I flailed the pointed heel of my shoe in the direction of Dorshak's face. I battered at him blindly, until something soft gave way under my constant barrage. Dorshak howled in pain. I pulled my foot away, but the shoe stayed behind. Not sparing the time to imagine what had happened, I switched my concentration to navigating a way out from under the table. I scooted along on my knees, sliding on the linoleum clumsily. The rungs of the plastic chairs hampered my way. I shoved at them, sending toppled chairs skittering about. Their crashes added to the confused shouts of the FBI agent. Finally, my fingers closed around the far end of the table. I pulled myself up from my hands and knees.
The glow of the exit sign drew me like a beacon. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the form of the FBI agent. We each took a step toward the door. I stopped. The agent advanced closer to the door. Behind me I could hear Dorshak moaning, his pain sharpened into anger. His curses became more specific about what he would do to me if he got his hands on me again. I doubted it would take more than a few seconds for Dorshak to translate words to action.
The agent twitched, as though weighing out a course of action. I grabbed ahold of one of the chairs. Before I could bring the chair around, the agent drew his gun. Red glowed in the pupil of his right eye as the targeting computer came on-line. Despite the danger, I had to laugh. Only a Feeb would need a computer's sights at this close a range.
As if to remind me of the real threat he posed, the agent's finger tightened noticeably on the trigger. "You know what they say, right?" His voice trembled with excitement. "The only good traitor is a dead traitor."
That wasn't what I expected from my green-eyed "good cop," and I told him so. "Aren't you supposed to ask me to surrender before you shoot?"
"Who's to say I didn't?" His lips stretched into a thin smile. "Dorshak?"
Dorshak just moaned, not making a good case either for or against me.
"What about our viewing audience at home?" I used the chair to gesture in the direction of his camera eye. "Don't they have something to say about this little first-degree murder?"
"Hmmmmm." He pretended to consider my words carefully, then said, "Golly, but they seem to have been blanked out like the rest of the precinct. I guess they'll have no choice but to believe my report."
"Jesus. You're sick." I grimaced.
The agent snarled, and I had a sinking feeling that quip was going to be the last one I'd ever make. Not clever enough to die for, I thought as I pivoted in a vain attempt to swing the chair around to block the blast. I knew it was useless – plastic wasn't much protection against a gun.
My peripheral vision registered the motion of the door opening. I watched the agent's eyes leave me for a second. Wasting no time, I charged him. I heard the click of the trigger being pulled, but somehow his gun misfired. I propelled the chair at him with all my force. Chair and agent clattered against the wall.
Pushing past them, I ran right into someone's arms. I thrashed against the human fortress that held me, ready to kick or bite my way out.
"It's me, Deidre." A smooth baritone tickled my ear. "Michael."
"How did you find me? Wait. Tell me later. We've got to get out of here ... Dorshak, the agent, maybe others ..." My words came out in a breathless, incoherent jumble. "Go, go, go!"
It was too late. Behind us, the one-way mirror shattered. I turned in time to see muted red light glinting on the explosion of glass. A dark form leapt through, carrying the glass around her like a deadly aura. She landed on the table with a thud. The glass slivers made a plink-plunk as they fell away from her, seemingly ruled by a gravity that she defied. She barely slowed her stride. It was another FBI agent. I could tell by the red light coming from her left eye: the targeting computer.
Michael pushed me behind him. On impulse, I accessed the LINK. The world fell away around me in a starburst of light. At the speed of thought, I lassoed the FBI frequency and hacked my way in. A wall of ones and zeros scrolled passed my vision, stretching as far as I could see in every direction. The wall seemed to ripple as the numbers flashed through. I searched through the binary for the key. Reaching into the tangle, I grabbed hold of a back door and squeezed myself through.
Suddenly, my perspective switched. I rode piggyback behind the charging agent's infrared filtered vision. Michael stood by the door, or, at least, what I assumed was he. The readout was confusing. A bright light glowed at the center of Michael's chest. It was like a hot coal, almost white against the ghostly pale blue of the rest of his body. The light was the size of a pinprick, but the heat it radiated spread out in two massive triangular shapes. Their apexes met at the core, and spread out like a bow tie.
