Karina Cooper - [Dark Mission 05]

by One for the Wicked

  This was where he’d try his newfound theory. The one that said maybe, just maybe, May knew something he didn’t about these people. Traitors to their own cause. Maybe the saviors of his?

  What options did he have? “What vision?”

  “A few weeks back,” Caleb said, matter-of-factly as if he weren’t rocking back on his heels on a broken, pitted lot of an abandoned witch-making lab, “I saw a vision, something about the future.”

  “Here or something in the distance?”

  Parker tilted her head. “You put your faith in witchcraft, Mr. Lowe?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is this the missionary asking?”

  Her fingers tightened on Simon’s arm as the man tensed. “No. This vision affects all of us.”

  “It basically said that Laurence Lauderdale was going to be responsible for hundreds of thousands of people dead,” Simon said tightly. “A mountain of corpses.”

  Shawn shrugged. “What, like the witch labs?”

  “Worse,” Caleb replied, and though it was a quiet syllable, it cut through Shawn’s lingering annoyance. His pride.

  The ache in his chest.

  Somehow, the way the blond kid spoke, it carried weight.

  Parker’s red eyebrows furrowed. “If Jonas’s data is correct and he somehow knows how to predict the earthquakes, he’s not letting the people in the danger zone know. We have to find out what he’s doing and why.”

  “We have to do more than that,” Simon said, curving one arm around Parker’s waist. “Incoming, Jonas.”

  “I . . . can’t argue what you guys aren’t saying.” Jonas’s gaze flicked beyond the group. Headlights turned a corner, panned over the gritty lot. His glasses’ lenses flared brightly and went transparent again. “Who brought in the cavalry?”

  The van, dirty white and bearing the scars of time and hard wear, settled close enough to paint them all in gold.

  “Argue what?” Shawn demanded as the door opened. “What’s not being said?” Danny hopped out, turned, and helped a familiar sandy blond woman out behind him.

  “Of course,” Jonas added, as Naomi snorted.

  Shawn wasn’t sure what the joke was. He didn’t care.

  Jessie hit the ground, didn’t even pause before jogging over to the group. “Everything’s quiet for now,” was her greeting, followed by Danny’s added, “No more aftershocks, but there’s a citywide curfew officially in effect to get people off the street. Far as I can tell, there’s at least one Church-sanctioned witch with every police and riot force unit, now, and they’re mean.”

  “What are we talking about?” Jessie added, circling them to nudge a shoulder against Caleb’s.

  The similarities, though he was taller and she obviously older, struck Shawn immediately. Siblings.

  Simon, squinting, muttered, “That’s the last of us here.”

  Parker frowned up at him. Worry drew a deep weft in her brow. “Are you all right?”

  “Usual song and dance,” he murmured. She laid a hand on his chest, which he covered with one of his own.

  “Party in the GeneCorp lot?” Naomi’s amusement was made of something sharp. Cutting.

  “Seemed as good a place as any,” Jonas admitted, reaching up, arm brace hanging from his forearm, to rub at his forehead as if it hurt. A lot of that going around. “We found Kayleigh Lauderdale’s reader, but it’s not that helpful. She wasn’t dumb enough to carry the syringe with her, so we’re discussing options. After three weeks, that stuff’s been analyzed to death. If the cure exists, it’s in the topside mainframe.”

  “So, we’re not looking at options,” Simon translated, lifting his gaze from Parker’s deeply concerned expression. “One. Singular. We get up there, we figure out what the fuck is going on, and then we kill the son of a bitch.”

  “I don’t think killing Lauderdale will—”

  Oh, yeah, it would. “I volunteer,” Shawn said immediately, cutting off Jonas’s calm voice of reason.

  “So do I,” Simon added. “I want that son of a bitch to go down screaming.” The venom in his voice earned a surprised raise of Shawn’s eyebrows. “And if we’re damned lucky, Kayleigh will be up there with that goddamned syringe.”

  Caleb half turned, his square features pulled into a tight frown. Shawn noticed his gaze settled on Parker, whose mouth flattened to a thin, white line.

