Going Grey

by Karen Traviss

  Mike stood twisting his lucky watch around his wrist. He was going to need it today. "Maybe I should do that."

  "No, I'm lovable paternal Rob. You sound too posh."

  "But if this kid watches a lot of movies, he probably thinks all English are bad guys."

  "Yeah, you really should be over your national trauma by now. I'll just explain to him that we only wanted to keep Canada."

  It was just a kid up there with a shotgun and some greyhounds, not Mossad. After taking a furtive leak in the undergrowth, Mike got back into the passenger seat and Rob retraced their route. The speed limit sign just before the turning loomed into view.

  "Thirty seconds to abort this, Zombie."

  Mike couldn't pull the plug now. "Go. Hang a right."

  "Starboard ninety. Wheel on."

  Rob turned without indicating and drove slowly up the track until a blur of brick-red and white began to show through a screen of trees. Mike tapped the dashboard. Rob steered off into the cover of some birches and came to halt. They could see the ranch now, a two-storey painted timber building with dormer windows and a full-width porch.

  "Christ," Rob muttered. "We're storming the Little House on the bloody Prairie."

  Mike took out his wallet and put a hundred dollar bill in one of the cup-holders on the dashboard. "A hundred says it's Kinnery's wayward son, rejecting his father's freaky science to join a tree-hugging commune."

  Rob fumbled in his jacket and shoved a hundred next to Mike's. "A teen computer nerd who's hacked into some blackmail material or industrial secret and he's holding it to ransom. I mean, why else leak it himself?"

  "I think I can see a pickup. Wait one while I take a look."

  Mike got out and picked his way from tree to tree to get a better view. He didn't have to move far before he knew they weren't dealing with a pro. Maggie Dunlop might have been good at staying off the grid, but she'd obviously thought in terms of obscuring the ranch from view, not stopping ground assaults. Trees and bushes provided cover within fifty meters of the house, and there was plenty of dead ground. Even the exposed areas had outbuildings and other structures that would shorten the distance to short sprints between cover.

  The old white pickup was parked out front in the shade of a tree. That would be useful cover too. If Mike got a chance, he'd remove the plug leads to stop any hasty exits.

  Nothing was moving except birds in the branches. He held his breath and listened. There were no voices or sounds of human activity, and no sign of the dogs. He went back to sit on the fender of the SUV.

  "Give it an hour," he said.

  Rob slid out of the driver's seat and stood looking towards the ranch house. "Maybe he's already made a run for it."

  "Well, the pickup's there."

  "What if he's not alone? Or he's got another vehicle and he's pissed off in that?"

  They waited in complete silence for forty minutes. In all that time, only one vehicle rumbled past on the road behind them. Rob was getting fidgety. He kept moving his hand to his holster, his rehearsal habit.

  "Okay, let's go on the intel we have," he said. "Time for the Rennie charm offensive."

  "So what are you going to say? 'Hi Ian, you don't know us, but we're private security contractors, we want to know who you're hiding from, and by the way, are you the hideous, unnatural fruit of a monstrous experiment that defied the laws of God and man?'"

  Rob adjusted his ballistic vest, unmoved. "Just go around the back and make sure he hasn't got company. Radio check when you're in position, okay?"

  Mike was beginning to wonder if he'd imagined his time in the Guard. He was pretty sure he'd breached compounds knowing they were booby-trapped, or that he'd probably be greeted by a burst of fire when the door crashed open. Today wasn't in that league. But this was his own country, and he realised this was probably as close as he'd come to knowing how a cop felt, where any of his neighbours could suddenly decide to finish him off.

  Rob put in his radio earpiece and gave Mike a thumbs-up that left no room for failure.

  "Let's get this done," he said. "We'll be out of here in an hour. Minus a werewolf."

  DUNLOP RANCH, ATHEL RIDGE.

  Oatie was restless. He followed Ian around the house, jerking his head up at every sound.

  He wasn't even distracted by the contents of the pantry. He sat in the open doorway, watching Ian counting the cans and packets, occasionally standing up and turning around to gaze out into the kitchen with his ears pricked.

