by Cate Dermody
“As opposed to inappropriately live ones.” Despite the alteration, the dryness of the speaker’s tone came through clearly. Hair stood up on the back of Alisha’s neck, a warning of familiarity that she couldn’t place. She twisted back to frown through the slit, Brandon’s shoulder no more revealing than it had been. The screen beyond him had a graphical interface, but no image to go along with the Internet phone. Alisha set her teeth together in soundless frustration.
“The Russians are sending a man in,” the mechanized voice said. “He’ll be there in the morning.”
“Dammit!” Brandon’s hand came down with a sharp crack. Alisha flashed her hand out, moving beyond the dark safety of the desk to open the second disk drive under the sound of Brandon’s anger. “I don’t like having even one agent here at a time! Two’s a disaster!”
Ice formed deep in Alisha’s belly, spreading through her in such clear increments she felt as if she was watching frost grow on a window. It froze her motion, fingers dangling over the opened disc drive. A knot of cold lay in her throat, catching her repetition of the word agent there before it could be uttered aloud.
“You couldn’t expect the Russians to hold off when a Middle Eastern conglomerate has moved in. They send in an agent, the Russians send in an agent.”
“And what about the Americans?” Brandon demanded. Alisha relaxed, the chill draining away from her bones. Agent didn’t necessarily mean CIA. But just because you’re paranoid, she thought, doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. She slipped the second disc free from the drive, front teeth set together like she’d whisper a “shh” to keep Brandon from hearing her.
“You are the Americans.” The distorted voice sounded chiding. Alisha’s shoulders went back, her head turning toward the source of the conversation again. Brandon’s response was abruptly weary.
“Yeah. Some days it’s hard to remember.”
“Others it’s hard to forget.” Chiding faded from the computerized speaker, leaving understanding in its place. It’s a woman. Alisha shook her head minutely at her own assumption, uncomfortable with it. Brandon’s contact—handler?—you are the Americans, the voice had said. What did that mean? Dammit! She unconsciously echoed Brandon’s own curse of moments earlier. Too many questions and absolutely no answers. Nor could she contact Greg for further data: until her scheduled pickup, Alisha was on her own.
On her own and possessed of two very dangerous pieces of material, she reminded herself. Still listening to Brandon and his contact—they were discussing when the Russian agent would arrive—she turned her gaze upward, studying the room for exit points. Knowing the security cameras were temporarily disabled left her considerably more freedom, though she didn’t want to make her move until Brandon was gone.
“The live demo’s at ten. If he’s not here by then—”
“Then you’ll do it again when he arrives. This isn’t just about the Russians, Parker. It’s about the Sicarii.”
“Son of a bitch,” Brandon said so mildly Alisha checked the impulse to peek over the edge of the desk to see his expression. The very low-keyness of his delivery made her feel it hid much deeper emotion. “All right.” Brandon’s tone remained improbably mellow. Curiosity itched at the back of Alisha’s mind, palms tingling with adrenaline. Sicarii. It meant nothing to her, though she thought it sounded Italian. The need to escape the computer lab began to pound at the base of Alisha’s skull, a throb that said her body felt as if it had been put into a danger zone well beyond what she’d prepared for.
She crept forward, trusting the conversation to be her cover. A staircase spiraled up into what the blueprints indicated was a ready room of some sort, above the computer lab and overlooking the enormous hub room. Brandon continued talking, more deferential than he’d been before. Alisha hesitated at the end of the row of desks and computers, frowning at the windows that made up the larger part of the room’s front wall. Lights were on in the hub room beyond it; her reflection would go unseen if she risked the stairs. But it would put her on a new level, one she might not be able to access her escape route from so easily. She closed her eyes, building the blueprints in her mind again, tracing the route in the air with a fingertip.
