by Heskett, Jim
Serena looked to Layne for confirmation. After a quick pause, he nodded. "I have to agree with Agent Yang here. I don't know anything about these 'other forces' or secrets, but she's right. Ember is not a bad person."
“The man who hired you has an agenda,” Isabel said.
Serena smiled. “Everyone in Washington has an agenda.”
“There are elements here that you don’t know about. There are pieces in play, and we can’t let Marcus Lonsdale take them off the board until we know more about what’s at stake.”
Serena shook her head. "I understand your request, but I don't hear anything concrete enough to make me stop doing what I'm doing. I was given a task, and I'm going to carry it out."
“Please.”
Serena scowled. “Are you going to get in my way, Ms. Tall Drink of Water?”
“Serena, come on,” Layne said. “Let’s be civil.”
Serena appeared to soften as she stared at Layne, and she leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Then, the soft look evaporated when she glared at Isabel. “No.” She lifted a gloved finger to stab the air between them. “And stop following me.”
Serena pulled up the hood of her coat and strode away.
Chapter Thirty
EMBER
Ember stirred. She felt the floor pressing against her—cold, hard, unforgiving.
She snapped awake and sat up. The room moved in 90s rock video slow motion, a remnant from whatever Veronica had used to knock her out when she had been outside. Also, the pain from the beating the other day was still there, lurking under the skin. The bruises were a little less purple, but the ache had not changed one bit.
Ember turned around to spy the wall where the window had been. Veronica had covered it with duct tape, and a layer of some reddish substance that looked like a cross between molasses and glue. The glue spread out to the wall around it, making a seal. Atop that, there were curved titanium bars reaching from top to bottom, forming a cage over the goopy duct tape mess.
Ember was tempted to examine it, to tug on those bars to see if she could rip one off. But, in her heart, she already knew the result of that experiment. Veronica didn't make sloppy mistakes like not properly securing a potential weapon to the wall. Not after breaking the window.
The door opened, and Ember stood. Veronica descended the stairs with a tray in her hand. Was it lunch? Dinner? Ember had no concept of which meal sat on that tray. One hand held it aloft, the other clutching the key fob, with her finger on the button. But, she hadn’t pressed it yet. That usually meant she wanted to talk.
“I don’t blame you for trying to leave,” Veronica said. “But you have to understand by now how pointless it is. You probably would have wandered around until you slipped and broke your ankle.”
“What a bummer for me to die before you get a chance to kill me.”
Veronica rubbed her thumb back and forth across the button, but she did not press it. “Where did you think you were going to go in that blizzard?”
“Away.”
“Right. And how did that work out for you? I told you this was the last place you’re ever going to see, and I meant it. My brother was delayed due to the weather, but he’s going to be here tomorrow. I know you’re not enjoying your stay here, well, I ain’t either.”
“Aren’t you running out of time?”
Veronica set the tray on the floor. “Plenty of time. I got no problem waiting until tomorrow to kill you. And having Curtis here to witness will be worth the extra wait. He deserves to exact justice just as much as you deserve to receive it.”
“Eye for an eye. I guess that’s justice, but it won’t bring your sister back.”
Veronica shook her head. “Why do people feel the need to say such obvious shit like that? I’m not dumb. I know nothing will bring her back. But I'll have some peace of mind knowing that if she can’t draw air anymore, then neither can you.” Veronica paused, then flicked her eyes toward the makeshift window covering. “That’ll probably let some of the cold in. I had to improvise while you were unconscious, since you broke my damn window.”
“Technically, the tree broke your window. I just helped it along a little bit.”
“Still haven’t lost your attitude, Ember. I’m so glad you are holding onto that until the bitter end. Don’t even try to break this one, because you’re not getting through those bars.”
“I’m sorry about your sister. I mean it, Veronica. I don’t kill innocents. I’m not sure what happened.”
"It doesn't matter now. And it's too late for your apologies."
Veronica wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, then she cleared her throat. She said nothing as she pivoted and made her way back up the stairs. A tray with a baloney sandwich, a handful of potato chips, and a glass of water was all she left behind. Most of Veronica's meals lately had been like this. Cold lunch meat, something crunchy from a bag, and a glass of water. No ice, even. It all had taken on an almost passive-aggressive quality to it.
Ember wasn’t hungry. Instead, she limped over toward the bed to study the makeshift window covering. She could feel waves cold radiating through the duct tape and glue, just as her captor had promised. It looked solid enough that she wouldn’t be able to pull those titanium bars off. Even if she could, Veronica would notice a bar missing, hit the button, and then perform a contraband search while Ember writhed in magnetic paralysis on the floor.
But, as Ember studied the bars, she noticed they had been affixed to the walls with regular nails — probably whatever Veronica had had on hand, since the woman couldn’t exactly leave and drive through mountains of snow to the hardware store while Ember was in the basement.
Maybe the nails were made out of some fancy non-magnetic material, but they weren’t glued in place or anything like that. If Ember could pry one loose from the part of the bar that was attached to the wall, she could potentially use it to interfere with the magnet controller box in the closet.
Maybe.
