29
Walt looked out of the taxi window as they made their way from the airport to Mexico City. He was impressed by how well-maintained the roads were. The blacktop was smooth, six lanes broken up by a line of mature trees. The airport itself had been a surprise—all concrete and glass, clean and modern. He felt a little abashed as he recognized his own prejudice. He’d expected dirt, humidity, ancient wooden ceiling fans moving droplets of sweat across unshaven faces. He was glad no one knew about the lazy bigotry he had displayed.
“Hey, I know,” said Sym, from the seat alongside him. Walt looked across and raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. On the flight, he had made the mistake of speaking to his invisible companion. The businessman in the aisle seat had turned away slightly, the first time he’d done it. Then, when Walt had continued talking to Sym, the man had gone to the bathroom and had never come back. When they got off the plane, Walt realized the man had moved to a seat in coach, rather than sit near him.
They went straight to Seb and Meera’s apartment. Walt had been about to get out of the car when Sym stopped him, holding up his hand.
“You have a hat?”
Walt shook his head. Sym nodded toward the driver, who had an oil-stained baseball cap jammed on his skull. Walt sighed and negotiated in broken Spanish. Thirty seconds later, he was fifteen dollars down and one dirty piece of headgear up.
“Keep your head down and go straight in,” said Sym. “Sixth floor. Elevator’s always breaking down—you’re better off taking the stairs.”
Walt got out of the cab and walked straight into the relative darkness of the lobby. No one was around. He shifted his bag into a more comfortable position on his shoulder, wincing as it pushed on his bruised ribs. He started climbing the stairs.
He was slightly out of breath by the time he got to Seb and Meera’s door. Manna had kept his body fit and healthy, but even a few days without had left its toll. He could almost feel the muscle tone slackening, and his injuries were a constant reminder that being ‘normal’ again was going to be far from easy.
He knocked and waited. Sym disappeared from beside him, appearing again after half a minute.
“No one home,” he said. “No sign of a struggle either. I could let you in, but it might be more polite to wait out here. After all, last time Mee saw you, you’d just helped kill a dozen friends of hers.”
Walt physically flinched at the memory.
“I didn’t help kill anyone,” he said. “I was there because I had no choice.”
Sym held up both hands.
“Hey, I’m not judging,” he said, “just warning you Mee might not be ready for a hug right away.”
Walt looked at his companion.
“You’re not much like Seb,” he said. “He’d never make light of something like that.”
“You’re right—I told you I wasn’t him,” said Sym. “Don’t let appearances fool you. I know a little of what Seb knows, I have a basic personality framework based on his, but I’ve only been alive since he stuck me in your head last year.”
“No offense, but I don’t much like the thought of you being there all that time,” said Walt.
“Oh, it wasn’t all fun and games for me, believe me. But if you don’t like my personality, you should blame yourself. You’re the only person I’ve had access to—I’m as much a product of your consciousness as of Seb’s. Anyhow, I’ll get right out of your way once we find him.”
Walt eased the bag carefully away from his bruised ribs and set it on the floor.
“I’ll wait here,” he said. He slid down the wall and sat as comfortably as he could, trying not to gasp at the pain in his ribs and stomach.
From a rooftop four hundred yards away from La Central de Abasto market, a woman watched Mee moving from stall to stall. The woman was lying flat, the long barrel of her rifle resting on a small beanbag she carried for the purpose. Without moving her eye away from the telescopic scope pushed up against her cheek, she spoke into a cellphone.
“Charlie to Leader. She’s the one who was singing. She doesn’t match the description. I don’t have a clear shot. Instructions?”
The voice in her ear was clear and calm. Westlake was well known for the way his heart rate rarely shifted above sixty beats per minute, even during a firefight.
“Description.”
“Around five foot six or seven, long straight black hair. Chinese, I think.”
