Ruthless (Out of the Box Book 3)

by Robert J. Crane

  He just chuckled, and I punched him in the arm as I closed the door quietly behind me, trying not to wake my little pet.

  23.

  Natasya

  She sat in the back of the limousine with the others, listening to the voice over the phone. The heat was roaring, the snow was piled up outside the car windows. Natasya listened to the hollow tones, that faint rasp in the voice that hinted at a struggle for breath every few sentences. She was developing an opinion of the voice at the other end of the line; it was based on respect and a search for weakness.

  Unfortunately, a breathing ailment was no consolation given what she was up against. No consolation at all.

  “You’ll remain in character, innocent party guests until you receive the signal,” the voice said, with a faint wheeze in the middle of the sentence. There was a hollow, echoing quality to the acoustics, as though the call was being made from inside a confined chamber. “At that point, your task will be to corral the other guests, keeping them in place as hostages in case of a swifter government response than we’ve anticipated, at which point you’ll switch to Contingency Plan A.”

  Vitalik spoke up with his characteristic suaveness, as though he were trying to flirt with the disconnected voice. “So we just have to be ourselves?” He grinned. “Except Miksa.” He glanced at the Hungarian. “He should be anyone but himself.” The quiet Hungarian made a lazy, profane gesture at Vitalik.

  “There shouldn’t be a problem,” the voice continued. Natasya had noted that the woman on the other end of the line had seemed to take the personalities in the call into account, but she never allowed so much as a hint of familiarity to creep in. She kept her distance, commanded their respect, never let the ice between them thaw. She was sharp, professional.

  Natasya would not have wanted to be playing on the opposite side of the table from this one. In her considered opinion, whoever the voice was, she was the most dangerous strategic planner ever. She understood the value of planning, and her plans had yet to run across a contingency unplanned for. The voice knew all, saw all, like some sort of god of old, the sort of thing to make the weak-minded fear a vengeful hand landing upon them in the night, unseen.

  “Give the caterers time to do their part,” the voice went on. “Once they’ve completed their assignment, you’ll have no resistance to worry about. Once the hostages are secure and the ports are open, I’ll be able to unlock the prison. Less than an hour, and you’ll be extracted before anyone even has a chance to hear about it, let alone prepare a government response of any sort.”

  Natasya hesitated before she spoke, trying to consider how to phrase her question without offending the voice. “The … caterers?” The mercenaries, she thought. “Who will they answer to should we be forced into a contingency plan?”

  “They’ll answer to you on site,” the voice said without a hint of indecision. “I’ve already directed them to take orders from you if things go awry. Until I have access to the network, I’ll be blind. They’ll listen to you.”

  That was a soothing feeling. The voice knew when to do that, it seemed. “Good,” Natasya said, feeling a little hollow. It was a relief knowing that the voice—whoever she was—had little ego about the whole endeavor. It was also disconcerting, because the woman knew what she did not know. The worst sort of enemy was the self-aware enemy, one who was thoroughly aware of their weaknesses.

  Yes, that was concerning.

  “The signal should go off approximately twenty minutes after your arrival to the party,” the voice said. “You’ll know when it happens.” She paused. “Now’s the time to take your injections.”

  This was another moment of concern, as Natasya took the little case that had come with them from Kentucky and opened it, offering the syringe pens to Leonid, who was strangely quiet, then Miksa, and finally Vitalik before taking one for herself. She stared at it, a little blunt object that looked like an elongated capsule, before she finally pressed the needle into her arm and depressed the button. It was a tiny little pinprick, an annoyance and no more. She held out the box wordlessly. Each of them put their emptied pens back into it, and Natasya snapped the lid.

  “Any questions?” the voice asked.

  “No,” Natasya said after looking around the limousine one last time. The seats were leather, and there was a full bar with countless bottles at the far end under the window that led to the driver’s compartment.

