We step off the elevator and straight into a horde of children who tear past whooping and hollering. As I stare after them open-mouthed, she says drily, “School just let out.”
We’re in one of the recreational areas, built around an atrium that rises several hundred feet to a virtual sky. Full spectrum light streams from it, brightly illuminating the space. A soft breeze riffles the leaves of trees and bushes scattered throughout. Nearby is a large free-form playground complete with climbing walls and trampolines built in to the floor.
Couples and families stroll by. No one is dressed in the drab, monochromatic style of workers in the city. To the contrary, bright colors abound. The only exceptions are those wearing the black uniforms I’ve seen before and even they are obviously relaxed and off duty.
I struggle to understand what I’m seeing and what it means. Pinnacle House is far more than the headquarters of a defense technology company. It’s a vibrant, thriving community that rejects the class divisions so prevalent in the city as a whole. And that makes me wonder. Why did Ian choose to put his people directly in the midst of an enclave designed to serve the privileged few?
Thousands of his people living without the restrictions that other workers in the city face. With their own residences, schools, recreational areas, food supplies, even their own armories and what amounts to a private military force.
“Ian must be a thorn in the side of some people,” I murmur. Certainly those among the power elite who are intent on running the world strictly for their own benefit aren’t likely to appreciate his far more egalitarian approach.
Gabriella Darque stops in mid-stride and shoots me an assessing look. “Figured that out, did you? Is it possible that you’re not just…ornamental?”
I grimace. “Please don’t say he called me that.”
She grins reluctantly. “No, he didn’t, I just assumed it. But I should have figured that he’d get bored with anyone who didn’t have a brain.” Her brow furrows. “Instead, he brings you here and pulls out all the stops to make sure that you’re taken care of.”
She looks me over again and says sternly, “Since you’re not a dumb little fluff bunny after all, there’s something I want to know. What the hell are you doing distracting him? He needs to be focused right now. Lives will depend on that soon, including his.”
I stare at her in confusion that turns all too quickly to dismay. Suddenly, the scene I witnessed in the garage when we arrived--armed men in uniforms moving purposefully, preparing--takes on an all-too ominous meaning.
Has Ian decided not to wait for the authorities to deal with the HPF, as Adele believes that they will? Is he going after them himself?
I have a sinking feeling that I already know the answer and with it comes a heavy sense of dread. Too clearly, I remember how he was on the polo field, consumed by reckless aggressiveness, without regard for his own safety or the safety of others.
My chest tightens at the possibility that he will be putting himself in danger for my sake while in such a state. If he does, I have to assume that he won’t be alone. At least some of the people I see around me, those in the black uniforms and perhaps others also relaxing with their families, will soon be in harm’s way because of me.
I hesitate, trying to decide how to respond. Ian isn’t likely to have told anyone who--what--I really am or why he brought me to Pinnacle House. That being the case, I can’t reveal what I suspect is about to happen. All I can do is express some measure of my regret. And my fear.
“Please believe me, Miss Darque. The last thing I would ever want to do is cause any kind of problem for Ian.” My voice cracks. “I told him it would be better if I wasn’t here but he wouldn’t listen.”
And now it’s too late. Pinnacle House is a fortress. No one gets in--or out--without its master’s permission.
She considers that--and me--for a moment before she nods. “Call me Gab. You’re looking a little pale. What do you say we skip the rest of the tour and grab a cup of coffee? Hell, I’ll even throw in a gooey pastry.”
My stomach lurches. “Just the coffee would be fine. I’m off sugar for awhile.”
“Oh, yeah? How come?”
I find myself telling her about Hayden as we walk to a nearby coffee shop and order drinks.
“Scotch bombs are the bomb, girl,” she says, laughing. “You gotta watch those things. The only safe way to eat them is washed down with plenty of beer.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” I say as we find a table out in front, well enough apart from anyone else that we won’t be overheard.
The soy-something-something latte that I order turns out to be not bad. I sip it slowly and study my surroundings.
There are even more children than I thought, and more families. As engaged as I am in people watching, I can’t help but notice that I’m coming in for my own share of curious looks.
Whether because I’m with Gab or because news of my arrival at Pinnacle House has already spread, people seem curious about me. Their glances aren’t offensive or threatening in any way. On the contrary, they just seem to have a friendly interest in the woman Ian has brought into his domain.
The guilt I feel at the possibility that they could suffer because of me quickly ratchets up even further.
“I’ve worked for Ian for five years,” Gab says. She’s watching me carefully. I have the impression that she doesn’t miss much.
“There’s no one I respect more,” she goes on. “He’s smart, tough, and absolutely reliable, or at least he always was. But right now something’s wrong. First, he goes off for ten days on personal business, unheard of for him. When he comes back, he’s definitely not happy. Until suddenly he is, only then he isn’t again. A guy who’s normally rock steady has turned into a friggin’ emotional roller coaster. I think you’re the reason why.”
She pauses, giving me an opening to deny that. When I fail to take it, she shrugs and goes on.
