Dark mission 04 - Sacrifice the Wicked

by Karina Cooper

  He ignored that. “Do you have another safe house? A friend? Anything?”

  She only kept shaking her head. Denial, anger. Wordless fear. He could read her like a book. What she was feeling.

  What she was planning.

  Hell, no. Reaching beside him, Simon covered her clenched fingers and the comm with one hand. “Think, Parker. If they’re pulling the leads in under your authorization, they’ve got a plan. And they’re going to keep a sharp eye out for you. We have to do this the hard way.”

  She frowned at his hand. “Why?”

  “Easy seems to be—”

  “No,” she said, her quiet voice husky. “Why are you so intent on helping me? The truth, Simon.” When she turned her head to level those stricken blue eyes on him, Simon felt something give. Something treacherous.

  Something more than just a desire to dominate her senses and leave her begging for him. For the first time since meeting the unflappable Mission director, it was Simon’s heart that lurched. A dangerous move.

  A stupid one. And unfair.

  He let go of her hand. “I have my reasons” was all the answer he could give, knowing it wasn’t any kind of answer at all.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There were perks that came with working for her father. Among the obvious—a salary that made sure she’d never want for anything ever again—were the ones that didn’t brighten Kayleigh’s day so much as make it easier to handle.

  The computer system wired into Lab Seventeen fell into the latter category.

  The thing was a beast, as far as corporate systems went. All she needed to know was what to look for. The computer handled the rest.

  Unfortunately, the data it spewed out at her now wasn’t helping.

  Kayleigh braced her elbows on the workstation, fingers laced under her chin as she skimmed the data unfolding down the screen on the left. The monitor on the right highlighted all the search terms she’d used and compared them through the data streaming in.

  It was all very complicated.

  Kayleigh had learned to selectively focus.

  “Simon Wells,” she muttered. One of a handful of surviving members of his generation. Although, if the statistics held up, not for long.

  The thought weighed on her.

  Hell, they all did. All the doomed souls churned out by GeneCorp, year after year.

  All in the name of progress.

  She straightened, leaning back in her chair until it tilted precariously on its ball-joint swivel. She let her head fall back, eyes closed, and took a deep, cleansing breath.

  Men like Simon were the reason she needed to figure her mother’s legacy out.

  “Search complete,” said a pleasant computerized voice. “All data regarding subject Simon Wells, collected.”

  “Finally.”

  “Warning,” it added.

  Kayleigh frowned. “Warning? What warning?”

  “Data corruption in sectors two hundred through two hundred and eighty-nine.”

  She straightened, feet hitting the floor, and grabbed the edge of the desk as the chair wobbled. “What? In English, computer.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  She cut off the mechanized error message, tapping in the command that would translate the sectors to something she’d understand.

  “Searching.”

  Stomach churning, discomfort and anxiety fueling the insomnia she’d been dealing with for almost two weeks, Kayleigh watched the search pattern flicker across the right monitor.

  Red bars slid into focus.

  “Sectors two hundred to—” She stared. Scrolled up a few pages, double-checked the computer’s patterns and scrolled down again. “Impossible.”

  Only, not so much.

  “Search backups,” she said, clearer and slower than she probably needed to. The computer had a tendency to misunderstand, especially when she spoke to it in the middle of a thought.

  God save her from clumsy voice-recognition software.

  “Searching,” the pleasant voice assured her.

  That would take a whi—

  “All backups show missing data,” the voice continued, too fast to be a mistake.

  Kayleigh surged to her feet, her white lab coat swirling at her knees. Bracing both hands on the worktable, she bent over the screen as if getting closer would make it less confusing. “That can’t be right. Search again.”

  “Searching.” She waited. “All backups show missing data.”

  Damn it. One hand flattened against her stomach. The other curved over her forehead as a headache flared behind her eyes.

  Stress. Of course stress.

  Now what?

  “Find access point of missing data,” she said tightly.

  The system hummed.

