I shared a look with Reed, who snarked, “You can say that again.”
“What about you?” Ariadne asked, folding her arms and looking at me. I was suddenly consciously aware that my place smelled like soap from the dog bath, and the air felt a little stuffy compared to what I’d been dealing with walking outside.
“I don’t know,” I said, and felt my brow furrow. Then I sighed because I did know, I really did. “I guess I’m staying for now.” She looked at me with a raised eyebrow of her own. “At least until we see how things go.”
“Hey,” Reed said, “maybe in eleven months, when the election is over, this whole thing will settle out.”
“Or in three months I’ll parole Timothy Logan and not care enough about the rest of them to give a damn if I walk away,” I said. The dog trotted over to me. He stood expectantly, in easy reach of my hand, big dark eyes looking up at me until I relented and reached down, petting him on the head. Maybe I had Ariadne and Reed fooled, but the dog—shrewder than he looked—had me figured out.
18.
I set up in my new office, half the size of the previous one, on my scuffed-up desk. I had taken the bonsai through the tunnel this time, and it seemed none the worse for the wear. I did a little clipping (it’s this whole thing; I took a class on proper tree care and everything) and then settled down with a sigh to stare at my walls for a little while. Normally I’d have written an after-action report that would go up the chain to the Department of Homeland Security, but I wasn’t feeling very inter-agency cooperative at the moment, so I decided to take a little time to reflect. Which meant I played solitaire for a while on my computer.
Hey, it’s probably the least annoying thing I could have been doing. I mean, I could have been browsing porn or something.
I was interrupted by a knock on the door, and shut the solitaire window as abruptly as if I’d been caught doing—uhh, that other thing. “Yes?” I asked as a thin young woman stepped in.
“Ms. Nealon?” she asked, over thin-framed glasses. She had dark skin and curious eyes and was clad in a suit that was a lot more fashion-forward than anything Ariadne wore. “My name is Jackie Underwood, and I’m the new spokesperson.”
“Huh,” I said, staring at her. “I didn’t know we had a press secretary.”
“Spokesperson.” She smiled, almost apologetically. “Part of the changes, I’m afraid. Mr. Phillips brought me in to help, uh … address certain deficiencies in the agency.” She’d already picked up the slang name in less than a day; most people tried to throw out the mouthful that was our un-acronymable name for at least two weeks.
“Meaning our nightmarish PR faux pas,” I said. “Faux pas-es?” Sad that we needed to pluralize that word. Hey, if you’re in charge of the supply closet and you screw up, it’s not a big deal. If you’re in charge of an agency that restrains superpowered murderers and you make a slip on TV, everyone’s watching.
Actually, you know what? That supply closet metaphor doesn’t work, because if you’re in charge there and forget to order toilet paper, people will notice. In the worst way.
“To say the least,” she said, drawing me back on point. “I’m here to facilitate a better image for the agency, and to make it possible for us to communicate with the national and local press without … missteps like we’ve seen in the past.”
I cocked an eyebrow at her. “I like how you managed to say that without casting blame.”
“The press is a tricky beast,” she said knowingly. “Dealing with them is more art than science. So many different personalities.”
“Okay,” I said. I already liked her approach, which was a lot more delicate than Andrew Phillips’s. That tool. I figured I might as well cooperate. “What do you want from me, Jackie?”
“First, I’d like you to direct any press inquiries to me,” she said.
“Done,” I said. I got probably ten a day via email, and presently they all went straight to the spam folder. It might have been quicker to just trash them, but I got a certain satisfaction in marking emails from famous talking heads and their assistants as spam. Because I’m petty, that’s why.
“I would also like you to consider letting me prep you and schedule some interviews with the major networks.” She watched my reaction, and it must have been good, because she immediately backpedaled. “Or maybe just one to start.”
“Urgh …” I made a kind of growling noise. “Maybe I’ll just make a YouTube video.”