“He’s never brought a woman to Pinnacle House before. Now you’re here but he’s keeping his distance, having me show you around and make sure that you’re comfortable instead of doing that himself. Whatever’s going on between the two of you, something isn’t hunky-dory.”
At the thought of all that isn’t right between Ian and me, my throat tightens. I have to press my lips together to hold back the short, hard sob that wells up without warning.
Gab groans. “Shit, you’re not going to cry, are you?”
My head jerks up. I blink fast to hide the tears that threaten. “Of course not! What do you take me for?”
Her tone softens. “You kind of remind me of Daphne.”
“Who’s she?”
“The love of my life.”
I can’t hide my wistfulness. “You’re lucky to have someone like that. Does she know?”
“Know what?”
“How you feel about her?”
“Of course she does. Why would I let her go around not--”
She breaks off and stares at me. “That’s how it is? You’re in love with him but you’re not sure how he feels?”
The question comes as a shock. I know nothing of love, having never experienced it. I don’t even know if I’m capable of so profound and mysterious an emotion. The thought that I might not be fills me with sadness.
“There’s nothing like that between us.” I say quickly. “We’re just…” What exactly? Our relationship hardly fits any of the usual categories. Lamely, I pick one. “Friends.”
Gab looks amused. “Oh, okay. Since you two are ‘friends’, you shouldn’t have any trouble figuring out what’s bothering Ian and fixing it.”
My face heats. “I wish that were the case but the fact is I don’t know all that much about him and I’m afraid that I understand even less.”
She hesitates and I have to assume that she’s wondering how the only woman Ian has ever brought to Pinnacle House can be so ignorant about him.
Finally, she says, “What do you want to know?”
H
er offer convinces me that I’ve found another person who truly cares about Ian. That emboldens me.
“Anything you can tell me, please.”
She knocks back the last of her espresso, stares at me for a moment, and says, “He’s a Patriots fan, don’t ask me why. He makes great chili. He plays lethal handball, likes kickboxing, and has one of the highest kill shot ratings ever recorded. He’s brilliant, holds several hundred patents, and has a bunch of honorary degrees.”
Her gaze darkens. “He hated his father. He’s extremely protective of women. What else do you want to know?”
So much that I have no idea where to begin. I’m tempted to ask her about the women in his life besides Susannah but I know that would be overstepping.
“What about his enemies?” I know beyond any doubt that they must exist. “Who are they?”
Gab hesitates. “I can reel off names for you, men and women who hold high office and who hate his guts. But most of them aren’t much more than puppets. The real danger lies with those who work behind the scenes, pulling the strings. They’re unchecked and unaccountable to anyone.”
A possibility occurs to me. “Is Charles Davos one of them?”
She shoots me a hard, fast look. “Did Ian tell you that?”
“No, he’s hardly told me anything. But I’ve met Davos.” I shudder at the memory. “There’s something off about him.”
“You think? The guy’s a snake. And he’s not alone. Ian’s been working to find out who the others are. Or at least he was until this HPF thing came along.”
She catches herself, as though she’s said too much but I hardly notice. I’m too busy swallowing the fear and guilt that come with the confirmation of my suspicions.
“Do you know when Ian is planning to act?” I ask faintly.
“Not yet. The situation is still being assessed. But it’s going to be soon and if he’s in less than full control of himself--”
I think again of his behavior on the polo field when his explosive aggressiveness and disregard for his own safety placed him and others at risk. In a confrontation with the forces of the HPF, the consequences could be far worse.
My own concerns seem petty by comparison. I put them aside without a second thought.
“What can I do?” I ask.
“You’re not going to talk him out of what he’s planning,” she warns. “The best you can hope for is to make sure he’s focused. To do that--” She looks at me shrewdly. “How far are you willing to go?”
My throat is so tight that it hurts to speak. But that pain is meaningless compared to the dark fear in the pit of my stomach.
“As far as I have to. If he were harmed because of me--” I break off, unable to continue. Every other consideration, including the need to make my own choices and live my own life, pales into insignificance.
A flash of compassion darts across Gab’s face. Quietly, she says, “Then figure out what the problem is between you two and fix it. Whatever that takes.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Ian
“The building was vaporized,” Hollis says. “There’s nothing left but a hole in the ground. The authorities are running around like chickens with their heads cut off but our guys are getting the job done. They’re doing soil analyses to identify the explosives. Meanwhile we’ve got people fanning out, looking for anyone associated with the Institute who’s still alive.”
“Did they find anyone yet?” I ask.
We’re on the operations floor, always busy but now with the quickening tempo that indicates a mission is imminent. Data flows across the walls of screens, assembling and reassembling itself into patterns.
Operators are moving images, matching voice prints, putting together what amounts to a four-dimensional jigsaw puzzle, three in the physical space that the Institute occupied and the surrounding area, the fourth as a timeline, which is racing by frustratingly fast given how little we know yet.