  Kayleigh paced in front of the workstation, checking its progress over three minutes that felt like an eternity.

  Finally, the system beeped. “Data manually deleted from location. Access hub forty-seven-fifteen, system eight.”

  “Where?” That made no sense to her. What kind of gibberish was that?

  “Data manually deleted from location. Access hub—”

  “Argh.” She smacked the screen, because the alternative was digging a fist into the burning hole in her stomach. “Show me on a map.”

  A third screen flickered on, showing a portion of the city. A red marker gleamed, pulsed in place.

  Kayleigh stared at it. Rubbed her eyes and sank back into the chair. Slowly, she reached for her comm.

  And paused.

  It was late. Too late to bother her dad with this. Besides, she didn’t even know what it meant. There were any number of reasons why Simon Wells’s birth charts had been altered from GeneCorp’s old facility in the industrial district.

  Maybe the incident with Nadia Parrish had caused a malfunction. Maybe Nadia herself had done it.

  Kayleigh drew her feet up into the chair, closed her eyes, and tried to breathe away her headache.

  Nothing felt right about this. Nothing.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Upper streets or lower, business was business. While clubs, strip bars, gambling dens, and worse operated all night in the lower streets, the all-hours café Parker found herself sitting in looked cleaner and more brightly lit than any lower street dive. The open floor plan provided an excellent view, liberally decorated with carefully watered plants and lots of polished chrome.

  But it was an all-hours place with all-hours people. There’d be some measure of safety in public.

  She slid into a booth, every muscle practically sighing as she sank into the comfortable cushions. It wasn’t her soft, warm bed at home, but she’d take it over car seats and bullets any day. Tucking her bag into the corner, she studied the café critically.

  The table, inset with colored tiles, couldn’t have been more perfectly positioned if Simon had requisitioned his own floor plan. She had a complete view of the whole place.

  The floor dipped in by one step in the center, and tables arrayed along the tiled indentation remained mostly empty but for a man hunched over a laptop at a single seat and two couples sharing a table across the way. Laughter from the latter bit sharply through the café, earning a faint smile from Parker.

  She’d never been the type to hit the clubs and go out for food after. Or in between. Or whatever they were doing this late.

  Early, she supposed, for a couple of kids with nothing better to do than dance the night away.

  Her gaze settled on the man briefly, picking out all the cues. Suit jacket discarded over the back of his chair, crisp shirt rumpled from wear, open collar, loose tie. Headphones covered his ears, masking any sound the rest of the world made as he typed efficiently on his small keyboard. The smooth click, click, clack of each keystroke countered the music.

  Booths lined the walls, each outfitted with navy blue cushions and the same kind of mosaic table. More of these were occupied by groups and couples, as if people didn’t like the idea of being trapped in the center o
f attention.

  She knew the feeling.

  A pretty woman with chin-length blond hair strode from table to table, digital notepad in hand and her dark blue apron pristine. A brunette employee leaned against the back counter, watching a widescreen video feed as she nursed a cup of something that steamed. No sound leaked through the speakers, but subtitles filled the bottom half of the screen.

  Entertainment and gossip feeds. The classic staples of any late-night hangout.

  The kitchen beyond her seemed quiet, but Parker suspected there’d be at least two employees to handle food orders and cleanup. Probably the likeliest exit if she had to make a fast one.

  Given the order still filling her comm screen, Parker didn’t doubt she’d have to if the operatives found her again.

  A coup. That was what this felt like. Politics more treacherous than anything she’d had to deal with before. This made Nadia Parrish look like an annoying gnat in comparison.

  Her team leads—the men and women who led her street units, who trusted her—were amassing. Brought to the Mission under her name.

  What would happen to them? What would Sector Three do?

  How many of them were still loyal to her?

  Parker had grown up in the Mission orphanage, had gone through the same training, the same schooling, as every other missionary in her order. She’d worked her fingers to the bone for them.

  She cared. About her job, about her missionaries. About the cause.

