Unyielding (Out of the Box Book 11)

by Robert J. Crane

  38.

  Harmon

  “She got away again, didn’t she?” Cassidy asked as I walked into the Oval Office. I hadn’t expected to find her here, but there she was, a small laptop sitting on my desk, typing away delicately as I came up behind her.

  “To the shock and surprise of all but you, apparently,” I said, with more humor than I felt. I stared out for a moment through the bulletproof glass. “Burned through our drones like paper lanterns, tore through the Revelen mercs like they were pre-schoolers.”

  “Ouch.” Cassidy stopped typing. She held her hands gingerly poised over the keys, and I stared down at her. Something was off, and not just Cassidy’s usual skittishness. I sniffed; the air held the aroma of something … burned, mixed with antiseptic.

  I reached down over her shoulder and seized hold of one of her wrists—gently, and turned it over. A black burn had already started to heal over on her palm. I could smell it, unbandaged, the wound exposed to the world. I frowned down at her as she looked up at me, and she felt … blank. There was a tremor of fear that ran through her, as though I would lash out and hurt her. I could feel her pain and worry. “Cassidy,” I said softly, “what happened to your hand?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, and seemed to be answering honestly. “I touched a frayed power cord, I think.”

  I stared at the wound. “I’ll call my doctor and have her take a look at—”

  “No,” she said, trying to tug the hand away from me, but with little force. “I’m a meta, it’ll heal. Accidents happen sometimes, even to us.”

  “You need to be careful,” I said, letting her hand go. She truly didn’t know what happened, I could tell. She was right, accidents did happen, and an accident such as this would tend to cause some short term memory loss. “You’re a vital part of my plan, I can’t have you getting hurt.”

  “Okay,” she said, and returned her fingers to the keys, and back to business. “If Nealon went straight through the drones, I don’t think you can hold back—”

  “Yes, I’m realizing that,” I said. “I had hoped to avoid mobilizing the entire US Air Force to engage her over the Homeland. Something about seeing fighter jets shooting missiles above major cities tends to fail to instill confidence that everything’s running right.”

  “I understand the need to balance—”

  “I doubt it.”

  “—But do you really care about short-term polling numbers?” Cassidy finished, a bit lamely for her.

  “I care what people think, yes,” I said, answering her honestly. It always bothered me when the national mood turned against me. Of course, forty percent of the population would have voted for me even if I started holding executions on the White House lawn, so long as they were of the right people. Another forty percent wouldn’t vote for me no matter what I did, and twenty percent tended to decide all the elections. I didn’t worry about that forty that hated me—at least not now—but the twenty in the middle? Them, I agonized over.

  “That’s … surprising to me,” Cassidy said.

  “Is there any more human desire than the one that drives us to connect with others?” I asked, sitting down in the chair next to her. “Than the one to love, and be loved in return? I have love for humanity, see, the entire cross-section of it. I loved my wife, though she’s been gone so long now that I doubt anyone notices if I don’t mention her in a campaign speech. Underneath it all … I do love people. Even the ones that oppose me with everything they have, though I strongly disagree with them.” I chuckled. “My supporters hate them … don’t understand them … and they don’t really understand my supporters, either. There’s this gulf of misunderstanding, and even if I tried to bridge it through speeches or outreach, there’s a lot of bad blood. Too much, really, to ever reconcile the difference. Two people can have a discussion, but when three hundred and fifty million are doing it, it becomes a very bitter argument.” I stared at her, but past her. “I mean to settle this argument once and for all.”

  Cassidy cleared her throat. “Which do you want me to focus on … the research or the plan to kill Sienna Nealon?”

  “I’ll focus on Nealon,” I said, taking a breath. “I’ve got the education bill taken care of, my Deputy Chief of Staff is working on some of the other crises that are popping … the Middle East again, of course … I’ll put the entire damned military on this, if need be. It’s akin to using a nuclear bomb to swat a fly, but I have a nuclear arsenal at my disposal.” I sighed. “I will run the plan by you once it’s done, though, just to make sure you don’t see any obvious holes.”