“I heard something.” Wheels squeaked as Brandon stood, pushing his chair back. Alisha winced, casting a sharp look over her shoulder. She caught a glimpse of the blond man striding down the rows of desks toward the door, the opposite direction she faced. She took one quick breath and sprang forward as noiselessly as she could, landing on the steel stairs with a soft thump that fell in time with Brandon’s footsteps. She scampered upward, casting one more glance over her shoulder.
The second disc drive was still open.
Right down Santa Claus Lane, Alisha sang to herself, and ran up the stairs in silence.
She could hear with astounding precision. It always happened when the shit hit the fan, a deliberate product of combat training. Her own heartbeat was too loud, but somehow only served as a backdrop for every other minute sound in the bunker. Pipes behind concrete walls creaked, air circulation thrummed with a deep, bone-shaking rattle normally reserved for film scenes set in deep space, and above all of that, Brandon’s voice cut through: “I don’t know. This isn’t the world’s most easily compromised place.” Alisha heard the faint whirr and click of the disc drive shutting and pulled her lips back from her teeth, coldly furious at the error. It was worse than dangerous: it was amateur.
The room she’d come into was dominated by an oval table and windows overlooking the hub. One of the windows was open; Alisha darted through it without taking time to think, vivid image from the blueprint giving her faith. Faith well rewarded: immediately to the window’s left were fire rungs, grooves cut into the wall. She scrambled up, rubber pads on fingers and toes giving her extra security, and within seconds was among the open pipes and florescent lights of the hub room’s ceiling. Preternaturally aware hearing picked out Brandon’s footsteps on the steel stairs below the lights’ hum, and a few seconds later he looked out the open window, frowning.
Looked out, but not up. Alisha stopped breathing, making herself a shadow behind the lights. A predatory flight instinct: run for the higher ground. There was a distinct corollary to that hardwiring—looking up for fleeing prey—that people rarely seemed to invoke. Brandon did, chin tilted up and eyebrows drawn down into a deeper scowl as he squinted against the brightness of the lights. Alisha felt a flash of approval that both exasperated and amused her. Greg Parker’s son hadn’t forgotten his CIA training, which was good. Except, of course, it was she he was looking for, and so his training boded her ill.
Not too ill, though: Brandon turned his gaze away from the shadowy ceiling after only a cursory glance. Alisha pressed her eyelashes shut briefly, then allowed herself to curve a smile so faint she could barely feel it. The window whooshed shut with a quiet puff of air, Brandon’s departing footsteps muffled by the seal. Alisha let go the breath she’d been holding and opened her eyes again, looking down twenty feet to the hub room’s floor.
Domes and spheres bounced silver light back at her from a dozen different areas, scattered across the floor. Corners of matte black swallowed light in the peculiarly distinct way that deadly weapons often did, barrels and ratcheting legs making a tangled mess. Alisha stared down without comprehension for long moments, waiting for the materials on the floor to rearrange themselves in her mind so they made sense. Then, with painful clarity, they did.
Objective the third: obtain the prototype drone. It had been the most difficult—physically, at least; Alisha wasn’t prepared to consider the emotional difficulty of the fourth objective, should it be necessary—to achieve. The drone’s physical size wasn’t overwhelming, but it was bulky enough to be awkward. It would have to be done in the very last minutes before she left the base, or her thieving ways would be noticed. Out of the objectives, it was the one most likely to go unfinished, although as a matter of pride Alisha intended to come out with the drone.
&nb
sp; Discomfort in her chest turned to a burn and she inhaled sharply, uncertain of when she’d taken her last breath. Her eyes were hot from not blinking. She pressed her eyelashes together again, then forced them open, as if she might somehow negate what she’d seen below with the fierceness of the blink.
It didn’t work. The drone she’d watched that afternoon—the Prototype Alpha-10-Gamma—sat in a corner, scuffs from use very slightly marring its gleaming surface.
Opposite it, cargo crates with their tops ripped off revealed five more drones hunkered down like silver-headed dwarves. They were identical to the Alpha-10, the same size and shape, and even half-wrapped in packing hay and foam, they seemed to give off a sense of malevolence. Goose bumps crawled over Alisha’s skin, leaving her shivering against the pipes.
