Agent Zero

by Lilith Saintcrow

  He was out of the bathroom and at the end of the short entry hall, tucked out of sight behind the kitchen. There was a pass-through and a doorway, so you could cook and look out into the rest of the apartment, but they wouldn’t be able to see him. He closed his eyes, listening, and heard something else.

  What is that?

  Sounded like they were carrying something.

  I can’t be that lucky. God, what do you say, can I be lucky?

  The locks chucked back—he’d relocked it without thinking, just to be careful—and whoever it was had a little trouble coaxing the dead bolt. But they had keys, so...

  Reese checked his watch and kept breathing, soft and slow. The door opened wide, and he could smell them. Male, sweat, an edge of weaponry and violence, a breath of rain and exhaust from the city outside...

  ...and also, a familiar scent that tightened every nerve in his body. He could hear her breathing, slow and torturous.

  She was alive.

  * * *

  She was being half carried down a familiar hall. Holly’s head lolled—her arm was over someone’s shoulders, and her legs worked slowly, as if she was running in a dream.

  “That’s a good girl.” Unfamiliar male voice, hushed and amused. “We’ll just get you home and you can play Sleeping Beauty.”

  “Yeah, for the rest of her life.” Second man. “I hate these jobs.”

  What the hell was going on?

  A familiar door reared up. Someone was carrying her home. What had happened? The jumbled, confused pieces refused to fit together. Everything blurred, as if she’d had too much to drink, or...

  The familiar squeak of her front door, creak of hallway. She let out a sobbing sigh of relief and a gush of sweat broke out all over her. Her legs firmed up, and she tried to raise her head.

  “I think she’s waking up.”

  “Hurry, then. Find the bed.” Sounds of movement. She blinked, caught a glimpse of her kitchen, moving shadows. “Oh, for God’s sake, she’s a hippie. Look for a pillow, anyth—ulp!”

  The world turned over, and her entire body met hardwood—she’d taken this place because of the floor and the light—with stunning force. Her head bounced a bit, and she let out a hurt little cry, her body curling around itself just like a snail’s. More confusion, shuffling and a snap, like breaking a branch.

  Holly just closed her eyes. Why was she on the floor? Food poisoning? It couldn’t be alcohol, she didn’t drink...

  Was her time up? She’d planned, but it was still a surprise.

  “Holly.” This voice was half-familiar. “Christ. What did they give you?” He sniffed, deeply. “Ah. Lucky your heart didn’t shut down. Come on, open your eyes again, honey. Let me have a look at you.”

  She did her best to obey.

  There, silhouetted with sunlight, was a familiar face. Dark eyes, a baseball cap shielding them. Nose slightly too long, cheekbones slightly too high, the charcoal shading on his cheeks from stubble answering one question—he did get a shadow well before five o’clock.

  Wait, what time is it? “Reese?” she croaked, her throat too dry and a metallic taste filling her, from teeth all the way down to stomach.

  He examined her critically, staring into her eyes for what seemed like forever. Nodded, slightly, as if he’d found what he expected. “Come on, let’s stand up. How do you feel?”

  “Drunk. Did I drink? I never drink.” Not enough to get blasted, at least.

  “How did they get you? Where were you when you were taken?”

  Taken? Her arms were heavy, but she managed to rub at her eyes. He pulled her up, wiry strength evident in his grip on her arm. Despite that, he was gentle, and she was glad, because she ached all over. “I...there was a van. I was... I was going for coffee. With you.” The fog in her head was breaking up, but not nearly quickly enough. “Why are you in my house?”

  “I’m rescuing you.” He eased her down onto the futon. “We don’t have a lot of time. Do you have a bag, a backpack, a suitcase? Backpack’s best.”

  “I...in the closet. Why?” She peered past him, and her heart gave a strange thump, filling up her throat. “What are...oh, God.”

  Two slumped shapes on the floor, both in dark charcoal suits. Heavyset men, both with crewcuts, and under one’s jacket a gun butt peeped out. The sight made her woozy, because it was obvious they weren’t sleeping.