“She may have changed her appearance. Track her. Relay her position. All ground ops close in on Charlie’s location and take positions outside the market. Alpha and Beta, move to your south-west positions and maintain tracking when Charlie loses her.”
Westlake put a ten-spot on the table, under his espresso cup and walked out of the shadows of the cafe. He stopped briefly at a store and pretended to try on sunglasses while checking the Manna-made face he was wearing had maintained its integrity. He scowled at Seb Varden’s reflection in the mirror, then tried a smile. The result made him scowl again.
“If Mason is right and you really are alive,” he said quietly, “I’m going to enjoy killing you all over again.”
He put the sunglasses in his pocket and walked away. The shopkeeper called out and hurried after him, but when Westlake stopped and looked back, he had a sudden change of heart and shuffled back to his store.
Westlake headed straight for the address Mason had supplied in the early hours of the morning. It was an apartment building. The software had been triggered multiple times in and around the building. Westlake knew where she lived. And now, she was out in the open. Alone, vulnerable, and tracked by the best team in the business. Westlake felt the familiar glow of satisfaction begin. The only possible way she could escape was if Seb Varden was in play. Westlake never wasted time dwelling on elements of a mission over which he had no control. He had his orders.
30
Mee headed home, her pace a little quicker than her normal relaxed stroll. It may have been Manna warning her, or intuition, but she decided caution was the best policy. Maybe she should move the trip to Innisfarne forward after all. Kate would be there soon, and Seb could Walk to and from a small island off the coast of Britain, just as easily as he could an apartment in the middle of Mexico City.
As she hurried away from the market, a light rain began to fall. Rainy season was just starting. Mee normally enjoyed the showers, the smell of the water as it fell, the sound of fat drops hitting the awnings over the stores before sliding down and splashing onto the sidewalk below.
Today, Mee hardly noticed the rain. She kept her pace up, dodging between children, dogs, adults, and the tamale carts being wheeled from pitch to pitch. She felt suddenly conspicuous, although—as Stephanie—she knew she didn’t particularly stand out from a crowd. Still, she kept her head down as she made her way back to the apartment, trying to make herself as small as possible.
The prickling sensation at the nape of her neck didn’t go away. If anything, it got more pronounced as she got closer to home. She tried to calm her mind as she walked, but her ability to focus all attention on her breathing wasn’t well-developed enough to override more primal instincts. She felt her breath begin to quicken, along with her pulse.
In front of their apartment building was a small square. As Mee approached the end of the narrow street leading to it, the prickling in her neck moved up into her skull, her Manna lit up and she knew beyond a doubt that she was being followed. They were close. Worse still, she could feel at least five distinct entities, all of whom were focused on her. Three of them were above her. Mee resisted a strong temptation to look up and scan the roofs of the buildings around her.
She reached the entrance to the square. Their apartment was in the building opposite. The morning rush had died away. Half a dozen people were visible, none of them interested in her. But someone nearby was watching her. Someone concealed in the entranceway of a building across the square on her right. She used what was left of her Manna to reach toward the stranger. She made c
ontact, and the sheer darkness that came back—the implacable resolve and murderous intent—was so strong, she stumbled and nearly fell.
Stopping for a moment, taking a few ragged breaths, Mee tried to rationalize what she had just felt. Her thoughts whirled in every direction and her chest began to feel like a belt was slowly being tightened across it.
“Not…a good time for a panic attack,” she grunted through gritted teeth.
With a feeling of horror, the last of her Manna reserves flickered away, along with her awareness of the strangers pursuing her.
Except now, she knew they weren’t strangers. Not all of them. The man hiding in the shadows was someone she knew. It was as if the burst of Manna she’d sent his way had returned with a photograph and a brief resumé. And the man in that photograph had killed members of the Order, brutally murdered her friend in front of her, kidnapped her, and cut off her pinky with a pair of garden secateurs. He wasn’t someone she was likely to forget.
“Westlake,” she whispered.