“Don’t you think there are enough of those floating around at the moment?” Ouch. She looked apologetic again, but I sensed she enjoyed her own riposte. But credit to her—that was a choice shot, and it landed dead on target.
“I will definitely think about it,” I said, “but do you really think that’s a good idea after the Gail Roth thing?”
“I think you got awfully defensive, awfully fast,” she said, and I knew she’d prepped this answer. “In return, Gail got more adversarial, and you entered a downward spiral until you crashed and burned.”
“Hey, it wasn’t that bad.” It wasn’t, really. I mean, it was bad, no doubt, but not plane-crash worthy.
Without even speaking, Jackie handed me a sheet of paper. I skimmed it, instantly recognizing it as a transcript from the interview.
GAIL: You shredded him. Chewed him up and shredded him to death.
SIENNA: (pause) Yeah? And?
GAIL: Did that … I mean, did you … isn’t that kind of like state-sanctioned cannibalism?
SIENNA: Well, I did spit him out afterward.
GAIL: But there had to be pieces—
SIENNA: And I flossed like there was no tomorrow when I got back home, gargled with mouthwash for, like, hours—
GAIL: Cameras and videos all over Minneapolis recorded your showdown in minute detail. It’s been aired on every channel, had millions and millions of hits on the internet. You’re kind of a celebrity for that fight. What was it like, in that moment?
SIENNA: He kinda tasted like chicken. Maybe that was the dragon tastebuds at work, I dunno. But it was—
I closed my eyes. “Okay, I get the point. It was bad.” I had walked out for a reason, after all. This was actually one of the high points, I thought.
“I think we can avoid this sort of thing next time with a little preparation,” Jackie said sympathetically.
“Yeah,” I said, balling up the transcript and tossing it into the recycling can. “Because now it’ll be questions about why I attacked a defenseless prisoner who was already in custody.”
She let that linger before she spoke, carefully. “Why did you attack him?”
I sighed. “Because he made a nasty, piggish comment to the waitress.”
She lifted a small notepad up. “‘Do you want a big tip? Or do you want the whole—’”
“Yeah, that was it,” I cut her off.
She stared at me seriously. “This I can work with.”
I looked at her through one open eye. “Seriously?”
“I’m already spinning it,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “We got the waitress to talk, and she’s giving a detailed account of how you upheld the dignity of all women or something. It’s playing well with some of the audience anyway, and it’s a better explanation than letting the assumption you beat prisoners for no reason linger out there unchallenged.”
“All right,” I said. “Let me think about the interview, but … probably. If you think you can prepare me for it.”
“I can work wonders if given the chance,” she said, and stood. “We pick the right interviewer, we give ’em some other things to work with, like this reception—”
Something about that caught in my head. “What reception?”
“Oh, Andrew didn’t tell you?” she asked. I bit back a bitter reply about how Andrew and I were not fast friends yet, and she went on. “Directive from above. We’re having a meet and greet; a reception here on campus with press, local politicians, some national names, and those Russian metas that just got out of
prison. It’ll be a nice little opportunity to mingle with the latest media darlings and let their current fame rub off on you a little.”
I stared at her blankly. I had been in charge of this agency yesterday, and it’d have to be a lot colder day in hell than this one to prompt me to hold a reception. We’re talking absolute zero, no particle motion. “What … the … actual … eff?” I asked.
“It’ll be fine,” Jackie said, smiling. “You’ll talk, you’ll eat from the buffet table, you’ll smile for pictures, and maybe at the end of the night, if you’re ready, you’ll do an interview. The Russians are PR gold right now, and if you can make nice with them, maybe they’ll throw a little associative fairy dust on us, and we’ll be through this scandal in less than a news cycle.”
I just blinked at her as she started to leave. “When is this happening?” I asked, still stunned.
“This Friday,” she said with a smile, and headed for the door. “You’ll do fine. Just be a normal, civilized person, like you have been with me, and you’ll come out of it covered in rose petals.” She gave me another reassuring smile as she headed out the door, closing it quietly behind her.