  They were definitely, indisputably dead. And it smelled awful in here, like a plugged-up toilet. Now that her nose was clearing up, the reek was almost too much to handle.

  Her heart tried to pound, but could only manage a fast walk. She stared. “What’s going on?”

  He ripped aside the curtain over her closet; she’d found the cloth cheap at the fabric store and sewn it herself. “You were picked up, drugged and questioned. They brought you back, probably to arrange you on your bed and put a pillow over your face. It would be ruled suicide or overdose, because of whatever they doped you with.” He grabbed the navy-blue Eastpak she used for shopping or laundry trips and started going through her dresser.

  “What are you doing?” She hopped to her feet—or tried to, sat down hard as her recalcitrant body informed her that she wasn’t going to be standing up unassisted anytime soon.

  “Getting you out of here. Unless you want to stick around for them to send someone to finish the job of killing you.”

  “Why would...” The world had gone mad. That wasn’t a dream. That really happened. Someone...but why? “Why would anyone want to—”

  “I told you, I’m in security. These guys are the other side.” He closed the bottom dresser drawer, firmly. “Stay there. I’m going to get your bathroom stuff. If you want a book, now’s the time to get it. Think about that.”

  “A...a book? Why are you... Hey. Hey. That’s my backpack!”

  “With your clothes in it, yes. Pick a book, Holly. I’d hate to pick the wrong one.”

  “What are you even doing?”

  “Weren’t you listening? Getting us out of here. We have five minutes, probably less.”

  She tried to push herself up again. “Wait. They were carrying me up the stairs. You...you killed them?”

  “It’s them or you. I don’t want it to be you.” There was a rattling sound from the bathroom, and he came out, zipping her blue backpack closed. He’d turned the baseball cap around, too, and under the shade of the bill his dark gaze was level and intent.

  He was suddenly looming over her, blocking her view of the bodies. “Come on, Holly. We’ve got to move.”

  “I...but where?” She couldn’t even begin to sort this out. Was I in the hospital? Is this something to do with Phillip?

  “First step’s getting out of here.” Reese held out a hand. His jacket was dewed with the leftover dark circles of raindrops, slowly drying. “Come with me.”

  “The...the police.” Holly’s mouth didn’t want to work quite properly. Maybe because he was staring at her so intently. “We have to...we have to call the police.”

  “No. In any case, we can’t do it from here.” A little beckoning motion. His fingers were blunter than hers, and his hand much bigger. Calluses across the fingertips, tendons standing out on the back, and those just-healed scrapes across his knuckles, still livid.

  She reached up, tentatively. “How are you even here? I was supposed to meet you.”

  “And when you didn’t show up I got to thinking maybe I should find you.” He shook his head. “We have to move. Which book are you going to take?”

  It didn’t occur to her to protest. Her fingers touched his, and all of a sudden he had her hand and she was up off the futon, the backpack over her shoulder, swaying a little as he walked her over to the bookcase. She blindly grabbed at one, and then he had her arm. A few seconds later he lifted her over the bodies on the floor
by simply grabbing her waist and picking her up, then setting her where he wanted her. Outside her door—which he swept closed, without bothering to lock it—he turned the wrong way, toward the end of the hall instead of the stairs.

  She managed to dig her heels in. “Wait, my wallet.” It was still in her hoodie pocket, despite everything. “My keys, where are my keys?”

  “You don’t need them.” He all but dragged her. “Time to go. I can hear them.”

  “Hear what?”

  Reese slid the chain free of the emergency exit, popped the door open and glanced out. “Footsteps that don’t belong, baby. This way.”

  * * *

  She still smelled flat-out delicious, even though there was a scrim of acridity as her body tried its best to get rid of the sedative cocktail someone had jabbed her with. He had to find a place to break their trail—get the beacon out of his hip and give her some rest. Right now she was easy to handle, disoriented and vulnerable. He could have told her the sky was made of frogs and she’d have accepted it, those smoky eyes huge in her wan little face.