"What the ...?" I heard the agent say from my vantage point on the LINK. She was almost on top of Michael. I began to panic. My mind sent out a single thought: Stop!
Enhanced muscles spasmed as the LINK connection between mind and body was severed. I was propelled back into my own consciousness with an almost physical snap.
"Grk," was the most intelligible sound that came from the mouth of the advancing agent. I shook my head to clear it and saw the agent stumble mid-stride. She plummeted facedown onto the floor. Dorshak and the FBI agent who had interrogated me were also silent.
I was stunned. That wasn't how the LINK was supposed to operate. Normally, it took several seconds, an eternity LINK-time, to connect two or three individuals to one agreed-upon frequency. Even cops and FBI agents usually operated on separate bands, while maintaining only a loose connection to the official channel. Not to mention the fact that my command was more of a desperate request than any real code. If something so simple as "stop" could do this kind of damage, I certainly wouldn't have been the first fugitive to use it.
"Did I kill them?" I whispered. I didn't trust my voice in the eerie silence.
Michael shrugged. He seemed uninterested, as if he were used to federal agents dropping like flies every time he entered a room. "Doubtful."
I looked to the fallen agent. Her eyes had rolled up into her head, and a string of drool escaped from her trembling lips. Her hands made useless grasping motions at the air. Breath came in ragged spurts, but at least she seemed to be taking air in on her own. Before I could get too close to the still-quivering agent, Michael laid a hand on my shoulder. "What have I done?" I murmured, horrified. "We can't just leave them here like this. They could die."
"They could live." Michael's voice was quiet.
"I can't take that kind of risk with people's lives."
"I understand. Call for an ambulance." He sighed. "But while we run, eh? Every second is costly."
I nodded. I patched into the emergency police frequency and sent out a code thirty-eight. I logged off before the dispatcher could capture my ID. When I returned my attention to the present, Michael was crouched over Dorshak. During the same blast that downed the agents, Dorshak slumped against the floor. Most of his body was still hidden by Michael or the table, but I could see his face.
No one would have ever mistaken Dorshak for a handsome man, but now his features took on a frightening cast. His face was covered in blood and gore. An eyelid drooped unnaturally over a damaged cornea. My heel had punctured his eyeball. Bile rose in my throat. I had seen violence in the line of duty before, but never anything this gruesome. "Oh, Ted."
Michael grasped Dorshak's trembling arm. Michael held Dorshak's wrist stiffly away from his side to expose the holster.
"What are you doing? Leave it," I heard myself say. "It's an old .45. He doesn't even have laser sights on it."
With his other hand, Michael quickly removed the gun. Then, unceremoniously, he released his grip, and Dorshak's arm fell to the floor like a deadweight. "We need a weapon, and the antique is the least likely to have a homing device. Your compassion is notable, Deidre, but there's no reason to be foolish."
Tucking the .45 into his belt, he said, "We've wasted enough time. Let's go."
I wanted to protest, engage in a philosophical discussion about compassion,
but he was right. I grumbled a barely civil, "Fine."
I hadn't moved since downing the agents, so I took the remaining steps that separated me from the door. It opened to chaos. In the hallway, a leather-clad punk sprinted past, nearly knocking me backward. Uniforms followed close on his heels. "No good," I whispered, and shut the door. "Can't go that way."
I turned around and leaned my back gingerly against the door. I took a deep breath and tried to think. An agent quivered at my feet and Dorshak's dead eye seemed to stare at me. Tearing my gaze away, I looked up at the gaping hole in the mirror. The jagged edges formed an angry cavern of darkness.
Michael stared at me anxiously. I watched him track my gaze. "Through there? You know a way out through there?"
"Maybe," I murmured. Dorshak lay just under the window.
"Well, come on then," Michael insisted. Stepping over a chair, he made his way to the mirror. Glass crunched under his boots. Pulling the cuff of his leather jacket tight, Michael swept the remaining glass from the mirror's base. Glittering shards rained down on Dorshak, but he never flinched.
I did.