  “Then this is where we say goodbye until you’re in control,” she said. “If I need you urgently, I’ll call.” Natasya felt a selfconscious itch where the thin plastic of the cellular phone rested in her coat pocket. “Remember … remain cool until the signal. You’re party guests. Have fun, but not too much fun.” There was a pause, and the voice’s tension increased. “No more drinking, Leonid.” Natasya’s head whipped around and she caught Leonid with a glass in his hand that she hadn’t noticed before. Clear liquid, full to the brim. Vodka, straight up, of course. He looked mildly contrite and nodded.

  “And one last thing,” she said, her voice filling the small chamber. “Do not let Sienna Nealon out of your sight. She’s canny. She’s dangerous. Keep an eye on her, and don’t let her get away.” There was a pause, and the cold, emotionless voice crackled with something that sounded like distant fury. “And as soon as you get the chance, kill her.”

  24.

  Sienna

  “You really would have dug that briefing this morning,” Reed said to me as we made our way through the tunnel from the dormitory to the headquarters building. It was a relief not to have to carry a coat, not to have to trudge over snow-covered walkways and get my shoes—flats, but way less comfortable than what I was used to—all slick and dirty.

  “I read the report,” I said as we walked down the fluorescent-lit hallway. The walls were solid concrete, functional but not beautiful, a channel cut into the ground between the buildings that was even more cold and sterile than the tunnel of death that led to the prison. I could tell after a moment that Reed was waiting for my reaction. “It was cool,” I conceded. Because it had been.

  “Did you see that thing about the chemical weapons depot in Kentucky?” he asked, arching his eyebrows. Usually it was me that got all excited, like a kid, about the idea of details being shared. There hadn’t been a ton of them in the report, just a mention that a depot had been hit.

  “Yeah,” I said. There hadn’t been any info on the perps, just a basic description of the event. “They didn’t mention what was taken, though.”

  “That place held Sarin, VX gas, all sorts of nastiness.” Now Reed’s voice had gone solemn, which was probably more appropriate given the subject matter. Someone had made off with the kind of weapons of mass destruction that could turn New York City into a ghost town. “If they didn’t say what was taken, it’s probably because it was something inconceivably bad.”

  I frowned. “You mean like something we haven’t even heard of?”

  He shrugged. “That’s kinda how the government works, right? Secrets upon secrets. If it was just VX, they’d have mentioned it in the report.” He talked about these things like he knew what they were.

  “You know anything about those gases?” I asked. A chemist I’m not.

  “You see that movie The Rock?” he asked, kind of cringing. “That stuff they used was VX. Sarin is pretty bad too, as I understand it from reading Wikipedia.”

  “Ugh,” I said, shaking my head. Part of me was glad that this particular assignment was not mine to deal with. “I hope stuff like this doesn’t happen all the time.”

  “If it does, I guess we’ll know about it now.” He shook his head. That was a dreadful thought.

  We emerged from the tunnel into the basement of the headquarters building and climbed the stairs to the lobby. A guy was just hanging out there, on a chair in the stairwell, loitering with his back against the wall, laptop computer spread across his legs. I frowned and looked at Reed, who shrugged like this was perfectly normal.

  “J.J.?”
I called out, experimentally. The guy looked up at me through glasses with thick black frames. Hipster.

  “Oh, hey, Sienna,” he said, cool as a January morning. He nodded at Reed. “What’s up, Reed-with-a-screed?”

  Reed chuckled. “That one’s not bad.” He looked at me, almost guiltily. “It’s this thing we do.”

  “I know,” I said, shaking my head. I’d seen it before. “Geeks. I’m surrounded by geeks.”

  “Don’t dis the geek,” J.J. said, turning his attention back to his laptop. “Diamonds are overrated; we are actually a girl’s best friend.”

  I started to respond to that utter nonsense with an appropriate verbal slapdown, but Reed grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me toward the door past J.J. “Come on, we’ve got a public embarrassment to attend.”