She was looking at the beginnings of an army.
And there was no way she could steal it all.
Chapter 8
The return to her quarters was a blur. She could pick the details out if she focused, but it wasn’t the trip back that had kept her awake all night. Alisha lay on her back, eyes closed, racing—fruitlessly, she felt—through the same thoughts that had haunted her for the last hours.
Brandon had created an army of prototypes, his work progressed much further than the intelligence the CIA had suggested. He had an outside contact—his employers? No; clandestine midnight calls weren’t necessary for legitimate discussions. Someone else, then. Someone who considered him one of the Americans.
Dammit! Alisha clenched her jaw, trying to keep from letting the word burst out aloud. If it was possible Brandon Parker was working for the Americans—for the CIA—then his cover was so deep that Greg didn’t know about it. Which meant a hundred different things. It meant Alisha’s presence at the base was potentially dangerous to Brandon, an inexcusable chance that his cover might be blown. It could mean Brandon Parker was not at all the threat that his work presented him as.
And if that was the case, someone so far up in the Agency had placed him that not even Director Boyer knew that sending Alisha in might expose an operative. It meant, as too often happened, the left hand didn’t know what the right was doing. Secrets upon secrets: they were the lifeblood of the CIA, but functioning without full disclosure in a situation like this was disastrous.
There were too many unknown variables, questions that couldn’t be answered until she’d left the security of the Kazakhstani base. Impatient nerves made Alisha’s stomach ache, not from fear, but from anger and distress at her path being unclear. She’d lain in bed, sleepless, for nearly five hours. It was enough. More than enough.
She shoved the covers off and reached for her bag as she sat up. The red glow of a digital clock told her it was minutes before 6:00 a.m., a veritable lie-in for someone on a military base. Brandon’d pointed out an exercise room as he’d shown her to her room, and it was late enough to go make use of it. It had to be: her body was trembling with the need to move. She pulled on a sports bra and running tights, putting bare feet into tennies. Her MP3 player was custom built to run minidiscs like the ones she’d copied the Alpha-10-Gamma’s specs onto. Beneath the play mechanism lay enough room to hide four more minidiscs. Two were there now, the virus disc and the A-10-G’s schematics. Those specs had been prizes only a few hours earlier. Now they seemed to taunt her, playing the part of the visible ten percent of an iceberg.
Alisha allowed herself a silent snarl of frustration as she scooped up the MP3 player and jogged through the base to the exercise room. There was nothing she could do at the moment. Yoga, at least, would help her think more clearly.
“Ms. Moon.” Brandon’s voice cut through the music, a greeting that interrupted Alisha’s bakasana, the crane pose that put her weight on her hands, body curled in a ball and supported by the strength of her arms. She lifted a finger, uncertain if he’d see it, but it was the only action she could take without disrupting her pose. A moment later she heard the grate of weights being moved as she brought her knees out of their tuck and placed them even with her feet, remaining doubled for the space of a long exhalation. Then she reversed herself into a slow standing pose, opening her eyes to study Brandon as he loaded weights onto a chest press. He wore sweats and a T-shirt and looked like he’d had enough sleep, though she knew he hadn’t retired any earlier than she had.
So, she asked silently, who’s Sicarii? A grin flashed across her features as she imagined Brandon’s expression if she’d really put the question to him. Are you really still working for the CIA? Who’s your contact outside of this base?
“Morning,” she said out loud. “I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“Yeah, I saw.” Brandon waggled a finger, repeating her gesture of a moment earlier as he slid the last weight on the bar. “Glad the weight room’s useful to you.”
Alisha nodded, lifting a shoulder. “Need a spotter?”
She could see him about to refuse, and found herself crooking a smile at him as he rethought the offer. “Sure, thanks. If I’ve got a spotter…” He pulled another set of twenty pound weights off the rack and slid them onto the bar. “You always so helpful in the morning?”