  "She's not coming back, Oatie." Ian studied the instructions on the cans of dried milk and did a quick calculation. He'd have enough for ten weeks once he'd run out of the frozen supply. Well, that would motivate him to find the guts to take the truck out. "What's wrong?"

  Maybe the dog was picking up on his own anxiety. Ian put down the milk and went to the living room window, half-expecting to see the sheriff's cruiser outside, but there was nothing there. He went back to the pantry and finished listing the supplies.

  I could always phone the grocery store in town and ask if they deliver.

  But that wasn't a plan. He couldn't do that forever. He stepped over Oatie and went upstairs again, lost for something productive to do without the animals to occupy his day, and increasingly conscious of the risk of being found.

  What had Zoe done with his story? He didn't have an Internet connection. She might have tossed the notes in the garbage. Kinnery hadn't pestered him, anyway. Maybe it had all died down and he'd been forgotten again.

  He sat on the edge of Gran's bed, just a mattress and frame now that he'd burned the bedding, and studied his reflection in the mirror on her dressing table. He was pretty sure he hadn't changed again since he'd fled from the coffee shop.

  Funny. I hated mirrors before. Now I can't stop looking.

  Ian was more than alone. He could never make friends or get to know neighbours because sooner or later, he'd change. Joe might have thought his eyesight or his memory were playing tricks before, but now that he'd spent time with Ian, he'd really notice the changes. He'd know he wasn't imagining it.

  It also meant Ian could never go near a woman.

  The realisation became the lowest point of his life. It was a death sentence. He stared in the mirror, now able to see himself behind unfamiliar eyes, and tried to recapture the state he'd been in when he morphed in the coffee shop. He knew he'd been agitated, scared, and lost, but he couldn't switch on the emotion to order.

  Of course I can't. I'd have to pump out adrenaline. That's what starts this, I'll bet. Maybe it takes a threat to trigger it. But how do I come up with the faces? Did Kinnery ever work that out?

  Ian didn't plan to ask him. There might come a time when he'd be forced to beg him for help, but right now that was the last thing he wanted.

  It was a nightmare. He couldn't control his own body, even if the morphing reflex had gotten him out of a tight spot. He felt like he was eight years old, a grown man, and an alien all at the same time. He wasn't sure how long he could live with this. He couldn't even let his body get on with the second-by-second business of living without wondering what was happening deep in his cells.

  There's got to be the real me under all this. There has to be.

  Oatie sat by the bedroom door, tail coiled around his haunches. Morphing had never seemed to bother the dogs. Maybe they trusted their noses when what they smelled didn't match what they saw. Ian held out his hand, but Oatie jumped up and looked down the stairs.

  Whatever had distracted him, Ian couldn't hear it. The dog wandered off and Ian went back to the mirror, willing something to change while he watched himself. If he could see it in action, he might work out how to control it. Then he heard an engine rumbling. It was a car. Oatie always heard things long before he did.

  Damn. Joe's come to check on me.

  It didn't sound like Joe's truck, but who else would drop in? What if it was some official from the county wanting to check paperwork or something?

  Ian went to the window
and tried to get a look at the vehicle without being spotted. If he stood back far enough and off to one side, he could see the entire gravelled area down to the trees. Sunlight glinted off a silver SUV parked about twenty yards from the door. There was nobody in the driver's seat. Then the doorbell rang, and Ian flinched.

  If it wasn't Joe, it'd be someone he didn't want to see, maybe even Kinnery. But whoever was down there held their finger on the bell for a determined three or four seconds. Ian tried to remember if he'd locked the back door.

  They'll go away if I just stay quiet.

  What if this was one of the people Gran had warned him about? The bell rang again, followed by loud knocking. Ian heard a shout.

  "Ian?" It was a man. "Ian? My name's Rob. We need to talk, mate. Can I come in?"

  He wasn't just a stranger; he was a foreigner. He had an English accent, not the kind Ian was used to hearing on TV, but definitely English. And he'd used Ian's name. Only Joe and Kinnery knew he was here.