She focused her thoughts on Seb—the man she loved, the man who had become the most powerful being on the planet. The man who would never let anything happen to her, who would give his life for her, just as she would give hers for him. If the sub-routine he’d planted on her worked, he would Walk to her when her stress levels triggered a signal. But she couldn’t risk waiting, she knew those watching her were about to move.
She knew her only chance was to get back to him.
She steadied her breathing as much as she could and got ready to run.
Westlake watched Meera Patel stagger slightly as she reached the entrance to the square. She looked across in his direction, then stared straight at him. Not a fanciful man, he nevertheless felt a strange chill under her scrutiny. Despite the feeling, he didn’t move a muscle. He’d chosen his position carefully. There was no way anyone could see him in the deep shadow cast by the wall of the next building.
Looking up at the roofs of two of the buildings opposite, he could just about make out his snipers’ positions by the glints of sunlight occasionally flashing from their scopes. He knew the rest of the unit was approaching on foot, two of them on the same street as Patel, the others covering possible escape routes at the south-east and north-west corners of the square. Other than a taxi dropping someone outside Patel’s apartment block earlier, no other cars had stopped. Westlake dismissed all but the relevant details and brought all his attention to using the next few minutes effectively and efficiently.
He knew that if she hesitated now, they would have her. His unit was close behind her, each member of which was a highly trained, extremely fit ex-military killer who could outrun her with a fridge on his or her back. If she waited ten seconds, it would be all over.
She waited five. When she broke from cover, it was with surprising speed, arms pumping, brown legs winking in the sun as she sprinted for her apartment building. Westlake smiled. Twenty minutes earlier, he had given a kid ten bucks to knock on the doors of each apartment in the building and shout a simple, easily remembered sentence: “Meera is in trouble! Come quickly!” The boy had emerged ten minutes later, shrugging his lack of news to the crazy man who’d bribed him. Seb Varden definitely wasn’t home.
Walt had been sitting outside Seb and Meera’s apartment for less than an hour and had fallen into a light doze when he heard footsteps sprinting up the steps toward him. He tried to get up, but his legs were stiff and cramped and he fell back against the wall. As the footsteps reached him, he looked up. A young Chinese woman had come to a stop a few feet away. She looked terrified—sweating, her eyes wide. When she saw Walt’s face under his dirty cap, she choked off a scream and scrambled away from him.
“You!” she said, looking around her for a weapon.
Walt was completely confused. He’d never seen this woman before in his life, yet she looked like she wanted to kill him.
Downstairs, the front door burst open and heavy fast footsteps began the climb toward them. The woman looked like a cornered animal, her eyes flicking between Walt and the staircase. Walt didn’t move, hoping the fact he was sitting on the floor might help her realize he wasn’t a threat. She was looking at the door of the apartment.
“There’s no one there,” said Walt.
She hesitated for a moment, then quickly unlocked the door and screamed, “Seb!”.
There was no reply from the empty apartment.
The running footsteps got closer. A man—fit, barely breathing hard.
She left the key in the lock and sprinted for the next flight of stairs, heading for the roof. Before she got more than a floor away, her pursuer appeared. It was Seb Varden. He stopped, looked at Walt incredulously, then sneered and ran after the fleeing woman.
Walt braced himself against the wall and started to push himself upright.
“No,” said Sym. “That’s not Seb. But the woman? That was Mee.”
Walt felt his lack of Manna even more keenly as he struggled to his feet. He’d lost the ability to know when someone was disguising their features. This was how confused non-Manna users must feel all the time.
“But if it wasn’t Seb, then…” Walt’s voice tailed away as he realized the only logical conclusion.
“Shit! Westlake.” He threw himself away from the wall and sprinted after both of them. He couldn’t feel the pain in his ribs anymore and he was running faster than he thought should be possible in his condition.
“I’m helping,” said Sym, keeping pace beside him. “I’ve shut down some your pain receptors and taken control of your blood flow. I can’t do much, but I can give you a chance.”
