Agent Zero

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “What now?” Bronson reached for the empty box of tissues. “Goddamn it.”

  “They bungled the civilian erasure.” Caldwell half bent, his breath coming in huge shuddering gasps. “It’s a mess. We have him, we’re bringing him in, but we had seventy-five percent casualties, and—”

  “And?”

  “The news is on it. A house fire, but they’ll find shell casings, and—”

  “Crap. You moron. You let the cops onto that site?”

  “I don’t appreciate—”

  “Never mind. We have resources in place. Dean Thackeray’s plane lands in forty-five minutes. Get out there and bring him up to speed.”

  “Thackeray?” Caldwell looked like an eager young basset hound, just aching to scramble after an interesting smell.

  Bronson pinched the bridge of his nose, as if his head hurt as well. “Civilian egghead to run the medical tests. What about the grids?”

  “Up and running, as well as the sweeps.”

  Six isn’t in the city anymore. Trinity closed his file, set it aside. The only thing troubling her was why Six had bothered to return to the woman’s apartment. A drugged civilian could not have taken out two of an Alt-Sec team.

  Not without help.

  What would make Six return? He had grown adept, it seemed, at hiding his emotional noise. Eight had not, but the civilian entanglement there...

  The next file was Eight’s. She opened it carefully, scanned the first page. Paper clipped to the second was a black-and-white photo—the same nose, the same tousled blond hair, the same smile, the same flat disdain hiding behind his expression.

  Trinity found herself tracing the line of that jaw, the glossy paper slick under her fingertip. Something about Eight...bothered...her.

  Bronson and Caldwell were still talking. Pointless jabber, all of it.

  What is happening to me? Trinity found her throat dry, again. Her physical senses were as sharp as ever, her body functioning at peak, every system running smoothly. It was her head that was the problem. Am I degrading?

  If she was, sooner or later Bronson would notice. There was an eighty percent chance she would be slated for liquidation in that eventuality. If the agents kept behaving like this, soon the program would be closed down and the loose ends tidied, and there was a fifty percent chance Trinity herself would be seen as a loose end even if she wasn’t degrading. The longer this went on, the more that particular percentage would tick upward.

  How strange. Trinity turned the page. I do not want to die.

  Well, then. It was time to plan. And it was high time to start considering everyone else, especially Bronson, as a hostile element.

  * * *

  Reese pushed the door open with his foot, the plastic bag heavy in his left hand. Protein, fruit, whole-wheat bagels for carbs. Light stuff, Gatorade to balance her electrolytes, some Emetrol in case she was still nauseous and—

  Holly whirled, strings of damp hair flying, clutching a pale pink T-shirt to her chest. He’d picked the clothes that smelled most strongly of her, figuring they were likely to be the most comfortable; she was wearing a cream-colored underwire that had obviously seen better days.

  All the blood rushed out of his head, and he hoped he was wearing a neutral expression. Just looking at those pale bare shoulders, thinking about the bra straps digging in a little, imagining loosening them up or unhooking the back, sliding his hands down her arms, maybe daring to feel along her ribs, cup the soft heaviness of her—

  “I thought you’d gone.” Breathless, and her eyes were huge. Baking bread, ripe apples and vulnerability, that’s what she smelled like now. The room was thick with it. Under it was the lingering of sickness, a strange burned-metal taste, but it could have been the benzo or even just an incipient cold.

  He swept the door closed. “Just, ah, getting something to eat. And some, you know, bottled water.” I sound like an idiot. It was hard to talk, looking at those bare shoulders. A slice of hip disappearing into her jeans, perfect as a seashell. The contrast between rough denim and her skin made his fingers itch to touch.

  She nodded, and the transparent relief and fresh apprehension mixing on her face filled his head with the rushing sough of high winds. The vulnerability threaded through her scent reached all the way down and yanked on something blind and instinctive.

  Something protective.