  She’d worked so hard to earn their trust, had even started making headway in the lower units.

  Until this.

  Now it ate at her. Was Simon right? Did her people all sign on with Lauderdale? Eckhart, Neely, Silo? Elizabeth Foster, with her bangles and brilliant eye for patterns and facts?

  Parker dropped her face into her hands, digging at her eyes as a headache threatened to develop.

  What the hell was the Church doing? Sitting on its collective thumb? How could it be so blind to—

  “You need something, honey?”

  Parker straightened, planting her elbows on the table and summoning a smile from somewhere that didn’t feel hunted and exhausted and angry. “Coffee,” she said, managing not to sound as worn as she felt. “Just black.”

  The pretty blond waitress studied her with concern. “We can do just about anything you need. You sure a good stiff drink won’t tide you better?”

  Probably. But she didn’t dare. “I’m sure. Just send over a carafe and I’ll plow my way through it.”

  Over the girl’s shoulder, Simon exited the men’s bathroom. His long-sleeved thermal, pulled out of the back of his car, covered the bandages he’d wound around his torn side.

  They’d have to get his injuries looked at. The man had to be in a lot of pain.

  It didn’t show. In his faded denim, rain-mussed hair, and that shirt, with its sleeves shoved up over wiry forearms, he looked . . .

  Damn it, he looked delicious.

  Parker ignored the little twitch, that subtle signal that demanded she be aware of his every move. One part paranoia. Two parts attraction.

  Every bit stupid.

  “All right,” the waitress said. “I’ll bring you some napkins, too.” She strode away, leaving Parker with a clear view of Simon’s back as he sauntered toward the businessman with the large headphones.

  Now what?

  Tapping the man on the shoulder earned Simon a harried, annoyed scowl. The man pulled one speaker off his ear, then the other as Simon said something. Parker couldn’t hear what either of them said, only picked out the pleasant tenor of Simon’s voice as he gestured toward her.

  Toward her? What was he doing?

  Parker frowned. It deepened as the man met her gaze, dark eyebrows winging upward, then looked back up at Simon’s rueful smile.

  To Parker’s surprise, the businessman fished out a sleek, flat comm from his jacket pocket and handed it to Simon. The metal case flashed silver, mirror smooth and probably more expensive than the units she outfitted the Mission with. And a hell of a lot more fragile.

  Simon flipped open the case, typing something quickly.

  The man glanced again at her, shook his head, and hunched back over his computer.

  Parker’s eyes narrowed. Had Simon just used her as some kind of excuse? A ruse?

  Who was he contacting?

  His Sector Three superiors? Was he reporting on her? Telling them where they were?

  No. He’d made it clear that he’d given up everything to help her.

  But for God’s sake, why?

  She linked her fingers tightly against the table, glaring at her whitening knuckles. She had some choices to make, didn’t she? Where to go. What to do.

  Who to trust.

  Well, that one she had down. Easy answer: trust no one.

  Not as easy to commit to.

  The waitress returned, aluminum carafe clattering loudly as she set it down in the middle of the table. “Brought you two mugs,” she said with a smile. “For your man there.”

  “He’s not my man,” Parker snapped. That it came out like a complaint only set her back teeth grinding.

  “Yeah?” The waitress glanced over her shoulder as she set two plain ceramic mugs beside the carafe. “That’s a shame.” Before Parker could respond, the blond fished a bundle of napkins out of her apron and placed them in front of Parker. Her eyebrows, framing brown eyes much kinder than Parker would have expected, rose and lowered meaningfully. “Fix your lipstick, honey.”

  Her lipstick?

  Red. Her lipstick. Of course she’d left it on. And then she’d gone running in the rain. And Simon had slid his finger in her mouth. And kissed her.

  And she’d let him.

  “Damn,” she hissed, seizing the carafe. The brushed finish blurred her reflection, but she didn’t need detail from the improvised mirror to see how little of her lipstick remained on her lips.

