went home to find she’d been robbed. Except worse.
And whatever nagging feeling she’d had about pursuing this, what she’d found was even worse. The unholy alliance between the city’s powers and the Black Jays put their entire city in jeopardy, ensuring that important resources, resources that were limited in their post-drought world, would never be distributed in an equitable way. Ensuring that her city would become an even darker place than she’d ever known, a place run by tyrants. She didn’t know if the Jays had manipulated the CEOs or if the CEOs had helped form the Jay crew from the start. She didn’t know what their endgame was.
But then again, she did. Because the goal was always the same with these kinds of people: power, and more power.
Then Quinn remembered the names on Olmos’s screen. Hers, Jones’s, Perry’s. She couldn’t prove it, but she’d bet all her weaponry that everything that had happened since the Linden job had been a trap, designed to bring down the Protectorate. The CEOs seeking out the Protectorate, their intense mind invasion training, even Quinn and Jones being miraculously absent in the memories of the Jay they caught and delivered to the EDPD. Even the CEOs’ memories—the encounters with the Jays—were probably planted, not real. That’s why they’d seemed so suspect. It wasn’t that the Jays hadn’t been able to isolate the CEOs in order to steal their memories; they’d used the Jay threat to lure the Protectorate right into their lair. And they would succeed if Quinn didn’t do something.
But what?
Who would believe her? Without hard evidence, and thanks to Quinn’s “collaborating” with the police, the Protectorate wouldn’t trust a word she said. Even if they did, the Protectorate wouldn’t get far without that evidence. And she couldn’t go to Noah and the EDPD with this; it would expose the Protectorate. Quinn couldn’t allow that to happen.
Mind Thief Page 18