There’s another scream. But it sounds closer than the sixth floor, and I begin to doubt myself. Had one of them heard something while descending the staircase? Had there been someone in hiding on a lower floor? One of the Interlopers?
At the second floor landing, I stop, checking the hall. It’s dark and quiet. All I can hear is the pounding of blood in my inner ear. The hotel has six floors. There’s a fire escape on the opposite side of the building, but this stairwell is the only main way up and down.
“Hang back and check each hall,” I say. “If someone’s up there, we’ll corner them.”
Peter retreats down the hallway. I look at Genevieve and she gives a reluctant nod.
Reaching the third-floor landing, we pause and listen. It’s quiet. The hallway is empty.
We continue.
Fourth floor.
Above us I hear furniture crashing. A man grunts, cursing. Another cry—it sounds like Leung.
I pass the midway landing between the fifth and sixth floors and leap over a broken stair.
There’s a crack of wood behind me and a grunt. Vic has fallen through the stairs. He is barely holding on, everything below his chest having disappeared into the gap. Vic grabs a railing. Genevieve stops behind him and bends down to help. There’s another piercing scream. She looks up at me, gritting her teeth and hisses at me: “Well, keep going.”
I take the last few flights of stairs and stop at the top floor. The hallway is dark and silent.
I go to the nearest door and throw it open, but have no time to react before the dark shape of a man bursts out of the doorway.
I jump away from the man. He is gaunt and slightly hunched, wearing a cheap suit with as many holes in it as there are patches. He faces me, moving in weird, jerking motions. I drop to a crouch and the man’s knees slam into my shoulder. He flips over me, tumbling hard onto the floor. I scramble forward to pin him down, but he is already on his feet.
Still crouched, I pull the Beretta from my ankle holster, thumb the safety, and train it on the intruder when I stop, feeling a jolt of recognition. I’ve seen him before. He was in the crowd watching the fire. He had been with a young girl, and I remember him creeping me out then.
His face, gaunt and pale, twists into a grin. “It’s good to see you, Agent Gardner.”
My body goes cold.
“How do you know my name?”
“We’ve met.” He says, still smiling. Then he cocks his head to the side. “Or, we will meet. So hard to know for sure.”
My hand trembles. “How?” I ask. “How did we meet?”
“Are you sure you want to ask me that? One shouldn’t know too much about their history. Or isn’t that one of your ISD’s little rules?”
An Interloper, and not the usual kind. He knows my name. He knows about the ISD. He knows our laws. We must have had a breach in security. But when? And how? And he seems to think he’s met me, which was impossible. Unless it hasn’t happened yet. The only way to know for sure is to detain him, whoever he is. I hear a crack of wood and a shouted curse from below. Vic must still be stuck.
The Interloper sees the broken staircase and grimaces in anger.
I lunge forward, throwing him against the wall, and twist his arm into a submission hold. He wriggles under my grasp and there is a sick pop as his shoulder dislocates. He yanks hard, pulling me with his dislocated arm, spins, and throws me to the floor.
I grab the Interloper’s wrist with my free hand. His face turns to surprise as we both tumble down the stairwell to the mid-floor landing.
I rise to my feet, looking for Vic. The board underneath his arms cracks and he falls onto the stairs below. Genevieve stands and stares at me. The hole between us is too far to jump.
The Interloper sneers. “No one to help you now.”
I scramble up and throw him against the wall.
“I don’t need their help,” I say.
He grins, an odd drooping smile, revealing cracked and rotting teeth. “You will soon.”
The Interloper rolls his head toward the window on the landing. The storm has moved in and the rain pelts the window hard in staccato, machine-gun hits.
His grin widens. “The others are already here.”
I push him harder, leaning toward the window. Two cars have parked on the curb in front of the hotel. Three men are converging on the hotel. The closest man is tall and thin with wild hair and a patchwork suit that makes him look a little like a scarecrow. The second man is fat with a round domed head devoid of hair and fat, piggish cheeks. The third is stocky, all muscle under a ragged suit.