  The lobby was buzzing with anticipation. Security was there, and a flotilla of white-suited waitstaff was making their way through the room with trays of canapés and stuff, feeding our personnel. Our guys were on the guard, but taking a few bites here and there. I couldn’t blame them. It smelled great.

  Ariadne was waiting for us there, a glimmering silvery gown highlighting how pale she was. Her red hair was hanging loose today, styled nicer than mine. Wait, no, that’s not a good comparison. Hers looked really nice. Jackie was standing next to her, also dressed to the nines.

  “Is this it?” I asked as Reed and I made our way over. “Are we the welcoming committee?”

  “Director Phillips will be here momentarily,” Jackie said with a relaxed smile. It wavered a little as she looked at me, like she realized that using his title was like salt in the wound. Her gaze flicked to Ariadne, and I could see the comment had found its mark with her, too; there was a little flush on her cheeks, more subtle than her flaming hair. To Jackie’s credit, she looked like she wanted to apologize, but didn’t. She shouldn’t have to apologize for stating a fact, I thought. But it still stung.

  The metal detectors trilled as I walked through them to lead the way out toward the doors. I could see a limo parked just outside. I glanced at the security guy manning the detector, and he shrugged at me. I always set them off; I was never unarmed. He glanced out at the limo. “Been here about ten minutes,” he said.

  “Trying to be fashionably late?” I asked, looking back at Jackie.

  “Probably downing a few bottles of vodka before they get out,” Reed said. “They are Russian, after all.”

  “Best behavior,” Jackie said under her breath.

  “It’s a formal occasion,” I said. “We’ve got an open bar, right?”

  “Yes,” Jackie said with a hint of hesitation. “But may I suggest …” she said it lightly, and the inference was not lost on me.

  “I’m not much of a drinker,” I said in reply, heading her off.

  The limo door opened and a woman got out first. I had the immediate impression that she was the sort who wanted to set foot on the battlefield before her compatriots. She loomed when she stood, a tall figure, scanning the glass front of the building as she took it all in. She caught sight of me lit up by the lobby lights and did not hesitate, offering a thin smile, the sort I expected was regularly employed in these situations. I knew their names, and I knew she was the leader. Natasya Sokolov. Tall, blond, regal, austere … she just radiated toughness and seriousness. I could identify with that.

  The next guy out of the limo was a charmer. He had that smile, the dark hair, the cool eyes, and he fiddled with his cuffs like he was Bond, James Bond, as he straightened up. He was average height, way above average in the looks department. I had a file photo of him taken from Russian news media, and he’d looked handsome in it. His charisma was even more apparent here, even with thirty feet and a series of glass partitions between us. Vitalik Kuznetsov. That was his name.

  The next one out was another man, this one below average height, with a look like he was about to fall asleep. His eyes drooped, but he took it all in like there was nothing here that he hadn’t seen before. The light dossier hinted he was Hungarian-born, and ended up recruited by the Russians solely because he was a meta. Miksa Fenes. He gave not one hint that he had ever smiled in his life.

  The last guy was a bear, fitting for a Russian. He got out of the limo with a hint of a stagger, like his balance wasn’t all there. He had a long beard that had been somewhat groomed but still looked kind of wild. Leonid Volkov was his name. I didn’t know exactly how to pronounce it, but I suspected it was like Leonard, maybe.

  They stood out in the subzero weather like it was nothing, cold frosting their breath. It misted in the lights, clouds swirling across their faces. I stared at each of them in turn, and felt a presence next to me.

  “Try to smile?” Jackie suggested. She hadn’t set off the metal detector.

  “Where’s Phillips?” I asked as I did what she’d told me to, pressing my lips into a tight line. I went for friendly and welcoming. Or maybe like when you’re passing a coworker in the hall and nod to them. Something in that vein.

  “You look like you’re about to dive into their midst and kill them all with your teeth,” Phillips said as he passed through the metal detector. No beep for him, either. “Do you not know how to smile?” He was still expressionless, which I thought was ironic, considering.