"I'm barefoot," I said, unable to drag my eyes away from Dorshak. My voice sounded distant and hollow in my ears. "I can't ..."
Michael laughed unkindly. "A second ago you were fighting tooth and nail, now you're worried about your feet?"
I swallowed my disgust. I didn't want to say what was on my mind – how horrified I was at the terrible ease with which I destroyed the minds of the FBI agents, or how I couldn't stomach the idea of stepping over the cadaverous, blinded Dorshak. Instead, I just stared at Michael and said, "You're the one in a hurry. Cut feet will slow me down."
Reaching under the table, Michael found my bloody shoe. "Here."
I pursed my lips.
"Deidre," Michael insisted in a low voice, almost a growl. His face was hidden in the shadows, but the gray of his eyes caught the light. The hard lines of Michael's face, which I'd been so attracted to, looked menacing now. I wondered if I'd made the right choice, after all.
"I made a deal with the devil to bring these lights down," Michael continued. "Don't make my sacrifice meaningless. Let's get out of here while we still can."
I grabbed the shoe. Wedging it on, I felt a sticky wetness curl around my toes. I was grateful for the darkness as I hauled myself into the maw of the anteroom. I slid onto a table headfirst and banged my already bruised chin.
"You know," I said loudly. Finding the edge of the table with my fingers, I pulled my legs around and felt for the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about sacrifice for. Mouse gets credit for this brownout, so don't go attaching your sig file to it just yet."
I had just stumbled onto the floor, when I heard Michael vault easily onto the tabletop. He landed with a soft sound that belied his obvious mass. A quip about how much I despised his cyberware advantage died on my lips as I suddenly remembered the strange infrared I'd gotten from the FBI agent's vantage point. That image was nothing like the normal readout on a cyborg. Even the best shadow-ops hardware could only reduce body temperature a few degrees. Michael's body appeared as cold as the rest of the room, all except that strange bright center.
"You nuclear-powered, big guy?" I asked quietly.
I heard the sound of leather against leather as Michael moved around the small room.
"I found the door," he announced in lieu of a response.
There was a loud popping sound as Michael forced the lock. The hallway was illuminated by a thin string of battery-operated lights.
"If we get out of here, you'll tell me exactly what you are, Michael."
"If we stand here arguing about it, that isn't going to happen, now is it?"
Twisting my mouth into a grimace I hoped he could see, I pushed past him. "Follow me."
We were lucky that the door Michael found opened into a back hallway. Despite the evidence of Dorshak's raise, it seemed the police department never got that remodeling money they'd been begging tor since my days on the force. It took me three seconds to remember the layout. I'd be more surprised at my ability for recall, if it wasn't for the fact I spent most of my dream time still walking these halls.
"This way," I told Michael. I slipped off my shoes and took off at a run. My pounding strides made a sharp slapping sound on the concrete floor. Over my shoulder, I shouted, "Let's take this deeper into the station. It should be deserted, what with most people trying to get out. Plus, it will give me a second to hunt up some files. From there, I want to find ..."
The backup generator interrupted me. The machine groaned deep within the station walls. The lights flickered, then sprang back to life. In the brilliant electric flash, someone appeared in my path. I instantly recognized his coppery, shoulder-length hair and handsome, arrogant features. He still wore the Armani suit from this morning's escapade at the restaurant. A tiny dab of mustard on his lapel was the only sign of his scuffle with Michael. Otherwise, he looked impeccable.
"Morningstar." I slid to a stop. "Where the hell did you come from?"
"Exactly," he murmured with a laugh. It was a dry, feathery sound, decidedly unpleasant. Turning to Michael, he said, "You squandered the opportunity I gave you, Michael. I hope you don't think that nullifies our deal."
"He's the one you made a deal with?" I jabbed my thumb in the direction of Morningstar's chest. Michael didn't acknowledge me, but I could tell by the fierce way he stared at Morningstar that it was true. "Oh, Michael."
Now I understood. It was no wonder Michael had been acting emotionally closed off. He'd gone back to the "family." I only prayed, for Michael's sake, his deal didn't involve another job with the Mafia.
Though his expression was impassive, Michael's eyes searched Morningstar's face, "As long as Jibril is free."