They all look homeless, I think, feeling a little surprised. All of them are dressed similarly, in ragged clothes covered in dirt.
The Interloper twists, contorting his dislocated arm into an unnatural angle and slipping out of my grasp. He steps away, grabs his dislocated shoulder with his other hand, and pops it back into place.
My stomach does a somersault, but the man only grunts.
The Interloper clambers back up the steps to the sixth floor, then abruptly stops. I slowly struggle to my feet. Leung is in the hallway. Half of her head is covered in blood still pouring from a wound. It covers her face in a slick mask and drips of red decorate her clothing like a disturbing impressionist painting. She’s holding a gun, aimed a little unsteadily at the Interloper. We’ve got him.
The Interloper fixes his gaze on the window behind me. He runs toward me. I curl into a ball. But out of the corner of my eye I see him launch over me. There’s a crash of glass as the window shatters. I wait hearing only the wind whistling through the broken glass, and then there is a sickening thud from the pavement below.
I uncurl and rush to the window, brushing away the broken glass with my sleeve. The Interloper is limping away, dragging one leg behind him. It must be shattered, but he keeps going.
Leung takes in a sharp breath. “Who could do that?”
“The Order,” I say, softly. I return my Beretta to its holster. Ishimwe appears in the doorway of Peter’s apartment, holding a hand to her forehead.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
They both nod.
“What happened?” Peter calls.
Through the hole in the stairs I see Peter and Genevieve on the floor below, helping Vic to his feet.
“There’s more of them coming,” I shout down to them.
Genevieve looks up at me. “Take the fire escape down to the cellar. You know what to do.”
She’s right. A conspiracy of Interlopers hounding us with Recursion Events is one thing, but when they’re closing in on our Station, then it’s time for extreme measures. “Not until everyone is out,” I say.
Vic taps his watch. “All we need is ninety seconds. We’ll go out the window if we have to.”
I dart past Leung and Ishimwe. “Follow me.”
We run down the hallway. Pulling open the window, I am greeted by a cold rain pelting at my skin. I climb out and help Leung and then Ishimwe onto the fire escape. We clatter down the metal steps. I can hear Leung and Ishimwe behind me, her footsteps matching my own.
We pass the third floor window. I catch a glimpse of Vic at the end of the hallway firing out the opposite window onto the street below.
“We have to hurry.” It’s Ishimwe. I glance back at her and she nods, solemnly.
I turn, continuing down the fire escape. My heart is hammering in my chest. I’m gasping for breath. I slip from the rain, but regain my footing.
My limbs are dying for oxygen. For energy.
I drop down onto slick cobblestones and burst back into the hotel. I angle for the cellar door, then stop. Another Interloper is standing at the far end of the hall. It’s the tall one with long hair and a beard wearing a shabby coat with frayed cuffs. The one that looks like a scarecrow.
The Scarecrow sprints toward me. If he stops me before I can blow the building, then the Interlopers will own the tunnel. Ishimwe pulls out her gun. “I’ve got him,” she says with a slight gri
n. She fires and the sound booms in the narrow hallway.
The Scarecrow ducks into the first-floor apartment as I clatter down the basement stairs. The detonator is still on the shelf where I left it. I snatch it, taking one last glimpse back at the tunnel.
Go, part of me says. Leap through and you’ll be done with this.
But I can’t do that to my team. I thumb the transmitter, take a breath, and push my way back up the stairs.
I burst out the back door and into pouring rain. Leung follows just steps behind me, our shoes slapping against wet cobblestones. We run down the back alley until we are behind Peter’s Ford.
I check my watch. It’s been ninety seconds. “Where’s Ishimwe?”
Leung shakes her head.
I step back around Peter’s Ford Prefect. I can see Ishimwe, firing on the Interloper as she forces him down the hallway and through the opposite doorway. He turns and runs and Ishimwe takes chase, following him out of the building.