Alisha pursed her lips, considering the man for a brief moment. What the hell, she thought, and dropped her voice into a purr, smile growing into a wholehearted, flirtatious grin. At the worst he wouldn’t respond; at the best, he might open up, maybe let something slip.
“Sometimes I’m much more helpful. On your back, Jack.” She pointed at the bench, grinning broadly. Brandon lifted his hands in acquiescence and laughed, rolling onto the bench as Alisha came over to stand behind the bar. “How many?”
“Three sets of fifteen.”
“You’re stronger than you look.” Alisha cupped her hands beneath the bar and braced her thighs.
“So’re you, if you can catch this thing.” He began his reps, gaze focused hard on the ceiling.
“I can’t,” Alisha said with perfect honesty. “Three hundred’s too much for me. But I can keep it from crushing you.”
“Two-eighty,” Brandon said through his teeth. Alisha grinned down at him.
“How pedantic of you.”
Brandon’s gaze flickered from the ceiling to her. He split a tiny grin, almost a grimace as he concentrated on the press, and finished his set before speaking again. “I’d rather be admired for what I can actually do.”
Alisha squinted at him. “Are you sure you’re male?”
He barked laughter, half-crunching up toward her. “Pretty sure.”
“Lie down,” she said, mock-severely. “Fortunately for you, you’ve got some pretty impressive…” Her gaze trailed over his chest before she brought it back to his face and grinned again. “Accomplishments.”
Brandon laughed out loud. “Are you supposed to flirt with your business associates, Ms. Moon?”
“Of course not.” But then, her business associates weren’t usually slender-hipped with broad shoulders and teen-idol smiles. “Do you always do what you’re told?”
Darkness glittered in Brandon’s eyes. “Not always.”
Alisha cocked an eyebrow, a jolt of interest making her stomach jump. “Fill me in.” For example, tell me about the army of prototypes you’ve got downstairs, when my intelligence suggested a single drone.
“Ms. Moon—”
“Elisa,” she reminded him. “I told you that yesterday.”
“And then you started calling me Dr. Parker again,” he pointed out. “You weren’t exactly happy when the prototype was misprogrammed. I couldn’t tell if you’d thawed out over dinner.”
Alisha spread her hands in a touché motion. “I thawed. I think being pissed off about being the prototype’s target was reasonable.” She tapped the bar again. “Back to work.”
Brandon settled back down and curled his hands around the bar. “It was. So anyway, Elisa,” he said, faint strain on her name, “I doubt my history is a secret to a woman like you.”
“Intelligent, attractive and highly paid for illicit wo
rk, you mean?”
Brandon grunted an acknowledgement, making Alisha grin again. “Not much of it,” she agreed. “So why’d you do it?” She left the question deliberately vague, curious to see what he’d choose to answer.
Nothing, for the space of his sets, and then he let his arms fall to either side of the bench and sighed tremendously. “Oversight committees.”
Alisha’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
Brandon chuckled. “Government organizations have accountability for everything. It takes forever to get anything done.” He shook his arms, then folded his fingers together, cracking his knuckles. “My prototypes would have gotten caught up in committee and debated for years. I didn’t want to wait.”
“Come on.” Alisha infused her voice with disbelief. “With the Attengee’s military potential? I thought enormous amounts of money were funneled into research and development.”
“Attengee.” Brandon breathed laughter. “That’s got kind of a ring to it. Easier than A-10-G.” He shrugged. “Sure, and with it you get almost no autonomy. This project has been my life. I wanted to do it my way.”
“Last set. You and Frankie, huh? So you opted for the highest bidder?”
Brandon flashed her a glance beyond the weight bar. “The most idealistic bidder.”
“Idealistic. You’re telling me that whoever’s paying for this research site really believes your drones will be used for nothing more aggressive than peacekeeping?” Alisha’s eyebrows rose in genuine curiosity. “Who is this font of decency?” Your Sicarii? she wondered, without voicing the question aloud.