  “I keep missing the obvious holes,” Cassidy said, sounding slightly contrite. “That’s why she’s still alive.”

  “Oh, I think we both know that’s not true,” I said, standing up. “Sienna Nealon keeps punching new holes in these plans, that’s why she’s still alive. I only wish she was still on our side. Perhaps pushing her to the margins was a poor choice. I thought I had the measure of her when we met, but her tenacity is … quite astonishing. Most people would run and hide, not daring to show their face when the entire government was after them. When they write the history books of my presidency, I expect this will be the low point.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cassidy said. I sensed she had other, more sarcastic, responses in mind, but she knew enough to keep them to herself. “I’ll probably move back to my tank to work for a while, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Oval Office not quiet enough for you?” I asked with a teasing smile.

  “It’s … it’s fine,” she said, paling visibly, turning her a brighter shade of white. And I would have thought such a thing impossible.

  “You don’t have to like it,” I said, standing up straight and looking out the window again. Darkness was starting to fall out on the lawn. “It’s a product of a time before ours. The White House was last heavily renovated—practically turned into a shell and rebuilt from the outside in—during the Truman presidency. That was seventy years ago. The shell is from … after the War of 1812, I think? When the British burned Washington? Sometimes the things we build stay with us for reasons of tradition long after something better might have come along.” I wished the White House photographer had been here; I felt like I was striking a perfect pose for him to capture. “We can do better.” I pointed at her, then at me. “We will do better. Go work in your tank, if that’s better for you. Tradition be damned.” I gave her a smile as I left, on my way to the next thing that needed to be done.

  39.

  Sienna

  I made it back to my apartment complex in Cedar City close to the end of the afternoon, when the shadows were getting long across the ground. I was a bloody mess again and I ditched the hoodie and wig in the desert with the staple gun (ow, ow and more ow), mopped my brow with the sweat that was on it, and hobbled back toward my building on a leg that was still aching, if now healed.

  That was unnecessary, Zack said.

  “I dunno,” I said, pretty well over discussing it now that this water had gone under the bridge, “I wiped Antipasti off the planet, which feels like a victory worth doing a touchdown dance for. He did kill an awful lot of people.”

  And you showed your pursuers you are not to be trifled with, Wolfe said.

  “I killed some dude I didn’t even know,” I said. “A good question would be, ‘Who was that guy?’ cuz he and his bros didn’t sound like Americans, and a better one might be, ‘Why is some group of metas who isn’t from the US government helping in a manhunt for me’?” I stalked along toward the apartment building, which was coming up pretty fast now. I wasn’t moving at meta speed, but in spite of my leg’s desire to limp, I wasn’t sparing the horses, either. Or hamstrings, maybe?

  They’ve called in outside help, Bastian said.

  “Who’s called in outside help?” I asked, chewing it over. “Harmon, right?” I was asking mainly as a survey question to back up my own suspicions.

  Seems likely, Eve said.

  Their accents
, Gavrikov said. Some were Eastern European. From around Revelen, I think?

  “Revelen again,” I muttered. “What the hell is their problem?”

  A sky-high poverty rate and lack of access to a warm-water port? Zack asked. Oh, wait, they just took over Canta Morgana. I guess they sorted that warm-water port issue.

  “It’s on the Baltic Sea, so I don’t know about that,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to swim there in January.” I frowned. “So Harmon pulls diplomatic strings to bring in outside metas to help wreck my ass. It’s starting to feel like he has a vendetta, which is a funny thing considering I’m responsible for re-electing that douche.”

  Maybe it’s not him, Bjorn said. Perhaps there is a power behind the throne.