  He glanced at Simon. “Parker—”

  Simon let her go. “She knows the score.”

  “Damn it, Simon,” she whispered. So much pain, so much wanting wrapped in raw apprehension.

  Shawn looked away before he turned Simon down flat.

  Their relationship, their arguments, were none of his affair. He needed manpower, and by all accounts, Simon Wells hated Laurence Lauderdale as much as he did.

  If they found the cure up there, well, so much the better.

  Naomi sighed, shaking back her wet hair as she casually planted an elbow against Shawn’s shoulder. He didn’t stagger under the sudden weight, but the look he shot her went ignored as she grinned fiercely. “You’re all a bunch of morons and I’m going, too.”

  “No,” Jonas cut in, flashing her a steely look that wiped her smile. “We need you with the wounded, Nai. No one else can do what you do.”

  The elbow on his shoulder jerked away. “Shitfucker.” This time, the hand that shoved through her wet hair smacked of impatience. “You need someone who’s up on Mission protocol.”

  “I can—”

  Danny slipped a hand over Jonas’s mouth, forcing the thinner man’s eyes to go wide behind his spectacles. “Don’t even say it. Don’t even think it.”

  Jonas gripped his wrist, sliding his hand down. “They need someone,” he pointed out, but Danny only shook his head and declared, “We need you more than they do.”

  For a long moment, nobody spoke. Shawn studied them from beneath furrowed eyebrows, one hand clenching and unclenching at his side.

  A lover’s thing?

  No. For once—maybe more than just for once, maybe in a display of maturity Shawn hadn’t ever given Danny credit for, the kid said flatly, “May’s in no shape to keep the information flowing. You’re master of the wave, Jonas, you’re the only one who can do what she does, even without her gifts.”

  Color suffused Jonas’s cheeks. “Oh.”

  Parker, silent and still since Simon’s offer, raised her head. Strands of her hair clung to her cheeks in a wet gleam of copper, but her eyes were cool, icy calm as they settled not on Jonas, but on Shawn. “I’ll go.”

  Next to Caleb, Jessie’s head came up hard. Her eyes narrowed.

  Was he the only objective one here?

  That was laughable, given he couldn’t close his eyes for two seconds without imagining what it had felt like to have Kayleigh writhing beneath him. Crying out his name. Begging for more.

  Betraying him when he was at his weakest.

  The blind leading the clinically insane.

  His smile was tight. “Fine,” he snapped, glaring at Simon as the man opened his mouth. “We need someone who knows the Mission inside and out. Can you name anyone else?”

  The man hesitated. His features darkened. “No.”

  “Then it’s done.”

  Naomi threw up her hands. “Why did I give up my gun again?”

  Caleb smiled, but it wasn’t an easy expression. The scar tilted it to a lopsided edge. “Because you’re smarter than you look.”

  “Fuck you, Leigh.” She looked up at the sky, and as if this was everyone’s cue, Shawn watched as they all followed suit.

  That black void cut across the view only emphasized the point.

  “I’m going to need your girlfriend,” she added to Caleb after a moment’s pensive silence.

  “Fiancée.”

  “Whatever.”

  Caleb’s smile betrayed more than a trace of gruff affection. “She can be there in an hour.”

  Shawn didn’t know what else had somehow been conveyed in that simple exchange, but it d
idn’t matter.

  Let Naomi do what she did with the sick and injured. Let Caleb do what he needed to do with the visions or whatever he did. Jonas would direct Simon, Parker, and Shawn topside for the kind of operation he’d waited sixteen years for.

  Parker tucked her hair back over her shoulder. “We should get ready.”

  Jessie’s mouth tightened. “Parker—”

  “Bigger things at stake,” she said over the witch’s protest.

  Shawn didn’t even bother to translate. “Meet at the garage in two hours.” That should give them all enough time to prepare. To talk.

  To say their good-byes.

  Shawn couldn’t begrudge them that much. Even it was more than he ever got. Too damned close. He’d let her in too close, trusted her too far, and he’d paid for it.