Is my whole team clear?
I don’t know about Vic and Genevieve, but Vic was on the third floor, most likely providing cover.
From an upper floor, a window shatters and bullets rain down on us. I dive behind the car. The stocky one glances out, and fires again.
I can’t wait any longer.
I thumb the safety on the detonator and press the button. I hold my breath as I wait. My heartbeats slow to a rhythmic pulsing, like ocean waves. Then there is a thunderous noise from within the hotel and fire is pouring from its windows.
* * *
I drive. Leung is leaning back in the passenger seat. It is now well past mid-morning but the rain clouds have cast a pallor over the city. The rain has washed away most of the blood from Leung’s face but she is still bleeding. I give her my jacket to stop the flow. We circled the building but couldn’t find them. Genevieve’s Renault was already gone, so at least some of them must have made it. We didn’t dare return to search the hotel; we could just as easily have run into the Interlopers. So we took Peter’s car, using a long, circuitous path back to Genevieve’s apartment in case we were being followed.
My mind churns as we drive, sifting through the implications of what has happened. They came back to capture the hotel. That much was clear. But did they realize we were going to blow the building? Were they trying to stop us from doing exactly that? How much did they know?
“Tell me what you remember,” I say to Leung.
“I was checking the last rooms on the sixth floor when Ishimwe came to find me. She was entering the apartment when she must have seen that man behind me. He threw me against the wall. I woke up on the floor and heard noises. That’s when I came out.”
Leung’s face is pale. A quick check in the mirror confirms that mine is as well. I’m scared. Both by the events that have been happening and my inability to put the pieces together.
“Who were they?” Leung asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer. I feel a rush of shame for not trusting Genevieve. But then I push it away. She didn’t know for sure that this was an organized effort. She could have. But still, it seems like she was right.
“What do you think they want?”
I shake my head, “I don’t know. We’re dealing with something different here.”
When we arrive at Genevieve’s apartment we are both stunned and exhausted. I rush inside, letting the rain drip off of me and onto the wooden floors.
“Genevieve!” I call out.
Nothing.
“Vic!” I shout, a little louder. “Peter! Ishimwe!”
The apartment sounds hollow and empty.
“They’re not here?” Leung asks.
“No, but they would have had to walk. It could be hours before we see them.”
There’s a noise from one of the back rooms and Leung and I both start. I switch on a lamp, illuminating some of the hallway. A door opens and I see Leung’s hand go to her gun. I put out a hand to caution her.
Genevieve appears in the hallway. She glances between me and Leung.
“It’s just you?” she asks, and my heart sinks.
* * *
I stitch up Leung’s forehead using a first aid kit in Genevieve’s bathroom. As I work, Genevieve relates her side of the fight at the Station. Vic stayed on the third floor to provide cover while she and Peter went back down to the street. They fought two Interlopers on the first floor and escaped through a window in the first-floor apartment. Peter provided cover from inside the window. Genevieve was running for her car when the hotel blew. She saw Ishimwe make it out, but not Peter or Vic. When she is finished, I relate everything that happened on the sixth floor. Everything, that is, except for how the Interloper seemed to know me. I don’t know why I leave it out, but it seems somehow personal. When I finish, we return to the living room and Genevieve pours a generous glass of wine for each of us.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I say. “I don’t understand what they wanted. If they were just trying to take the station, then why was one of them already in the building?”
We drink in silence. I am sitting on the edge of the chaise lounge. Leung is on the couch while Genevieve stands by the fireplace. The wine burns my throat and chest, and I can feel it melting the tension from my shoulders.
Finally, Leung sets down her glass.
“They have the magnets,”
I cough, spitting my wine all over myself. “You’re telling me this now?”
Leung nods, her eyes fierce. “I went back into the headquarters to help Ishimwe, but he was there. He had knocked her out. I’m guessing he made her open the safe. When I came in, he was—” she makes rummaging motions with her hands. “Looking for what he wanted.”