  Ian did as Gran had taught him. He assumed the worst until proven otherwise. He wasn't going to let this Rob in, but the guy wasn't giving up.

  "I'm not from the government, Ian." Rob held his finger on the bell again. "But you need to talk to someone, and it might as well be me."

  Ian couldn't even phone Joe for help. He was on his own.

  The knocking and ringing stopped and Ian heard a muffled clunk like someone slamming a car door. He could see Rob now. He was standing on the gravel, looking from window to window. Ian estimated that he was in his late 30s; short dark hair, very upright, very fit. He looked casual in jeans and a zipped jacket, but his posture said something else entirely. It was hard to tell if he was armed. But the way he moved said that he was a physical kind of guy who wouldn't take no for an answer.

  "Ian? You need somewhere safe to stay. Come and talk to me. I'm Rob. Rob Rennie."

  Ian racked his brains for a movie that had played out something like this, anything that would give him a clue about dealing with this man. Rob Rennie. Why would he give Ian his name? Maybe he thought Gran had mentioned him, and that Ian should have known who he was.

  Shit. If I don't answer, he'll kick the door down. Or even call for backup. I've got to face him.

  He leaned over the banister to check if both hall doors were open because the daylight from the kitchen would silhouette him through the glass at the front. At least one internal door was shut, though. He crept down the stairs, edged along the wall to the back room, and slipped through into the kitchen. The door was ajar. Oatie was gone.

  Ian put on his baseball cap and went to the front door, aware of every sound around him. Should he go get his rifle? If Rob Rennie had been sent to grab him, he'd have a weapon and he'd use it if he thought Ian was armed. If he wanted DNA, Ian didn't have to be alive to give him what he'd come for.

  His tried to control his breathing to stop the rising panic. If he was going to morph again, it would be now.

  I've got to run. How close is the truck? Can I get past him?

  There was no movement or shadow visible through the glass door panels. Ian finally opened the door and found Rob squatting a few yards along the porch, making a fuss of Oatie.

  "Can I help you, sir?"

  Rob straightened up. "Hi, mate. Sorry for banging the door down. Can we talk?"

  He lowered his chin slightly as if he was looking under the peak of Ian's cap. Ian thought he'd morphed again, but Rob couldn't have known what he should have looked like anyway.

  "You're British." Ian couldn't think of anything else to say. He felt like an idiot the moment he the words tumbled out. "Are you a cop? A reporter?"

  "I'm English. And no, none of the above. I've been sent to look after you."

  It was only a few yards to the truck. The grey car blocked the track, a short sprint away for Rob. Ian moved his hand slowly to his pocket to check for his keys. Rob braced. Ian froze.

  Oh Christ, he thinks I'm going for a weapon. He's going for his.

  Ian lowered his arm. "Why do I need looking after?"

  If he went back inside and locked the door, Rob would probably go around the back, and Ian could cut through the cellar and get out through the crawlspace. He'd be in the truck and away while Rob was still searching the house.

  "That reporter you spoke to," Rob said. "There's some stuff about you on the Internet now, and that means you're probably going to get some unwelcome visitors fairly soon."

  "Like you?"

  "My job is to take you somewhere safe."

  That answered the question about what Zoe had done with his story. It took Ian a couple of seconds to join up the dots. Who else knew about her? Kinnery. He felt like he was standing in rising water. It was raw fear. He struggled to keep it under control.

  "Did Kinnery send you, sir?"

  "Don't worry, mate. I don't work for him. Let's sort out your problem."

  Ian couldn't move. Rob knew, then. He knew Ian could morph. It was an odd relief to find someone who'd talk to him like a regular guy despite knowing what he was. Rob didn't look disgusted or afraid. He just seemed in a hurry. He held his arms away from his sides.

  "I'm not going to hurt you," he said.

  Ian tried to buy time. Step back slowly. Close the door. Lock it, like I'm holing up in here. Did Rob have anyone with him? He kept saying "I," not "we."

  "I don't want to see Kinnery," Ian said.

  "I know, but I still need to get you away from here."

  Ian now had no idea who was on his side and who wasn't. The answer was probably nobody.

  Run, Ian. Run.