  The passivity wouldn’t last. As soon as she realized she couldn’t go back to her tiny little apartment, or her job, or anything else about her life, there were going to be problems.

  There are already problems. Am I degrading? How long do I have to keep her awake to make sure she won’t go into shock or coma? She still smells good.

  More than good.

  There was one potential hiding spot close by. It was a good one, tucked in half an abandoned warehouse, water and electricity still running because the squatters in the other half kept it jury-rigged. The power lines overhead fuzzed out a lot of things, and said squatters—different ones each time—kept away from strangers asking questions.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered. He had to tear his mind off of her distracting nearness.

  “Something I’ve got to get rid of.” He inhaled, and pushed the scalpel in. It hurt, but the pain was easily shelved.

  Her hissing sound of sympathy was not. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Got to get this thing out, Holly. Just sit there.”

  She perched on a stool, the effort of keeping upright and talking probably keeping her conscious. He didn’t like the way whatever they’d dosed her with smelled as it worked its way out through her skin. Not as candy sweet as barbiturate, probably a variant of benzo. Hallucinogenic, nervous depressant...he was lucky she wasn’t screaming and clawing at her own face. This was probably enough to give anyone a bad trip. It also made her smell sick, but that was probably just a gloss.

  “Oh.” A soft, wondering little sound. “God, doesn’t that hurt?”

  He tried not to sound amused. “Only a little.” Pain suppression. One more benefit from the little buggers. How long, though? I’d probably start showing symptoms. Feel clear enough. Might be okay.

  He wouldn’t really relax for another seventy-two hours, though. If he made it that far with no degrade, he might conceivably be safe.

  Funny how now he was feeling pretty charitable toward the virus. Damn near proprietary. The invaders were his now, and they wanted to stay alive. Just like he did.

  Got to keep her alive, too.

  Funny how that was all of a sudden right up there with his own survival as a priority.

  Yeah, funny. Focus on what you’re doing.

  The little silver capsule squirted free, blood greased. Forceps were clumsy, but he caught it, popped it in his mouth in case it needed body heat, and from there it was just temporary sutures and bandaging. By tomorrow the incision should be sealed up nice and tight.

  If he wasn’t losing the virus even now.

  Holly watched this, her eyelids at half-mast. How fast would her body work through the stuff? She was awfully thin, and they’d given her far too much.

  That wasn’t the real question, though. Just how the hell was he going to keep them both alive? Living on the run was fine for an agent, but she was a civilian, and she had a life. People who might miss her. Maybe even family, though it would have been in the file, wouldn’t it? He hadn’t had time to dig too deeply in the background stuff.

  She swayed on the stool. He finished applying the semisutures, more disinfectant for the small wound—it barely burned at all. Then a gauze pad and medical tape.

  She held grimly to the sides of the seat, her knuckles white. Behind her, an unfinished concrete wall reared, naked of graffiti. The other side of the warehouse was a shambles, but this one was a bare, well-insulated shell. The squatters had either been incurious or unable to get in. He’d stashed a few supplies here. One of the reasons it was such a great hole to go to ground was the car sitting not ten feet to Holly’s right.

  A nice, respectable Taurus, an indeterminate shade between black and gray, with fresh plates, a cache of ID and a weapon or two, as well as a few more welcome rolls of cash.

  Couldn’t run without money.

  Cleaning up the blood was a few minutes’ worth of work, but the plastic wrap he’d taped down had kept his clothes from getting more than a drop or two. He balled everything up and tossed it in an overflowing metal rubbish can, glanced at the pale, swaying Holly and stripped the gloves off as well. “Hey.”

  She didn’t even respond, just stared blankly. He smelled another drift of that weird chemical and its stench of illness, caught her as she almost went over. The beacon, tucked between his cheek and gum, had to be dealt with soon.