  He almost dropped the bag, but she’d already turned away, presenting him with her bare back, the bra strap a straight bar across flawless pale skin. The shirt was over her head in a trice, and he had to take a deep breath. Which didn’t help as much as it could, because it filled his lungs with that smell, and everything below his belt was either numb or aching stiff.

  He shifted, trying to relieve some of the pressure, and found out he was still carrying the bag. Jesus. Am I going to lose my mind every time she shows a little skin?

  There were worse things, but still, he needed his head clear. There was a flimsy table in front of the curtains. He set the groceries down and twitched the fabric aside a little, checking the parking lot. Still clear.

  If he was still smelling her, it was confirmation the little invaders were still working. Physically, he felt fine, except for the embarrassing fact that his body seemed to be stuck at teenage boy around her. Having a semipermanent hard-on was not conducive to thinking straight.

  If she let him get close enough, he was either going to go off like the Fourth of July or embarrass himself with wilting. Again. Not to mention if he tried to explain Tangiers to her, and how afterward the only time he could even come close to getting it up was when he caught a whiff of her—he’d sound like a pervert.

  He wanted, very much, to sound like a real human being to her. Even if he wasn’t. His nape itched, tingling. “How soon can you be ready to go?”

  “I thought you said we had twelve hours.” She bent over her backpack, the tremor in her hands either hypoglycemia or fear. Or both.

  “We probably do. That’s not a reason to stay here, though.”

  “Where are we even going?”

  “South.” And you’re taking this a little too well.

  Her head dropped. She stared down at the backpack. “Oh.”

  “You should eat something.”

  “Why me?”

  Why should you eat? Or why am I doing this to you? Is that what you’re asking? He cleared his throat. That was no help, but it gave him a few seconds to maybe think about what he should say. “Um. You mean, why did I...”

  “Why did you even come into the Crossroads? I can’t remember when you started coming in.”

  Ten months ago, give or take a few weeks. Right after the second time I was in Venezuela. I only started coming in regularly after Tangiers, though. Because I couldn’t stay away. “It was just chance,” he heard himself say. “Then I kept going back to see you.”

  “But why?”

  What did she want to hear? If he could guess that, he could guess how to get her into the place he wanted her.

  “It was a Sunday,” he heard himself say, and swore internally. Looked like he was going to tell her part of the truth. “I, uh, I had my coffee. There was an old man at the counter. Red suspenders. Looked like he’d done some trucking when he was younger, just the way he sat. A Bulls baseball cap. He called you honey a lot. Middle of the day, he stiffened and fell off the stool.” First I thought he’d been shot, and was looking for angles.

  “Ernie,” she whispered. “Always tipped in quarters. He’d had a heart attack.”

  I know. “You got everyone away from him, shouted for that tattooed girl to call 911.” She snapped to attention, too, because you looked ready to take her face off if she dragged her feet. “You asked if anyone knew CPR. There was an orderly there from Cat General, on his lunch break. He started doing chest compressio
ns and mouth to mouth. You...” He was staring at the grocery bag, he realized, at the apples he’d carefully sniffed and examined for blemishes, the wrapped block of Colby Jack, the bagels with their flecked tops. “You were down on the floor with him. You were holding the man’s hand, and telling him it was going to be all right.”

  It didn’t do any good. The orderly hadn’t been doing CPR hard enough to crack ribs, and that was the only way to do it. But something else had bothered Reese ever since—what sort of woman would hold a dead man’s hand like that? Maybe the sort of woman who could... Christ.

  The sort of woman who could overlook the fact that Reese was a ghost. A dog trained to dig. An agent, not a...

  Not a man.

  She sniffed now, too, and wiped at her nose with the back of one hand.

  His arms ached, just like they had on that rainy night as he followed her home, wanting to help. Wanting to touch. “He was dead as soon as he hit the floor.” Why was he hoarse? “But you kept holding his hand. I just... I kept coming back. I couldn’t stay away. I’m sorry.”