If the magnetic pull was strong enough, she could drive that nail right into the heart of the machine, using its own power to kill it. A long shot, but it seemed to be the last option on the table.
Ember took the mattress off the bed and scooted it over to the window, then she climbed to the top and went to work removing one of the nails.
Chapter Thirty-One
PASHA
Pasha Meknikov was no stranger to cold weather. But after spending the last three weeks in Mexico tending to Firedrake’s affairs there, he had grown accustomed to warmth and sunshine. His skin had acquired the healthy coat of tan his cousin from Sochi always seemed to wear.
But, with one phone call from Helmut bearing new orders direct from Thomas Milligan, Pasha had found himself on the next plane out of Quintana Roo. He would have preferred to take a few vacation days in Mexico, lounging on the beach, chasing after the local women. But that was not his life.
The blizzard in Denver had made travel more complicated, and now, Pasha was two days late arriving. Helmut had not been pleased with the delay. But, as it turned out, being late didn’t matter, because Helmut’s computer technicians hadn’t been able to provide Pasha the identity and location of the target until only two hours ago. And, fortune favored him, despite being late. The woman had already been marked for death and had been captured by one of her peers. Pasha would find her wrapped up in a little bow in a nearby house. Too easy.
He liked these straightforward jobs. A location, gear, clear parameters for either success or failure. Pasha had all three of those criteria, so now he only needed to finish the task.
He turned his rental Toyota into the gas station in Golden, wipers working overtime to keep the snow clear. The winds and snow had abated considerably since this morning. Still a nuisance, but a manageable one.
He coasted next to a gas pump just as the orange petrol indicator flicked on. He smiled to himself—perfect timing for refueling. Pasha hunted around near his left leg for the petrol tank cover release leve
r. As he did, his left hamstring pulled tight, and he grimaced against the pain. He had picked up a limp in Cancún after some idiot on the beach had crashed into his leg with a surfboard. The bump led to a bruise, which led to him favoring the other leg, which led to tightness in his hamstring.
But, it did not matter. Pasha did not need to run anywhere. His target was currently being held captive in the basement of a big house on the outskirts of Golden. She would likely be tied to a bed or a chair already. He had to locate her and execute her before she discovered a way to escape, which would make his job infinitely more difficult, but not impossible. Pasha was not thrilled at the possibility of engaging in a manhunt across a snowy city he had never visited before. It would mean more work, more time away from the beach.
He found the petrol tank lever and pulled it, then settled back in his seat to give his hamstring a rest for a moment. He had painkillers in his suitcase, but he did not want to allow himself one until the job was done. Anything less than a clear head could lead to failure.
As he rested, he leaned over to pick up the folder sitting on the passenger seat. The first page contained a picture of November Clarke, attached with a paperclip to a dossier about her that had been overnighted to him by Helmut. Everything they knew about her was listed here: her height, weight, physical appearance, normal schedule, other bits of trivia. She was a little taller than average height, slender, with pale skin, dark hair, and vivid blue eyes. In another life, Pasha would have found her attractive. She was just his type. Fit and mysterious.
Pasha didn’t care about how often she went to the gym, but he did study her martial arts history. According to this, she had trained in kickboxing, Krav Maga, jujitsu, and a host of other disciplines.
But also, according to the document, November Clarke was likely not her real name, and portions of this history could have been fabricated, along with her biographical info. He supposed he wouldn’t know the veracity of this intel about her martial arts abilities until he met her. Hopefully, she wouldn’t get a chance to demonstrate her skills.
Pasha didn’t need to concern himself too much with the details. Whoever she thought she was, she would be dead before she had a chance to—
A car horn honked behind him. He looked up and into the rearview mirror to see a hulking truck idling, less than a meter from the back of his rental car. A man with a beard and an orange and blue baseball cap sat behind the wheel, giving Pasha a stern look.
He checked around and noted all the other fuel pumps were occupied. Apparently, this man in the truck took issue with Pasha sitting at a pump and not using it when there were no others available. At least, that was Pasha’s best guess about the situation.
The horn honked again, and Pasha gritted his teeth. He leaned over and popped open the glove box, then removed the FN Five-SeveN pistol Helmut had stashed for him at the drop near the airport. A personal favorite of Pasha’s, the 20-round pistol was just heavy enough to do serious damage without fuss, and it had a safety that was easy to work by a left-handed man. Pasha checked the magazine and then shoved it in the back of his pants. He grimaced at the tightness in his leg.
He opened the car door and took a few shuffling steps toward the truck, his eyes locked on the driver. The driver, in turn, stared back, disdain all over his hairy face.
Pasha stopped in front of the driver’s side and made a little circular motion with his finger, telling him to roll down his window. When he did, Pasha spoke before the guy had a chance to say anything.
“Why you honk at me?”
The driver pointed at Pasha's car. "If you're done getting your gas, it's time to move on, buddy. I'm late to pick up my kid, and there are no other pumps open."
“You honked. Is rude.”
“Look, you sound like you’re not from around here.” The man’s voice slowed to a clipped, forced vernacular. A common — and racist — way people engaged Pasha once they’d heard him speak. As if he were mentally handicapped instead of from out-of-town. “Maybe gas stations work differently where you’re from. In America, you get your gas, then you move on. Everybody’s got somewhere to be.”