  Heat climbed her cheeks as the waitress murmured, “Mm-hm,” and walked away. Parker grabbed a napkin, scrubbed at her mouth until every last trace of red was replaced by pink, abused skin.

  Simon returned as she splashed hot, black coffee into her mug. “Make that two,” he said lightly, sliding into the seat across from her as if everything was all right with the world.

  As if he wasn’t a witch.

  She wasn’t a missionary.

  Letting her head fall to the table would only share more of her mental state than she wanted Simon to know. Instead, she pushed her full mug toward him and filled the second. “What was that all about?” she asked.

  Focus on work. She could do that.

  “I needed a comm.” He brought the mug to his lips, his eyes dark under the bright lights of the café. He sipped gingerly, made a face, and added as he lowered the too-hot cup, “One that isn’t tracked by the Church.”

  Her own gaze narrowed, she set the carafe aside. “Why?”

  “Because we need help.”

  “I need help, you mean.” Parker couldn’t stop the bitter words.

  He cradled his mug in both hands, elbows planted on the table. Mimicry of her own stance. Exhaustion warring with nerve-prickling vigilance.

  Was he all right?

  Parker didn’t know how to ask. Not when the memory of his mouth on hers still colored her every thought. She had to get over this.

  He was only toying with her anyway.

  “Take some time, regroup. I ordered us some food.” As reassurance went, Simon’s directive didn’t go far.

  But she frowned in surprise as her stomach rolled and gurgled in sudden hunger. When was the last time she’d eaten?

  Hours ago. A late lunch.

  “None of this makes sense,” she said tightly.

  “Sure it does.”

  “No.” She jerked her chin up, leaning forward so that every icy word could plunge between his pretty, inscrutable eyes. “Why did they put you in my Mission? Why didn’t you die with Nelson and Parrish? Who the hell shot you down in that lab?�
��

  Those eyes banked. Stonewalled. “That’s what you’re hooked up on?”

  She barely kept a snort of laughter between her teeth. There wasn’t anything funny about it anyway. “Oh, no, that’s only the start. What are they planning to do my agents? Are they still my agents? Why did you choose now to turn your back on Sector Three? What exactly are you planning?”

  He let her talk, his own weight braced forward. The fingers of one hand loosely encircled the rim of his mug, and as she spoke, his index finger tapped it. Once. Twice.

  Patient, wasn’t he?

  She flattened one hand on the table, leaned over it. Dropped her voice to a low, taut whisper. “You know what I think?”

  “You’re going to tell me.” Amusement colored his laconic tone. His mouth.

  Her palm ground against the mosaic tiles. The café vanished around her. As heat swept through her cheeks, burned at her ears, the back of her neck—sheared through her thin veneer of calm—Parker forgot about the blond waitress. The harried businessman. The couples.

  Her focus narrowed to Simon Wells. Easy smile, infuriating implacability.

  Witch.

  “I think you’re keeping tabs on me because I’m useful.”

  Simon’s smile faded.

  Hers stretched, thin with anger. “I think you killed Nelson and you probably killed Parrish. I think you’re having a grand old time up here, jerking me around because it pleases you to jerk them around.”

  “Parker.”

  She pushed her mug aside, ignoring the ring of brown liquid the fragrant coffee left behind. Leaning in until the edge of the table dug into her ribs, Parker met his eyes and half snarled, “I think you enjoy pulling the rug out from anyone it pleases you to fuck with.”

  His lashes flickered at the word Parker didn’t let come out of her mouth often. She was too angry to care.

  “And I think you really enjoy playing me,” she added derisively. “You’re a wi—” She caught herself before the word escaped. “A criminal. You probably—”

  She forgot how fast he moved. Suddenly, his hand wrapped around the back of her head—that unshakable way he had of reminding her how much more aggressive, how much stronger, he was than her. Fingers tight at her skull, he pulled her half across the table and held her still as his eyes burned into hers.