by Cate Dermody
The world finally slowed down, clarity of thought descending over Alisha like a gift from the heavens. She surged forward, losing her grip on the drone’s ankle, and heard it clattering to its feet again behind her. She ignored it, rooting through the damaged walls. No wonder movies always set the climactic scene in warehouses, she thought in despair. Warehouses tended to be unfinished, with power cords and assembly lines lying conveniently around to finish off the bad guy with.
There. A thick banded power line, running up the side of the house. Alisha shot through it, closing her eyes against the brilliant flare of sparks that arced out, sizzling as they hit her cheeks and arms and made tiny burns. She put a foot against the wall, bracing herself, and yanked the line with all her considerable strength. Brackets holding it in place popped and tore free, the line coming loose in her hand. Alisha whipped her other hand out, shooting at the drone without looking. “Over here, you son of a bitch.”
It turned as if it understood her, laying off pursuit of the big Russian, who moved much more quickly than his bulk would suggest. Greg lay in a heap beyond the drone’s feet, but even as alarm sounded faintly in Alisha’s heart she saw him draw a breath, and returned her focus to the drone.
It gathered itself and leaped toward her, suddenly fluid and catlike in its movements. Alisha jumped to meet it, clutching the power line. Fire lanced along her shoulder as a volley of laser blasts hit, the scent of burning fabric and flesh now her own. Alisha dug her fingers into the break in the drone’s body where the disabled laser still protruded, letting her weight go dead. The drone’s legs splayed, then locked in place, bearing Alisha’s weight but unable to move without compromising itself.
Alisha kicked her shoes off, planted her feet in the water, and set her teeth together as she plunged the power line into the pooling water on the ruined subfloor.
Voltage spasmed through her body, taking the path of least resistance through delicate flesh and into the drone’s electronic network. There was no room for thought or action in Alisha’s mind, electricity shaking and vibrating her body at its own whim, as if it was as alive as she was. A dozen different kinds of agony erupted through her body, rawness in her throat as she screamed, cramps in every muscle as they knotted and re-knotted, unable to release. White-hot fire erupted at the base of her skull, as if a bullet had smashed through fragile skin and bone. She couldn’t unclamp her fingers from the drone’s body, the electricity that used her as a conduit keeping her locked in place. The acrid smell of burning hair made her want to cough, but her lungs had seized up and she had no way to draw in the air to cough with. Her heartbeat slammed erratically, pushed out of syncopation by the power coursing through her.
And then the pain lessened, unexpected and blissful relief in her traumatized muscles. The flack jacket beneath her suit coat, doing its work: absorbing much of the energy smashing through her. It was meant to take a direct hit, not leach power from a human body, but it worked. That was all that mattered.
The scent of burning wire and electrical fires pervaded through the other smells. The drone body above her sparkled and shone with destruction, electricity zapping over it in hard crackles and surges. The entire droid shifted, then collapsed, knocking Alisha aside as it fell. The voltage shooting through her smashed to a stop, power line yanked out of the water as Alisha twitched to the side. Exhausted muscles began unknotting, sending tremors through her. Alisha flung the power line away, trembling with effort as she pushed the drone’s body away. Her ears rang painfully, a distant voice making its way through the tinny sound. Rafe, she thought.
Christ. Rafe. Alisha fumbled for her abandoned gun, unable to focus her eyes. “You shagging whore,” broke through the noise in her ears, and she struggled to focus on the man suddenly standing above her. “You nasty little bitch. You thought you would win this. Not so fucking clever after all, are you? I still have the detonator.” He palmed it long enough for Alisha to see it, then slammed its button down with malicious glee. Alisha inhaled, sharp and shaking, expecting it to be the last breath she took.
Nothing happened. Even with her vision swimming in and out, she could see disbelief writ large across Rafe’s expression. Alisha laughed, then coughed, and fumbled her hand to the back of her neck where the chip had been. Blood and seared flesh came away and she laughed again. “Sorry.” Her voice was hoarse and raw. “Blew out the conductor, I guess. Lucky me.”
Rafe’s disbelief mutated into a snarl of rage. “Not lucky enough for Boyer.” He turned away, stepping over the drone’s dead body to scoop up Greg’s gun. Alisha shoved herself to sitting, squinting through the sparks and black spots of her vision. Director Boyer lay in a heap against the back wall, one hand wrapped around his shoulder, head nodding as he tried to retain consciousness. Blood dripped down the side of his face.