  Holly half turned. Now she faced him, hugging her blue backpack, and he didn’t know how to quantify her expression. “That was a long time ago.”

  Less than a year. He shrugged. “I’m sorry I brought all this down on you. We’d better get moving.”

  He’d been about to say, I’d take it back if I could, but that would have been a lie. He had no problem with lying; it was part of every agent’s arsenal...but still.

  The uncomfortable thought that maybe he should lie to her, just to keep her calm and safe, wouldn’t go away. He’d told her to go ahead and call the cops, and Reese had to be glad she hadn’t matched that bluff.

  Even if he threatened it, he wasn’t going to leave Holly to them. He had what he wanted, and even if it wasn’t optimal, well, making the best of it was on the agenda. One more reason why he wasn’t even close to being anything she could...like.

  She nodded, sniffed again. Clutched at the backpack as if it was a life raft. “Okay.”

  He’d been prepared for anything but simple acceptance. Of course, right now she was still weak and shaky, and it was good strategy on her part to play nice with him. Had she noticed he’d left her alone in here with the phone? Maybe he’d been hoping she’d do something, call someone, force his hand.

  “Okay,” he echoed. He hitched his own backpack higher on his shoulders and grabbed the plastic bag again. A single toss had the room key on the tangled bed, and he reached for the doorknob. “You got everything?”

  Good work, agent. We’ve got her acting complicit. Keep it up.

  He told that cold, calculating little voice to shut the hell up, and got going.

  * * *

  Holly was too hungry to care what he’d brought, really, but it was still better than anything fried or greasy. The apples were just right—crisp, not mealy—and the cheese wasn’t her favorite, but the instant she saw it craving hit her hard. The bagels weren’t toasted, but that was okay. Even the Gatorade tasted like manna. For once, she could eat. Maybe she just had to get hungry enough.

  She realized she was stuffing her face and tried to slow down, tearing off a hunk of cheese and nibbling at it. “Do you... I mean, are you hungry?”

  They were heading through suburbs now, each mile clicking over taking Holly farther away from her life. Minimalls, residential areas, Gas Food Lodging signs. The car ran smoothly; it was always weird to be driven around when you usually took the bus or the subway. Sort of magical, the pavement slipping away effortlessly.

  Reese shook his head, frowning slightly at the freeway. Thin midafternoon sunshine struggled through rainclouds, not very successfully. Speckles of drizzle hit the windshield, smearing when he flicked the wipers on. Seen from this angle, his profile was a little ugly. Nose too long, and his mouth too tight, and he really should have shaved. Right now all he needed was a glower and a cigarette to look like a villain. “I’m okay. I tried to get light stuff, easy to digest. Good for you.”

  So, you work for the Army, and you’re a health nut. Okay. “Are you vegetarian?” The clouds were thickening. Autumn rains coming in. You could see them approaching from a long way away once you got outside the city’s tall buildings. That’s why she liked this part of the country—nothing to sneak up on you. Not like Boston, where divorce and...other things...could show up out of the blue.

  “What? No.” He sounded baffled, but that frowning expression didn’t change. “Why?”

  “I just wondered.” Now she could remember him getting breakfast at the diner, and bacon. Stupid question, Holly. Pick another one. “Why are we going south?”

  “Warmer. Besides, easier to hide once we’re over the border.”

  “Over the...” She cracked another bottle of Gatorade, even if she was going to have to pee in ten miles. Her throat felt as though she’d swallowed a belt sander, and the headache just would not quit. Her back didn’t hurt, though. At least, not much. “Why?”

  His frown didn’t intensify, but it didn’t fade, either. “Safer. Easier to hide.”

  “Is that your plan?” Because I’m hoping you have a plan.

  Now he glanced at her, a shadow of amusement crossing his face before vanishing. “Pretty much.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t tell whether she should be reassured or not. The rain intensified, and he turned the wipers on low. Brake lights glared against the wet road. “Some plan.”

  “Do you have a better one?”