  "I'll be fine here, sir." Ian backed away through the open door. "But thank you anyway."

  He closed the door and locked it. Rob would hear the key turn. Now Ian had seconds to get clear. The grab bag in the hall was too big to drag through the crawl space without slowing him down, so he'd have to leave it. As he opened the cellar door he almost skidded down the steps in his headlong rush and aimed for the crack of light around the edge of the shutters. If he crawled out through the bushes at the side of the house, nobody would see him until he was a few strides from the truck.

  Splinters dug into his hands as he eased the shutters open. He crawled like a frantic animal through the dust and sticky webs and out into bushes that tore his skin, then ran for the truck and jerked the door open. He managed to jam the key into the ignition. There was no sign of Rob.

  But the damn truck wouldn't start. It didn't even turn over. It just kept clicking.

  Gran's truck. Try Gran's truck.

  Ian prayed its battery wasn't flat. He tumbled out of the driver's seat and ran for the back of the barn, not daring to look over his shoulder as he swung open the doors and climbed into the blue pickup. It fired first time. As he backed out, he clipped the door frame, but now he was clear.

  How much gas in the tank?

  How much cash do I have on me?

  Where the hell am I going?

  He realised he'd left the cell phone in the kitchen out of habit. He had a few bucks in his back pocket, but the only place he could think of going was Athel Ridge. There'd be people around, people who didn't know him or what he usually looked like, and Rob wouldn't try to kidnap him or shoot him in front of witnesses.

  Ian slammed his foot on the gas and swerved around the Toyota to get onto the track. Suddenly there was a man ahead of him to his left, sprinting out of the trees to intercept, a blonde guy in jeans.

  Ian's instinct took over. The man stopped dead in the middle of the track, boots planted, and Ian saw his hands come up. His only coherent thought was gun. He drove straight at the guy.

  Oh God. I'm dead. Or he is.

  Ian shut his eyes for a second, waiting for the thump of body against windshield, but the truck careered down the track. He hadn't hit anything.

  Movement in the rear-view mirror caught his eye. The silver SUV was now on his tail. The pickup's tyres squealed as he turned hard onto the road and almost lost control but he recovered fro
m the skid and put his foot on the gas.

  So much for following Gran's emergency drill, then. His cash, his phone, and everything he needed to escape were still at the ranch, and all he had was half a tank of gas and no plan beyond seeking refuge in Athel Ridge.

  It was never like that in the movies.

  TEN MILES OUTSIDE ATHEL RIDGE, WASHINGTON.

  A car chase wasn't the best time to remember a road safety ad, but Rob couldn't get the bloody line out of his head.

  'Only a fool

  Breaks the two second rule.'

  It was an old public information campaign, and despite its total absence of slickness it had lodged forever in Rob's memory. Well, he was two seconds behind Ian's blue pickup as its tail swung out on corners, and that still felt way too close. The winding road was mostly downhill and punctuated by warning signs about maximum speed on bends, all of which Ian seemed to ignore. What did cops do when a chase was too risky? They just followed and waited. Rob had seen it on those tedious reality TV shows.

  And whatever happened to 'we won't force him'?

  "Is he drunk?" This wasn't much like the defensive driving course he'd done. Maybe he should have tried overtaking the little bastard and slammed on the brakes while they were still on a deserted road. "He's all over the place."

  Mike still had the other pickup's plug leads in his hand, swishing them like a fly whisk. He was angry. "He's not used to fast driving."

  "No shit."

  "I should have checked the barn. I'm sorry."

  "And I should have taken him down as soon as I saw him."

  "We said no kidnapping, remember?"

  "So what are we doing now? High speed observation?"

  "You want to abort?"

  "No. I bloody well want to know who he is."

  "Where did he exit? A storm shelter or something? Kinnery never mentioned that."

  "He didn't mention the second truck, either."

  Mike shook his head. "Christ, he really is just a kid."

  "The fuck he is," Rob said. "He nearly ran you down."

  "He probably thought I'd drawn a weapon. I just put my hands up to make him stop."

  "He can't outrun us. First bloke to stop for petrol loses."