Alisha lurched to the side, snatching her gun from beneath one of the drone’s legs. She dragged in a deep breath, trying to gain enough strength to center herself from it, and pushed up to her knees, both hands cupping the gun as she pulled the trigger. “You’re dead, motherfucker.”
The chamber clicked.
For an instant neither of them moved, both too stunned, and then Rafe turned back to her with a harsh laugh. “Very dramatic, Ms. Moon. You couldn’t have done that better if you’d meant to. Boyer first,” he whispered, “then you. More satisfying for me that way.”
A gunshot, loud as Gabriel’s horn, shattered Rafe’s last words. Alisha jerked violently, the sound completely unexpected, and watched as pure astonishment washed over Rafe’s face. He began turning away from her a final time, the strength draining from his body as he did. His collapse was oddly graceful, a rose of red spreading over his back as he fell to reveal Frank Reichart standing in the room’s doorway, lowering his gun.
Alisha gaped at him long enough that he cracked a wry grin, then folded his hand away from the gun to reveal Brandon’s quantum flash drive nestled in his palm.
“You son of a bitch,” Alisha said in amazement. Reichart shrugged, blew her a kiss, and walked out the door, leaving Alisha and a scene of carnage behind.
Epilogue
The only thing I can take satisfaction from is knowing the copy of the software Reichart took off with was corrupted. Erika made sure of that. It wasn’t like I was going to offer a genuinely functional version of an AI on the black market.
Although Greg apparently thought I really would. He’s still furious with me, but in his defense, at least he turned over the copy Erika gave him without copying it. It looks like he’s one of the good guys after all.
Brandon’s in custody. I haven’t tried to see him yet; I’ve been working on this journal and my official report. I still don’t know whether he and Greg really were working together on a Sicarii case or not, but I’m determined to find out. I know that whether he ends up reinstated to the CIA should answer that question, but I’m feeling like a dog with a bone. I don’t want to let it go. There’s more to the Sicarii than I’ve learned so far, and I want to know more. Rafe’s certainly not going to be answering any of my questions. With any luck, Brandon will.
Or maybe, someday, Reichart. That son of a bitch. Did I say that? I should say it again. That son of a bitch. Erika thinks I need to cut him some slack for saving my life, but I’m sure I would’ve gotten my shit together and kicked Rafe’s ass.
Maybe not before he shot Boyer, though. He’s recovering, like we all are. They’ve got me on monitors to make sure my heart’s still strong enough to keep beating, after being electrocuted. Overall, not one of my better ideas, though at least it didn’t leave any physical scars.
Which is more than I can say for Boyer. He’ll have a scar in his hairline to impress the ladies with. So does the Russian, for that matter. His name was Anton, and they turned out to be FSB, not Mafia. The Russians weren’t happy about two of their men ending up dead, but it looks like things are being smoothed over.
But if they were FSB, who the hell was Reichart really working for? I n
o longer believe it was the Sicarii, but he had too much of an agenda for it to be completely freelance. It’s tied together somehow. I can feel it.
And aggravating as Reichart is, at least I’m feeling something. Those last few days there scared me. I don’t care if it is the job to be cool and collected: if I’m feeling that distant from what I’m doing, I shouldn’t be doing it. For a minute there I really was tempted to take the money and run, and if I did that…who would I be?
Maybe that’s a question for another time. For now, I need to finish this up and get it to the bank. I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist the temptation: I’m putting it in the one in Milan that I stole Brandon’s key for. That bank, anyway, if not the same safety deposit box. I wouldn’t want him to be able to waltz in and collect this chronicle like I collected his software. I like the idea of somebody finding it someday, maybe. That’s part of why I keep these journals. My way of saying, “Hey, I was here,” to the world. But I can’t make it that easy. Where would the fun in that be?
All right. Till next time, then.
—Agent Alisha MacAleer
ISBN: 978-1-4268-5450-7
THE CARDINAL RULE
Copyright © 2005 by Catherine C.E. Dermody
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.SilhouetteBombshell.com
*The Strongbox Chronicles