  He held her upright, looking at the top of her head. Tangled, inky hair, the heat of her mixing with the copper tang of his own blood and her, that delicious, maddening, shapechanging smell that fused every circuit in his head and hit everywhere he wasn’t aching. And quite a few places he was, too.

  “Shh,” he said, though she hadn’t made another sound. She tipped forward, her head resting against his shoulder, and Reese closed his eyes. Just for a second. Pretending. “It’s okay. You’re safe, you’re with me, it’s all right.”

  “I don’t know...what’s happening.” She sounded so forlorn.

  “It’s okay.” He searched for something to say. “All you need to know is that you’re safe.”

  “I want to go home.”

  He winced inwardly. “I know.”

  “I want to sleep.” A breath of petulance. Well, she’d had a hard day, right?

  Understatement of the year, Reese. “You can’t yet. Until I know you’ll wake up.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I do.” Don’t ask me why. Not clear on that myself. Oh, but he was. Lying to himself about it, though. “Let’s get you into the car, Holly. You can rest, but you can’t sleep yet.”

  Unfortunately, she wasn’t listening. She’d passed out, and he still had the beacon tucked between his cheek and gum.

  “Damn,” he muttered, with feeling, and carried her to the car.

  * * *

  The dreams were awful. The doctor’s office, with Dr. Gregory’s salt-and-pepper beard moving as he told her, No need for a lot of concern, we just want to make sure. Arriving home, sitting in the car for a moment, bracing herself for telling Phillip...walking in and seeing his set face. For a moment she thought he already knew, then the moment at the kitchen table when he told her, I want a divorce, Holl, as calmly as someone else might say, It’s sunny out today. She hadn’t even set her car keys down or taken her coat off. Then, sitting in the courtroom, hearing her divorce proclaimed final, seeing Phillip hand in hand with her—the blonde, bubbly med school student, one of his classmates. All those study dates, and Holly working two jobs to see him through school.

  Her lawyer, almost in tears—why won’t you fight? You can have alimony, the judge will practically throw it at you! Not wanting to explain—it didn’t matter, she would be dead soon anyway, why make more trouble for anyone?

  Faces warpi
ng, her nylons running, looking down and realizing she was naked, and then the dreams were less memory and more nightmare. Running through dark corridors, hearing the woman’s soft, inflectionless voice. Collateral. And the tenor. Put her back.

  Someone talking to her. Her hand in a bruising grip, a cool washcloth against her forehead. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

  The realization that she was probably sick calmed her somewhat, and she woke in stages, thoughts swirling and settling and finally making sense. Am I in the hospital? Fever dreams, maybe. Wow. That’s unpleasant. Did I collapse? What happened?

  Who knows I’m sick? God.

  She ached pretty much all over. The sheets were damp, and she was in a T-shirt. Which meant maybe not a hospital.

  Was it a hangover? Or had she buckled, her body finally deciding whatever was growing in it was too much to work past? She hadn’t felt any different that morning, but that was life.

  It always bit when you weren’t looking.

  The jumbled pieces in her memory refused to jell together. The last thing she was sure of was walking down the street toward a coffee date with Reese. No, wait. Something about a van.

  Was I run over? How ironic would that be?

  “Welcome back.” His face loomed over hers, and she blinked rapidly. Her throat was cotton dry, and she let out a little croak of surprise. It was Reese, dark eyed and too big for the suddenly crowded space. There was a slice of white ceiling behind him. It wasn’t her apartment, and for a second she was confused at the relief she felt. “Take it easy. Here.”

  What the hell?

  His arm under her shoulders, there was a cup at her lips. She drank, gratefully—mineral-tasting tap water, tepid, with a side of chlorine. Her nose wrinkled, but she was thirsty. He took it away before she’d had enough, but after a moment or two her stomach rumbled and she was glad. Any more and she’d likely spew it right back out.

  “You’re out of the woods.” He looked a little tired, faint circles under his dark eyes and his stubble having a field day. He hadn’t shaved in a day or two, and his T-shirt was rumpled, damp under his arms. “Whatever they dosed you with is out of your system.”