  “I’m not a...what exactly are you? Security consultant. Uh-huh.” It probably wasn’t a good idea to sound so sarcastic, but her bravery was going up with her blood sugar. “You work for the Army, or...?”

  “For the government. A division you’ve never heard of, let’s say. I started out in the Army. Then...there was an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “IED. Roadside bomb. I’d never walk again, they said. Then they told me about the program.”

  He’d never walk again? Funny, he seems to be doing okay. “What program?”

  “Experimental. It would get me back on my feet, and there were...other benefits. In return, I’d work intelligence. I suppose that’s what you’d call it.”

  No way. “You’re a spy?”

  “I’m an agent. I solve problems, I troubleshoot, I gather intel, I liquidate—”

  Wait a second. “Liquidate?”

  He was silent.

  Everything she’d eaten settled in a cold lump, her stomach suddenly informing her that enough was enough, thank you. The nausea, an old familiar friend, filled her throat. She capped the Gatorade, very carefully. “So...am I a problem? Something to...troubleshoot? To liquidate?”

  “No.”

  She waited, but that was it. He turned the dial for the heater, touched the defroster. Left it alone.

  “So what am I, then? Collateral? As in damage? That’s what she said.”

  “Who?” Sharp interest now, and he was stealing little glances at her without turning his head.

  I can’t even begin to explain. “I don’t know. I just...voices. I wasn’t... I couldn’t think. It was too bright.” Return the subject...paperwork for a cremation...see if he bites. She shuddered. The pressure in her stomach drained away.

  “It’s the drugs.” Casually, as if it didn’t matter. Maybe this sort of stuff happened to him all the time. “If you remember more, tell me. It might help.”

  “Help what?” How is there any helping this?

  “I don’t know if they’ve liquidated the program itself or just me. Either way, they’re going to look for me, and for you, too. Those target files mean they have deep pockets and access to all the systems any government uses to keep track of people. Probably running grids and cores right now—”

  “Can you please slow down and us
e English?”

  He took a deep breath, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “It means that if we stay in the country, sooner or later they’re going to catch us. I want you safe, so we’re going over the border.”

  Nice to know you’re concerned. “Aren’t I safer if you just drop me off? They’ll question me and figure out I don’t know anything—”

  “That’s not the way they see it.”

  “How do they see it?” And who is they, really? Government? This is just... She couldn’t even find a word that fit.

  “You’re a liability, one they were willing to suffocate in her own bed. They don’t know what I’ve told you. They don’t know what I might do.”

  “Since they tried to...to kill you.”

  “Yeah.”

  She waited for him to add more. He didn’t. So she took another tack. “What about going to the police? The media? I mean, if you go public they have to leave you alone—”

  “God, you’re naive.” Now he was smiling. “It’s pretty adorable.”

  Holly’s jaw dropped. She stared at him, clutching the Gatorade bottle. Liquid sloshed. “I don’t think I—”

  “You’re what’s referred to as emotional noise. Keeps an agent from thinking clearly, makes things messy. Maybe that’s why they wanted to retire me, I don’t know. I’ll figure it out when I can, but right now all I’m concerned about is getting us over the state line and finding someplace to sleep. Collecting you was a high-risk maneuver—running with a civilian in tow is a tall order even for a program agent. I’ll tell you what you need to know, when you need to know it. Clear?”

  She stared at the bag in her lap. Emotional noise. What did that even mean? “You could have just left me there.” I wouldn’t have known the difference. “Why didn’t you?” Because all that stuff about Ernie wasn’t a reason. It wasn’t even an explanation.

  Another deep breath, and his knuckles were white. He was squeezing the wheel like it had personally offended him.

  Maybe that was one of the questions she wasn’t supposed to ask.

  The silence stretched out, thinner and thinner, a balloon filling with dangerous gas. She busied herself with tidying up the ravaged remains of groceries, every rustle of the bag now incredibly loud. The song of the tires against blacktop was familiar, but this time it failed to soothe her.