"He proved much more decisive than you, dearest brother, albeit not as much of a team player." Morningstar smirked. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he added, "Jibril has flown the coop. He's long gone."
Michael's jaw flexed. "Don't call me that."
"What? 'Brother'? We're made from the same stuff, Michael. You can hardly deny that."
I felt absent from this conversation, almost invisible, yet totally absorbed, just as I had at the restaurant. Michael and Morningstar dominated whatever space they occupied. It was as though the sheer power of their personalities muffled the very fabric of the universe.
I made my living noticing things other people didn't, but I never even heard the cops approaching until they were right in front of me. Even then, they had to shout in order to get my attention.
"You there!"
I jumped at the sound. Two plainclothes stood at the end of the hall. Their standard-issue guns already drawn, they stood like partners who'd been together for a long time. The older one stayed slightly behind and a little to the left, watching their backs, yet ready to cover the front.
Though they weren't in uniform, they might as well have been. They wore similar suits in that same rumpled cop way so many longtime detectives had. I didn't know their names, but I knew these guys. Even their crew cuts were identical.
Raising my hands, I put on a charming smile. "Hey, boys ..." A sudden wind rushed past me. The gale ruffled my blouse and tugged at my hair. Behind me, the emergency lights blew out one by one. Glass showered down, flying toward the detectives. They raised their hands trying to ward off the shattered bulbs.
The instant their guns pointed away from me, I was ready to run. I turned around just in time to see Michael and Morningstar draw their weapons. Michael grabbed for the battered .45 with his right hand, as Morningstar reached for his weapon with his left. Their arms unfurled in perfect unison. They looked like deadly mirror images.
"No!" I screamed.
Explosions ripped through the tiny corridor. Searing heat pierced my shoulder, followed by a scorching pain that seemed to illuminate every nerve ending. Spun around by the momentum of the bullet, I bounced clumsily against the wall. Darkness tickled the edge of my visi
on. I groped at the wall and fought to remain standing. I clutched my shoulder, trying to staunch the blood flow.
Michael's arms were on my waist, supporting me.
"You've been shot," he whispered.
I pressed my lips together. The silence of the hallway rang in my ears. I turned my head, keeping my cheek to the cool plaster surface of the wall. The two detectives lay on the floor; neither of them moved or made any sound. The dark blue of their suits looked black against the gray tiles. My face contorted to a grimace as I noticed their bodies were sprawled at awkward angles. There was no blood.
"No blood?" I repeated out loud, my voice a harsh whisper. "No blood?"
"Untimely heart attack," Morningstar said, as though pleased.
"You bastard," I murmured, for somehow I sensed Morningstar was to blame for their "heart attacks."
Michael lifted me off my feet and took me into his arms. I groaned as he pried me away from the wall. The steady coolness of the plaster had been my anchor. Without it, I felt dizzy and, seeing the trail of gore I left behind, my stomach lurched again.
Wrapping his arms around me, Michael put a hand over mine where I pressed my shoulder. The coolness of his flesh was comforting and he added needed pressure to the wound. I laid my head against his chest and, despite myself, snuggled deeper into his embrace. Remembering the infrared, I hoped all the heat from the center of his body was enough to keep me from going into shock.
"Deidre?" Michael said softly, rousing me. "Can you tell us how to get out of here?"
I forced my lips into a sneer. I didn't want to help them. Michael was no better than his Mafioso brother to let those detectives die. "Could have talked our way out."
"It's already done." He glanced over his shoulder at the smirking Morningstar. "The point is moot. If I have anything to say about it, they'll live. You might not. Tell us how to get out of here."
I shook my head.
"Oh, for fuck's sake. Leave her," Morningstar said. "We don't need her to get out of here. You don't need her."
"Deidre," Michael's voice cut through the fog in which my mind floated. His eyes drew me in, holding me firm. His gaze glowed with a deep, fearsome fire that seemed to reach out and physically warm me. Enveloped in heat, I floated, tied to reality only by those unearthly gray eyes. The cops survived. Somehow I knew what Michael said was true.
Archangel Protocol Page 11