  “The governmental version of Cyrano de Bergerac?” I asked. “Whispering in his ear, helping set his priorities?” I shrugged. “Bjorn, that’s as good a theory as any I’ve considered. Cassidy tweaking his strings is a real possibility, especially given that her intelligence allows for first-rate access to blackmail material of the sort even a sitting president might not want released—”

  Wait, we are talking about Cassidy? Bjorn asked. That tiny slip of a thing that you nearly dropped in the cornfields of Iowa? He laughed, heartily. Impossible.

  “She’s smarter than you, not that it would take much,” I said. “Smarter than me, smarter than anyone. At least when it comes to pure intelligence. I wouldn’t lay money on her in a fistfight or anything, but she’s done enough damage to my life that I’m not going to go dismissing her just because she’s puny-looking. She could probably still break a normal human in half.”

  What are you going to do about her? Zack asked as my shoes hit the parking lot of my complex.

  “I’ve got a plan,” I said. “Wait and see.” I looked at the building and sighed. “We’re gonna have to move out tonight.”

  That’s the safest bet, Bastian agreed.

  Yes, you’ve shown your ass to them twice, which is enough to give them a good starting point when it comes to searching for you, Eve said.

  “I didn’t show them my ass,” I said, looking at my jeans, which were shredded. “I changed out of my ass-displaying shorty shorts before I flew to Denver, thank you very much.”

  The world thanks you for that, Eve said.

  “Oh come on,” I said, “don’t give me that. I’m at least better than Bjorn.”

  Eve hesitated before giving me a patronizing, Sure you are.

  A car horn honked behind me, and I turned as Bilson’s El Camino rattled into the parking lot and parked right in front of me. He jumped out like someone had attached a massive spring to his ass and shut the door behind him. “Hey!” He sounded almost relieved. “You missed class.”

  “Do I need a doctor’s note?” I asked.

  “Not … with the amount of blood you got on you,” he said, looking me up and down again in astonishment. “Your jeans—did they start out shredded like that?”

  I looked down again. “Totally. This is the style now, don’t you know? It’s all over NYC.”

  “Okay …” He didn’t seem convinced. “I thought I was going to teach you some things. Self-defense and whatnot.”

  I shrugged. “I think I’m good.” I started to walk off.

  “Wait,” he said, and I could tell he was perplexed. I was already disengaging, looking to evacuate my nascent relationship with him before it even started. I was leaving town, after all, so what was the point of leading this guy on? And as hard up as I might have been, the idea of going rock-em, sock-em with this guy between the sheets given how much trouble I’d had with his most recent conquest … well, he’d lost his most of his appeal. I was kinda put off by Sandra’s … everything. “Is … is that it, then?” he asked.

  “I think so,” I nodded. “You seem like a nice guy, but … yeah. Your taste in women—and I’m including myself here—scary, dude. Do better.”

  I wasn’t trying to offend him, but I could see my intention counted for little. “Thanks,” he said snottily.

  “Sorry,” I said with a shrug, and turned away. “Truth is a real bitch. And so is your ex.”

  “Classy.”

  “Not one of the top adjectives used to describe me. Did you not see the shorts earlier?”

  I bopped out of sight, into the darkened tunnel leading to the interior of the complex. Something jumped out at me, bringing with it the smell of feces and urine slightly—but only slightly—tempered by chemicals. It didn’t take a Cassidy IQ to realize it was Sandra, the stupid clown. I reacted without thinking, and popped her in the nose, pulling my punch at the last second. It still created a bloody mess, like I’d smashed a strawberry. She dropped, clutching at her face. “What the—?” she asked, rolling around on the ground.

  “He’s all yours, if you can convince him you’re not a brain-damaged lunatic,” I said, dodging around the corner, and heading up the stairs without looking back. “Good luck with that.” Cuz she’d sure as shit need it.

  40.

  I’d spent last the day zipping between Cedar City and Denver, fighting some of the nastiest opponents I could recall being squared off against, the night before flying a multi-ton vault across half the country after committing the most destructive burglary I’d ever heard of, and that following a day of nasty battle in Las Vegas.