  Never trust a Lauderdale.

  As they shouldn’t trust him. The taste of his own medicine burned a hole in his gut.

  He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  So why, he thought as he turned away from the group, did he volunteer for what amounted to a suicide mission?

  “Hey, Shawn?”

  He paused.

  Jonas’s familiarly awkward footsteps approached. “I have something for you, if you want it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The nurse in wrinkled purple scrubs watched Kayleigh sign her name with a flourish, her stern features set into disapproving lines. “Once more, Dr. Lauderdale, I have to stress that we really should keep you for observation—”

  “No,” Kayleigh cut in, not for the first time. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Around them, the hum of the hospital seemed muted. More than half the staff had been transferred to high-risk areas below the sec-lines, leaving a skeleton crew to maintain the quieter topside streets.

  Kayleigh wasn’t going to stay in that bed any longer than she had to. Wasn’t going to stare at the plain white ceiling, listening to machines monitor her heartbeat and her vitals, and think about all the things she didn’t have answers for.

  Jessie and her mother. Parker and her accusations.

  Matilda Lauderdale.

  The Eve sequence.

  Shawn.

  Her father hadn’t come to see her. Nobody had come to check on her but one doctor in a hurry and her father’s assistant, who’d briefly and conscientiously dropped off a bag of clothes, a new comm, and a large vase of flowers he claimed came from her father. He hadn’t stayed past a cursory check-in.

  Kayleigh didn’t need the attention. Didn’t need the extra burden.

  She handed the readout to the nurse, who was already imprinting her thumb to the lock. “I’d like a copy of my file, please,” she added.

  “Notes show we have it sent directly to Director—”

  “Send it to me,” Kayleigh interrupted evenly. “Right now, please.”

  The nurse shrugged. “Nothing has changed from your last stay, according to the charts, but . . .” A few seconds as her fingers skated over the reader. “Flagged for delivery, Doctor.”

  “Thank you.” Kayleigh zipped up the dove gray cashmere sweater that wasn’t hers, hiding the pale blue T-shirt beneath. The dark-wash designer jeans fit surprisingly well, but at the price tag, she’d have been more surprised if they didn’t. Patrick must have sent out for new clothing. The items were informal enough to get her from the hospital to home without much impact on her surroundings, but she wasn’t going home.

  Her father had dodged her calls. Fine. She’d get half her answers herself, and confront him with the rest.

  The intercom overhead chimed. “Code blue, south wing.”

  “Excuse me,” the nurse added, already turning away.

  “Wait,” Kayleigh called to her retreating back. “Can you buzz me into the elevator?”

  Obviously harried, the nurse reached across the desk, thumbed the switch inset into a panel of them, and gestured. “Quickly, Doctor.”

  Kayleigh smiled her thanks, slung her new tote over her shoulder and quickly made her way through the far door. The same door she’d stepped in to visit her father.

  She wasn’t going to try again.

  The comm in her hand chimed, a pretty bell-like tone, as she reached the silent elevator. Kayleigh checked the screen. Two messages.

  As she stepped into the reflective elevator, giving herself a cursory glance to make sure she’d managed to at least put herself together with Patrick’s delivered supplies, she scanned the text.

  So glad you’re feeling better. Go right home and get some rest.

  Her father. The fact that he was still up didn’t surprise her. A lump formed in her throat as she stared at the innocuous words.

  He knew she’d left. Probably got word the instant she’d signed the checkout documents. He had time to send a note, but not to call her.

  He was busy. Of course he was busy. A pall hung over the city, thick as smoke. Even she felt it from the dubious haven of her hospital room.

  The bishop was dead. The Mission in disarray.

  There was no one else to grab the reins and keep the city from falling apart.

  The gravity of the situation didn’t make her need for answers any less important.

  Kayleigh rubbed the back of her neck as her thumb pressed the comm screen.

  This time, the message that filled it scrolled for a few seconds before it stopped.

  The elevator car slowed. When the doors opened, she stepped out, but she wasn’t focused on the corridor in front of her. That hadn’t changed; a hasty scan showed her white walls, fluorescent lights, all the same things she’d come to expect for so many years.