I set my glass on the floor and let out a long sigh. “Me, Vic, Leung—he can track all of us.”
“What happened next?” Genevieve asks.
“He attacked me,” Leung says. “He threw me against one of the cabinets.”
I nod, picking up the story. “And then I encountered the Interloper in the sixth-floor hallway.”
“You fought him?” Genevieve asks. I nod, dumbly.
Genevieve turns suddenly from the fireplace. She darts to the side table, snatching up the lamp. “Have either of you checked yourself for any DNA samples?” she asks. “Hair? Anything?”
I stand, gaping stupidly at her for a moment as she pulls the shade off the lamp.
Leung stands as well. “He hit me from behind.”
“We don’t have a magnet for him,” I say.
Genevieve runs the light over my arms and chest. “Actually, we might,” Genevieve says. “Agent Leung, you will find a large case in the study. Please get it.”
Leung rushes out of the room. I hold my arms out in frustrated compliance as Genevieve searches the back of my shirt with her light. “I’ve been requesting samples of magnets we’ve taken from known Interlopers.” She studies my reaction. “As a safety precaution.”
This isn’t procedure and she knows it. Magnets are only supposed to be at Stations.
By the time Leung has returned with the case, Genevieve has found what she was hoping for. A short, dark hair was curled under a button on the sleeve of my jacket. I take the hair and hold it up for a better inspection. It is gray at the root and then shot through with black.
“A hair?” Leung asks. “What good is that for?”
I hold it out to Genevieve. “If we’re lucky, you’re about to see.”
Genevieve unlatches the case, revealing dozens of small, metal boxes, each with a tiny label printed on its side. She takes out the vials, spreading them in a row on the tablecloth. “What you don’t know, Agent Gardner, is that every time the ISD has come into contact with an Interloper that we suspect to be a member of the Order of the Perpetual Dawn, we do our best to retain a sample.”
I feel a tinge of anger. What else has the ISD been keeping from me?
Genevieve continues: “I didn’t think of this before because we didn’t know for sure if it were an organ
ized group, or just some accidental Interloper, like both of you were. It would take hours to check every sample, but with this—” Genevieve hands me the strand of hair. “Agent Gardner, will you do the honors?”
I lean forward, holding the strand of hair close to the line of vials, and slowly begin moving it up and down the row. I feel the hair twitch as if pulled by an invisible force in my hand.
“Is it moving?” Leung asks.
“He wants his brother,” Genevieve says quietly.
I watch the hair carefully. “With a strong enough magnet—something like this hair—and the proper instruments, we can track an Interloper from hundreds of miles away.”
The hair springs from my fingers and sticks as if glued to one of the vials.
I stand, a feeling of excitement welling inside of me. “I need my pack.”
* * *
A few moments later, I am dumping the contents of my pack onto the floor. Out tumbles a small handheld device. I snatch it up. It looks a bit like a scanner gun you might find in any modern warehouse or grocery store, except it doesn’t have a laser on it. Instead, there is a small compass on its face with a single light underneath and a number display like an odometer on a car. Its real power is hidden underneath the unassuming plastic casing.
I press the only button on the top of the grip, holding it down long enough for the hidden fingerprint scanner to confirm my identity.
“What is that?” Leung asks.
“A tracking device,” I say.
Leung furrows her brow in confusion.
“All we have to do is load the material into the tracker and, as long as our target is in the same period, we can track them.”
I pop open the bottom of the device and pull out a canister. I press a button, ejecting a small, flat tray. It looks a little like two microscope slides attached together. Taking the hair from the vial, I carefully set it between the slides and load them back inside the tracker.
“Watch this,” I say.
At first, nothing changes. The light stays off, and the needle on the compass remains still. Then the light begins to glow a pale yellow. The compass swings to point southeast and the numbers below begin to slowly turn over. When they stop, the display reads:
Recursion (Book One of the Recursion Event Saga) Page 4