  I’d also spent the time I should have been sleeping last night washing the smell of garbage out of my hair, which left me pretty well exhausted. I looked around my small apartment, mentally coming up with a list of things I was going to need to do to clear out. I didn’t technically have to do any of them; I could destroy a few things and be gone, or even probably just leave them as they were. They were unlikely to tie me to any of my other hidey-holes, but I would have preferred to be a hundred percent sure and just do the thing right.

  Also, I wanted to bring my clothes with me, because shopping? Not a favorite activity for Sienna Nealon or any of the army of new identities I could assume.

  I was going to have to change my look, though. Maybe start wearing my mohawk up instead of down and ponytailed. It reminded me vaguely of a girl not unlike myself named Adelaide, except she was a lot thinner and cooler looking in her eighties style than I was with my throwback millennial hipster look. Maybe I should go more punk, I thought. It might change the look enough to trip up the video search algorithms that J.J. would be deploying on Cedar City’s video surveillance camera footage once they tracked me back here. They’d get updated pictures for sure, even as much as I tried to be aware of and avoid security cameras. There was simply no avoiding them all, but the good news was that if they didn’t find Cedar City for a few weeks, most of the footage would be erased over with new footage by the time they started trying to capture it.

  All this ran through my mind, but at a vastly slowed rate. I was wearing down. I’d been tired before I went into the fight in Denver, and the hurt I’d suffered in that battle had coupled with the revelations about my crew being mind-controlled to leave me with even more questions. Who was doing this to them? Where was the rest of my team?

  What the hell was going on?

  Why was I being fall-guy’d?

  For the last month I’d considered—often, depressingly often—that maybe what was happening right now, from my team’s betrayal to Scott’s hatred of me to the media and nation turning against me was all just an unfortunately timed harvest of all my previous bad actions. I hadn’t been a good girl, after all. I’d done some good, but some bad, too, and though I’d steadily outrun the shit wave up until now, there was every possibility that I was just finally entering what Churchill called, “a period of consequences.”

  But that was before I knew Reed, Augustus, J.J. and Scott were all being puppeteered. It was one thing for me to think that Cassidy Ellis was just out there, trying to wreck me because she still hated me. It was another to think there was an active conspiracy in place fomented by the US government to wipe me off the planet with drone strikes and multi-national met
a spec-ops teams.

  And how did that damned vault at Palleton Labs figure into this? Did it figure into it? Or was that some other problem that Timothy Logan was tearing around the corners of?

  “The plan,” I muttered, picking up my stash of mobile phones and trying to decide whether I should check the internet before I left. I was feeling paranoid, and worried that I might throw up flags like, say, internet searches that could point J.J. in my direction, so I scorched them into nothingness one by one and washed the ashes down the drain in the shower.

  I threw every article of clothing into a duffel and put it by the door, grabbed every ID I had and eliminated them as well. I had fresh ones in my other hidey-holes, along with fresh cell phones, too, unconnected to the burners I’d just destroyed.

  I checked and rechecked everything. There was no way to eliminate the accumulated DNA around the apartment, so they were going to get that, and it’d confirm for them I’d been here. Same with fingerprints, not that I cared, because that truth was going to get out. Sandra would probably tattle, too, once they knew I’d been here, and that would feed the media flame—if the FBI task force released it to the press.

  Or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe Sandra’s pride would keep her from admitting I’d rolled her in shit and trapped her there for a while. Heh.

  My thoughts chugged to a halt, and I considered the duffel by the door. I couldn’t leave right now, it’d be obvious. I needed to leave in the middle of the night, when no one could see me and I could just take off. That put me in a sticky position, worrying that perhaps I was giving Scott and Co. a chance to track me down to this very location, but there wasn’t a lot to be done about it. I was exhausted, I needed sleep, and in sleep, I could actually advance the plan.