For all that I can appreciate a good laser weapon or a drone-mounted canon, the fact remains that information is the ultimate power. Ordinarily, I’d be totally focused on putting it together but there’s no point lying to myself. Amelia’s nearness has blown my concentration to hell.
After the Rolls, I was determined to stay away from her for both our sakes but circumstances have made that impossible. I’ve never believed in fate but I do have a healthy respect for sheer dumb luck. I’ve seen too many battles--and lives--turn on it. These days, it’s definitely not working in my favor.
Reminding myself that nothing matters more than her safety, I take a breath and give Hollis my undivided attention.
“No,” he says, “and they probably won’t. The place went up right after 9:00 am local time, which means everyone who worked there would have been on site. The only chance is if someone was traveling or out sick.”
I nod. “Our people need to talk to the families before the authorities get to them.”
Down in the bowels of the political-media-bureaucratic complex, clever gnomes will be crafting a story to explain the explosion in terms that will reassure the public. Once that’s done, no one will be allowed to deviate from it.
“I’m betting they’ll go with gas,” Hollis says.
Clearly, he’s been thinking along the same lines that I have. Accidental gas explosions are a favorite cover for all sorts of non-accidental events. But not this time.
“They’ll have a problem with that,” I say. “The Presidio complex gets its power from its own fusion reactor. It was one of the first installed after they were authorized for commercial use. There was a lot of publicity about it.”
“Then they’ll pin it on one of the staff," Hollis says. "Make him or her out to be a suicidal nut job, tragic event, blah, blah, move on, nothing to see. End of story.”
My eyes are on the big board as I listen. The type of explosives present in the crater have been identified along with a handful of fragments found near the site of the detonation. Holographic images of them flash on the screens.
“Looks like there was some sort of failsafe device,” I say.
All the evidence points to it having been activated, which can only mean one thing. The HPF fuckers didn’t just intend to destroy the Institute. First, they tried to raid the data files, only to encounter an electronic tripwire intended to stop data loss at all costs, including human lives. An extreme measure for any place to use but not a complete surprise given the value of the replica technology and the controversy that surrounds it.
The question is whether they managed to get any of what they were looking for--especially anything that could allow them to identify a specific replica--and transmit that information to associates off site before they went up in smoke.
This complicates things. Badly. I hoped for a quick, straightforward mission, the kind that can be kept under the radar. Cut the head off the HPF snake and the body will die on its own. Brutal but effective. That’s not in the cards anymore. Instead, it’s going to be a whole lot messier.
Without taking my eyes from the board, I say, “We’ll need the HPF leadership alive.”
I’m confident that they still are. The privilege of having one’s body parts smeared across a bomb site is reserved for the poor saps a whole lot further down the terrorist food chain. If data was transmitted, the top guys will have it. More importantly, they can be persuaded to tell us who they’ve shared it with beyond the HPF.
I can be very persuasive when I need to be.
Information continues to sputter in, most of it not particularly useful but all slowly adding to our understanding of what happened.
“No one was off site,” Hollis says when that’s been confirmed. “All one hundred and twenty-seven employees were at work. Our operatives have made contact with about eighty percent of the families and should have the rest interviewed within a few hours.”
The faces of those employees are flashing on the screens above me. Men and women in about equal numbers, most on the young side. Smart people who be
at the odds and found meaningful, well-paid work and put good lives together for themselves.
Until whatever future they imagined they had was ripped away so fast that their brains probably had no chance to even register what was happening. One moment they existed, the next they were gone in a roar of heat and a flash of incandescent light. I’ve seen worse ways to go--far worse--but that still sucks.
Under other circumstances, I’d respect that those who have lost loved ones need time and space to grieve. But that won’t work here. While they’re still stunned by the news, before they’ve begun to process what’s happened, that’s when they’re most likely to give up something useful.
“Keep at the relatives,” I say. “Whatever they know, we need to know.”
The results stream in real time across the screens. Mostly, my people are getting the usual. So-and-so was a great guy/gal, no enemies, so much potential, how could such a terrible thing have happened, and so on.
Usually, I have no trouble concentrating on operations data no matter how repetitious or predictable some of it may be. But now that I know where we’re heading, my thoughts keep turning to Amelia--her strength and courage, the generosity of her spirit, her passion, her trust. I can’t get her out of my mind.
With hindsight, I should have run like hell the moment I learned that she existed. Instead, I let myself forget what I’m capable of. What I am.
I suck in my breath as a bolt of hollow pain stabs through me. Before it can fade, Hollis says, “Here we go.”
New information is flashing on the center screen, the one to which everything of actionable importance is routed. The image of a white-haired woman with a worn face that testifies to the battle life has become for so many people appears. She’s the mother of a technician killed in the explosion.
I can only guess at the sacrifices she made to get her son the education and the opportunity to climb as high as he did. With dignity that I have to admire, she reveals that he ran up a shit pile of gambling debt in recent months playing at local casinos. He was worried sick about it until a few days before, when he cheered up suddenly.
Anew: Book One: Awakened Page 27