“Well, shit,” I said, utterly heartfelt, as I stared at the door. Meeting with a bunch of newly freed prisoners in a formal setting with buffet tables, booze and—dammit, me probably having to wear a dress or something.
I let out a low, self-pitying moan that I was thankful no one else could hear. How could this possibly get any worse?
19.
I found out at five o’clock the next morning when I got awakened by a scratching in my quarters. I was out of my room in seconds, my Sig Sauer pistol in hand. Nothing was going on outside the sliding glass door on the balcony, so I slid around the corner and pointed my gun at the front door, where I found my houseguest scratching to be let out, a pitifully sad look on his face.
“Dammit,” I muttered and went looking for a bathrobe some idiot had gotten me as a gift. I didn’t even have a leash for this dog, which I was determined to take to the pound today. I might have been somewhat irritable from being awoken at five in the morning.
I stood just outside the dormitory building, my breath frosting in the air, my lungs hurting in the chill of the dark night that showed not a hint of morning yet. There were stars in a blanket overhead, the few campus lights failing to do much to dim their shine. I wrapped my arms close around me and the wind picked up like an icy sheet of water had been thrown on me.
You take this insult too easily, Sienna, Wolfe said to me. He didn’t say much anymore, which was surprising. There had been a time when he’d talk non-stop, whether I wanted him to or not.
“I know this must shock and astound you,” I said, not bothering to just speak inside my own head since no one was around, “but I live in a civilized world. There are rules we have to follow here, and killing people who annoy me isn’t part of the game.”
Bad game, Wolfe said. Play a different one. Play your own. Make your own rules. That’s what Wolfe did.
“Not when you worked for Omega,” I said, and felt him bristle within. “Pretty sure Alastor and the ministers had you on their leash then.”
He’s just trying to tell you not to take any crap from these politicians, Zack said, in a much more sympathetic tone. You’re better than them.
“I’m not better than anybody,” I mumbled, “but nobody’s better than me.”
A charmingly egalitarian statement, Gavrikov said. But it reeks of naivety. Someone is always in charge, whether you want them to be or not. Someone always has the power, and right now they have it over you—unless you walk away.
“I’m not ready to walk away yet,” I whispered, shivering in my robe. I was wishing I’d thrown my coat on over it. I watched the dog scratch and paw at a snow mound before lifting his leg to—finally, thank the heavens—do his business. He came trotting back to me a few minutes later, looking marginally less piteous.
A hesitant voice emerged. Tell Ariadne that she should not be willing to accept this turn of events lightly, Eve Kappler said with quiet certainty. Tell her … she’s better than this.
I raised an eyebrow at the invisible person talking to me. “And I’m not?” She didn’t answer, and I sighed, watching my breath frost into pure, white clouds in front of me.
The dog whined, and I ushered him inside in a hurry, catching a look from the night security guard, who was reading a book at the podium in the dormitory lobby. He smiled at the dog, though.
When I got back inside, I collapsed in my bed, pulling the covers over me even as I tossed the robe. I was sleeping in a tank top and pajama bottoms, and the warmth of the comforter felt oh-so-good. I felt a heavy thump as the dog landed on the bed, and I might maybe have shrieked just a little in surprise.
“No!” I said sternly as he circled round to the empty space next to me. Up to now, he’d apparently been quite comfortable on the vent in the living room. Now he was encroaching on my personal space. I put a hand on his head. “If I keep touching you, you’re going to lose your soul,” I said, then paused to wonder if it was true. I’d never really been in close contact with an animal before that I could recall.
The dog got that piteous look again and shuffled back a half an inch, and it almost felt like he was begging me to stay.
“Argh!” I said (it’s mostly consonant sounds, all dripping with frustration, in case you were wondering how to pronounce that). “Fine,” I said in the voice I reserved for things that were pretty much not fine at all. “But if you lose your soul, it’s on you.” I wondered what having a dog in my head would be like. Probably not all that much different than Wolfe. Maybe a little more genteel.