Walt was too stressed to reply—physically and mentally. He took the stairs two at a time. He wasn’t closing on Westlake, but he wasn’t losing ground either.
“You’ll pay for it later, I’m afraid,” said Sym. He was no longer visible. Walt guessed that if Sym was putting his resources into helping him physically, there wasn’t anything left over to keep up the illusion of a separate body.
A metal door clanged above them as Meera got to the roof. Westlake followed, the door shut and there was the sound of snapping metal from the other side. Walt tried to follow, but the handle wouldn’t turn.
“Grab it,” said Sym.
Walt gripped the handle and watched as his skin stretched subtly, faint lines appearing on the back of his hand. In less than a second, a flesh-colored spider had taken shape. It scuttled along his fingers to the lock, extended two hair-thin limbs and began manipulating something inside.
It seemed to take forever. Walt heard tiny metallic sounds, there was a click and the door opened. The spider sank back into Walt’s skin.
“Careful,” said Sym.
“I will be,” said Walt as he stepped through the door.
31
Westlake snapped off the handle of the door behind him as he stepped out onto the roof. So, Walter Ford had finally grown a pair. He’d picked a bad time to switch sides, though. As soon as Patel was safely in Westlake’s hands, he’d kill the old fool himself.
He scanned the roof. An open space other than some pot plants and herbs in one corner. The only cover, other than the door behind him was a ventilation shaft to his left. His prey wasn’t hiding, though. She had her back to him. She had climbed over the safety railing and was six inches away from a fall no one could survive.
Westlake was breathing normally again and thinking hard. Patel hadn’t seen him yet. He ducked to his left and moved behind the housing of the roof door until he was hidden. He heard Ford’s footsteps approaching from below. The snapped handle would slow him down. He might not be a threat, but he was certainly a complication, and Westlake didn’t like complications.
He had snipers in place, waiting for his orders.
“Alpha, Beta, report,” he said, his voice quiet and level.
“Alpha in position.”
“Beta in position.”
“Do not take the shot unless she is at least ten yards away from the
edge,” said Westlake. The snipers were experienced enough to know that the powerful tranquilizer darts took around two seconds to work, on average. Tranquilizing a human was much harder than killing one. The designer of the ammunition had to make some guesses about body weight and metabolism. Too much of the chemical mix would kill, too little would leave the victim conscious for longer than was ideal. The operative in charge of providing the darts had been told to be cautious with the dosage. So, if he had underestimated by a fraction, Patel might easily stay conscious for long enough to take a nosedive from the top of the apartment building. Not a good outcome.
Westlake moved around to the other side of the housing. He could hear the lock being picked. He had to move. Patel hadn’t seen his face yet. That would give him his best chance of grabbing her. He would have to be fast and decisive. He might look exactly like Varden, but he couldn’t speak like him, move like him, behave like him. And the woman he was trying to convince knew Varden better than anyone else alive.
Westlake made his decision. He came out into the open.
“Help,” he said, making his voice as raspy and pained as he could.
Mee flinched at the sound of a voice on the rooftop. She wondered if it was even worth turning. She’d pretty much made her mind up. Mason’s people had found her. Seb had gone—another visit to the aliens. Worst timing ever. If she let herself be taken, Mason would have power over Seb for the rest of her life. She couldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t let it happen. Which left only one choice. Seb would be alone. But he would be free. She closed her eyes. She was still holding on to the railing at the edge of the roof. She prepared to let go.
She heard the voice again. This time, she made out the word.
“Help.”
It was the last word Mee expected to hear. Still holding the rail, she turned. Coming toward her, dragging one leg, obviously in pain, was Seb. She tried to speak, but found she couldn’t form a single word. Her legs felt shaky. She glanced at the drop a few inches away and felt suddenly faint. She leaned toward the rail and managed to climb back onto the roof. She took a step away from the railing and watched Seb get closer.
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 56