  She strode rapidly down the simple hall, eyes on her comm screen.

  The chart filling it was detailed and precise.

  She read it twice. Heart rate, oxygen levels, vitals all strong. She was deficient in several vitamins—she made a mental note, clinically detached, to increase her supplements. Beyond the surface data, past the diagnostic notes, the deeper genetic details scrolled in a flurry of data that might have read like gibberish to anyone else.

  She wasn’t anyone else.

  Kayleigh read it a third time.

  Her footsteps drew to a stumbling halt.

  A fourth.

  Her hands began to shake.

  She could see the paths laid out before someone, Jessie Leigh had explained.

  By the time Kayleigh pressed her thumb to the security lock outside her laboratory door, a vein throbbed, pounded, in her forehead. It took her two tries to get the retina scan properly.

  The door hissed open, released compressed air as the tumblers disengaged. She pushed inside, ducking under the hanging flap of plastic, ignored the dark offices lining the lab proper, ignored the shrouded machines and silent worktables.

  “Computer,” she said, her voice breaking. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Computer, wake up.”

  “Imprint verified.”

  She had no time for that. Grip white-knuckled around the comm, Kayleigh circled the main table as lights flickered to life in a path behind her. Ahead of her.

  She didn’t see it. Didn’t notice as the computers at her workstation blinked on.

  “Call up all data on unknown matter analyzed eight days ago,” she whispered. When no mechanical voice assured her of its progress, she repeated it, louder.

  “Displayed,” said the pleasant voice. “Computer fourteen, monitor number one.”

  Her stomach turned, over and over, torn between fear and fury and pain.

  The chart was wrong. Of course it was wrong.

  It couldn’t be wrong.

  Kayleigh tossed her comm to the table as she passed it, strode into her office, and dug through her desk until she found one of her kits.

  “Power up blood analysis,” she ordered, her voice louder than it needed to be. Sharper than the quiet hum of machines warming, equipment thrumming gently.

  “All units powered and ready.”

  “Pull file Lauderdale, Kay
leigh—classification seven-seven-three-six—from my comm.”

  “File acquired,” the computer assured her.

  There were papers on her table. Trays of samples she hadn’t even thought about in days, notes from her techs. It seemed a lifetime ago that she’d hunched over this table as Shawn watched her from the stool behind her.

  With one jerky motion, she swept it all to the floor, threw the lid off her kit.

  “Display beside analysis from unlabeled sample,” Kayleigh demanded, even as she shoved her sleeve up. The tourniquet pinched as she wrapped it around her own arm; the needle pinched more.

  She filled two vials with her own blood, guts churning.

  What other excuse was there?

  She slapped a gauze pad over the small wound left behind, taped it sloppily into place. “Prepare analysis.”

  No use speculating until she had facts. Her own facts. Surely something had gone awry. Something strange, a mixed file or . . . or . . .

  Or Laurence Lauderdale had lied.

  Her fingers shook as she slotted one vial into the DNA sequencer.

  “Analyzing,” the computer reported, and she wanted to throw something at that pleasant, even voice.

  Kayleigh held her breath. When her lungs started to clamor for air, she exhaled hard, jamming her fingers into her hair and digging her nails into her skull as she waited for the results.

  Ten minutes. Lab Seventeen had been outfitted with the fastest and most cutting-edge technology available anywhere. Ten minutes was a far cry from the week of laborious analysis the old genome sequencers used to require before the fall of the old city.

  Ten minutes seemed a lifetime.

  “Locate active news frequency,” she demanded. “Volume to six.”

  Without confirmation, a woman’s voice filled the speakers wired into the lab. “—as the death toll pauses at forty-three confirmed cases, with over fifty more in critical care or missing. There have been no further aftershocks and many are hoping that this is the end.”

  Kayleigh didn’t sit. Tension all but vibrating from toes to scalp, she gripped the edge of the table and stared instead at the mysterious liquid she’d taken from Parker.

  Great since your mother fixed me.