Pasha’s right hand inched toward the pistol in his waistband. “You are mistaken. I have not fueled up my tank yet. So where I have to be, at the moment, is here.”
“Then what the hell are you waiting for?”
Pasha gripped the pistol, then set the barrel on the edge of the truck’s open window.
The guy flinched and shied away. “Jesus Christ.”
“No, I am Pasha. I think you should apologize. Where I come from, is rude to honk.”
"Yeah, okay, okay," the guy said, his hands held in the air, and his eyes flicking to the pistol repeatedly. "I'm sorry. Get your gas on your schedule. I'll wait at a different pump. It's no trouble, buddy. I promise."
Pasha removed the gun and returned it to his waistband. “Thank you. Have a nice day.”
Pasha strolled back to his car as the truck jerked into reverse and pulled away. Since he was already outside the car, he opened the fuel tank cover and unscrewed the cap.
Once the tank was full, he slid back into the car and double-checked the address for the house belonging to a Veronica Acevedo.
Chapter Thirty-Two
EMBER
Ember stared at her bloodied cuticles. She had ruined four of her fingernails in the pursuit of extracting a nail from the new cage Veronica had built around the former window. Not a fun process. But now Ember had a steel nail an inch long, which she could hopefully use to pry open the tiny seam of the magnetic controller box in the closet.
It would not be easy. But she had a plan.
Ember would have to jab it into the box far enough to get into the actual guts of it, then make Veronica trigger the magnet thingy she carried around. From what Ember could tell, there were intensity levels to the magnetism. Sometimes, Veronica triggered the button and Ember’s hands would fly to her neck and she would sink to the floor, the magnets completely overpowering her. Sometimes, she only felt a simple tug toward the floor.
By her estimate, a press of the lower setting on Veronica's keychain wouldn't provide enough power to get the nail to do anything. So, she would have to coerce Veronica to trigger the thing at full-throttle, or using the second button, or however it worked. If she provided enough power, the nail would cause a short-circuit inside the device, destroying the heart of the computer.
Meanwhile, Ember would have to withstand the most potentially powerful blast of magnetic force she had faced yet. Then, once the magnetic force died, recover fast enough to attack and overpower Veronica before her captor could draw the baton and beat Ember into submission. Ember would have to push through pain and exhaustion and fight an opponent who was already at full strength.
So many things had to go right. Any single thing going wrong would mean failure for the whole endeavor.
As she gathered her strength and prepared to jam the nail into the box, Ember sat on the bed and studied her bloodied fingers. For some reason, more thoughts of Isabel Yang rumbled around in her head.
Ember wasn’t sure why she kept musing on her FBI handler. Boredom was part of it, since Ember had been here for almost a week with nothing to do besides think and read from an aging paperback collection.
Guilt was another reason. Isabel was a good person, as far as Ember could see. And she wasn’t terrible at her job, either. Isabel had been only doing what had been asked of her when she had attempted to bring a rogue agent back into the FBI fold. And Ember had given her nothing but grief over it for the longest time now. Way before Isabel’s failed attempts to talk her into coming back, Isabel had been reaching out, leaving messages, trying to set up meetings.
Ember owed Isabel an apology, no doubt about it. And an explanation for this behavior, which Ember was only now starting to understand. Yes, seeing her Branchmates as good people had been part of the reason she had “defected” from the FBI and given herself to the Club’s lifestyle. At some point, she had ce
ased to be FBI Agent Allison Campbell and had become the contract killer November Clarke.
But there was a deeper, grimier reason at the heart of her transition.
She actually liked the job. Taking on contracts gave her a certain satisfaction. She liked flying to Kenya to assassinate a militia leader who treated local populations as serfs. She liked staying up all night in Dallas to catch a pedophile strolling out of his house to get the paper. She liked posing as a waiter in New York to slip poison into the ice tea of a man who had beaten a murder charge on a technicality.
Killing people for money had given Ember a thrill she had never been able to replicate any other way. She had thought herself to be so good at her new job, that she would never make mistakes. But, according to Veronica, Ember had made a terrible mistake in Memphis. She had killed the wrong woman — that woman being Veronica’s sister. And, not only that, but the guilty woman had gotten away with it. Ember had accepted payment for a contract she had messed up in two directions.
She owed Veronica a better apology, too, but since Veronica intended to kill her for this mistake either tonight or tomorrow, it probably wouldn’t be necessary.
Isabel would never know about Ember’s regrets.
The door at the top of the stairs opened. Ember shot to her feet. She wasn’t ready.
She still had the nail in her palm, not jabbed into the seam of the magnetic controller box. And, not only that, her fingers were bloody from trying to remove the screw. One look would give them away—no time to wash them.
When Ember looked up, Veronica was at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes on a dinner tray sitting dormant on the floor. She must have come to collect it. Ember pulled her hands behind her back.
Veronica raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just standing here, thinking about how amazing that baloney sandwich you gave me was. I had flashbacks to being ten years old.”