  I kept from throwing the obvious reply right into his blank face. “I’m working on it,” I said instead, and tried to think of something that would give me cause to genuinely smile. I had trouble with it.

  “The bathroom scene in Dumb and Dumber,” Reed said from behind the security post, like he could read my mind. I knew he didn’t want to walk through the detector because it’d be sure to go off.

  “Heh,” I said. “Hehe.” I felt my lips stretch into a broad grin, and I barely restrained a giggle. I looked back at the entry in time to see that the Russians were coming. One if by land, I thought.

  Phillips and Jackie flanked me, while Reed and Ariadne hung back behind the security checkpoint. Ariadne looked hesitant, and I wondered what was up with that.

  Natasya Sokolov entered the lobby, Vitalik holding the door for her. She surveyed everything warily while trying not to look like she was. She had a smile on, too, but it reminded me of a wolf trying to convince you that she wasn’t about to eat your flock.

  It probably wasn’t that far off what I’d been displaying a few moments earlier, actually.

  “Ms. Sokolov,” Jackie said, taking the lead. “I’m Jacqueline Underwood. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She offered a hand, which Natasya Sokolov looked at for a moment before she took it, shaking it awkwardly.

  “A pleasure indeed,” Sokolov said, without a trace of Russian accent. That caused me to raise an eyebrow. It also caused my mind to race; where would she have learned flawless English? We had the public version of her file that had been compiled over the last month or two by PR hacks like Jackie. I suspected there was a government version of her file somewhere else, maybe in a CIA or FBI vault, something in the intelligence or counterintelligence sections. I gathered that this was not her first visit to the United States, though that was total speculation on my part. Her eyes flicked to me. “And you must be Sienna Nealon.” She offered me a hand and waited to see if I’d take it.

  I faked a smile, thoughts of scenes from comedies gone in an instant. “I must be,” I said and hastily took her hand, giving it a quick shake before letting it go. It was two seconds contact, max, but she didn’t pull away first; I did. She studied me all the while, waiting to see what I’d do, how I’d handle the contact. It was in her interest not to touch me any more than she had to, but she was fearless in the way she did this; she was measuring me in her own way and giving me a little insight in the process.

  This was not a woman I would happily choose to mess with.

  “How do you do, Ms. Nealon?” Vitalik Kuznetsov asked, sliding up to me. I had a sudden vision of a shark gliding through the water, nothing but a fin cutting gently above the surface to warn its prey.

  “I’m do
ing just fine, Mr. Kuznetsov,” I replied, noting the unmistakable pleasure in his eyes that I’d gotten his name right. “How was your trip?”

  “A little bumpy in the middle,” he said smoothly, “but it’s looking oh-so-much better now.” His English was flawless, too, and this once again made me uneasy. There were a lot of classified files in government keeping that I had no access to, but I had this sick feeling that I was missing a whole lot of stuff that I should have been privy to. There was a story here, somewhere. These people were not just prisoners for the last thirty years because of some whim of the post-Soviet government. I had a whiff of something here, and I did not like the smell of it. And it wasn’t Phillips, either, though he did have a distinctive and unpleasant cologne.

  “Sienna Nealon,” Leonid Volkov said to me, and I caught the faintest hint of a slur to his words. “The face of American metahumans.” He broke into a grin. “And a pretty face at that; no wonder Vitalik dotes on you.”

  “I have an affinity for beauty,” Vitalik said, and he offered me his hand. When I gave him mine he took it with both hands, clasping it warmly. I could feel a slight tingle as he rubbed against the back of my hand for a few seconds, then, almost reluctantly, let it slip away. It felt like he’d been counting the seconds and released it only with the greatest regret. Beneath my mind’s whirling curiosity and discomfort at their English-language skills and all the little implications that came with them, I had to admit that Vitalik was … charming. Handsome.

  He smiled at me, warmly.

  Dangerous.

  “This is Miksa Fenes,” Vitalik said, still smiling, introducing me to the silent Hungarian, who gave me a subtle nod. “But you probably already knew that.”