Not nice, Little D—
Shut it, Wolfe.
I fell back asleep to the sounds of steady breathing next to me, a kind of snuffling noise, a muted breathing through the nose that was surprisingly relaxing, reassuring, telling me I was not alone.
20.
Blue Grass Army Depot
Kentucky, United States
Natasya
Natasya broke the neck of the soldier with a smile on her face. She wore the black, the warpaint, with some digital-scrambled camouflage pattern like the voice in the computer had told her. She followed the orders. It was what she did.
“Candy from a baby,” Leonid said as they strolled out the door. He carried the canisters on his broad shoulders, his bearded face smudged with the dark paint. “I think that’s how the expression goes.”
“Easy, easy,” Vitalik said. The depot which they were leaving was quiet; it was early morning, an hour from shift change. The air was cold, crisp, not unlike the air outside the prison when they’d gotten out. Frost covered the grass, like spring in Russia. Winter here was mild.
For this, Natasya smiled, letting the corpse fall from her grasp. It made a thunking noise as it hit the concrete below. “Capitalist pig,” she said, almost an afterthought. She’d trained to kill American soldiers for years beyond counting. When she got out of prison and learned that the war was not only over, but that her side had lost, it had been a disappointment, to say the least. This was like a rekindling of the fire, a fond remembrance that maybe—just maybe—their war was not over yet.
“The truck will be there in thirty seconds,” the voice came over her earpiece. It was hard to believe she could so trust a voice on the other end of an earpiece, but here she was, and the voice had not failed her yet. “Prep for extraction.”
“Any other soldiers?” Natasya asked. She looked through the dark, pre-dawn disposal facility. There was nary a hint of movement, which was good for the plan. She couldn’t help but feel a hint of disappointment, though, at the lack of targets.
“No other patrols, no alarms,” the voice replied, a little out of breath. Natasya listened for weakness, and whoever this woman was, she sounded like she had a breathing problem. It was worth noting. “You are clear.”
Natasya felt the mild disappointment, but buried it under the feeling of a job
well done. “Gate guards?”
“The mercenaries have already taken them out.”
The truck rumbled up to them, and Natasya lifted the canvas back. It was like any other military truck, not all that different from the diesel models that they rode in the Russian army back in the days of old. Leonid got in first, aided by a man in a soldier’s uniform. She watched them handle the canisters on the big man’s shoulders with care, watched them strap them down carefully, carefully, to the decking as Miksa and Vitalik got in the back of the truck.
This was not her first operation on U.S. soil. But, Natasya thought, as she climbed up and the truck started to move, it was perhaps the beginning of her greatest. “Next stop, airport,” Vitalik said, leaning back in that easy manner of his. “And then … what is the name of the place we’re going again?”
“Minnesota,” Natasya said as she sat down on the bench, suddenly uneasy, staring out the back of the truck. She looked once more at the sky and let the flap drop, sealing them in darkness. The truck rumbled on, undisturbed, into the night.
21.
Sienna
I missed the morning briefing. I was a little surprised, because we’d never had a morning briefing before, so naturally, I didn’t think to check my calendar to see if I was missing something until after Harper dropped by my new office, looked around with a low, unimpressed whistle and said, “Missed you at the meeting this morning.”
Son of a gun.
I’d kinda of spent a few minutes cursing the name of Andrew Philips after that. Not that I really enjoyed going to meetings, but I tried very hard not to be an unprofessional idiot. Call it the unfortunate side effect of running a government agency at the ripe old age of twenty-one, but I had to work pretty hard to command respect, and that meant I didn’t do boneheaded things like miss meetings.
Until today.
It irritated me so much that I just left, walked out of my office and headed back to my quarters. I walked across the snowy campus, burning aggravation and frustration and a sense of HOW THE HELL COULD THEY DO THIS TO ME? coursing through me with every freezing breath.
Ruthless (Out of the Box Book 3) Page 9