Cold Spectrum

by Craig Schaefer

  Jessie chopped the side of her hand in front of her throat. “If I go like this, back off. Just do your best.”

  He made the call. A blur filled the video wall, resolving into the outline of a face. The person, their background, everything was covered in digital camouflage. Thousands of pixelated squares shifting and shimmering as a distorted voice emerged from the sound system.

  “Yes,” the voice said.

  Linkletter tugged at the knot of his tie. “Um, yes. Mr. Diehl wanted me to notify you when the wire transfer was under way.”

  “Confirmation numbers, please.”

  “Just—just a second,” the lawyer said. “I need to make sure the details are right. Where, exactly, is the pickup location?”

  A pause. The blurry figure sat motionless on the screen.

  “Details already confirmed with the client,” the Concierge said. “You don’t need to be involved.”

  “And where are you taking them?”

  “Them? I only have one package for transit. Again, details have already been confirmed with the client.”

  “But the address—” Linkletter said, flustered.

  Jessie chopped her hand near her throat, warning him off.

  “This is not how we do business,” the Concierge said. “Provide wire-confirmation details, or I’m terminating our agreement.”

  Linkletter caught Jessie’s frantically waving hand. He coughed, clearing his throat, and turned to the monitor.

  “Bank confirmation is as follows,” he said. “One, nine, D as in Denver, A as in apple, six . . .”

  When he finished, the Concierge terminated the call without speaking another word. Linkletter leaned against the desk, looking pale.

  “He’ll kill me,” he said. “If Bobby finds out I cooperated with the authorities, he’ll kill me. Or worse.”

  I wasn’t concerned about his feelings or his well-being at the moment. More frustrated that we hadn’t gotten anything out of Bobby’s smuggler. No idea where Crohn was holed up, no idea where he was going. And if he escaped to this Xanadu, he and Bobby would both be out of our reach.

  One package, though—that was strange. As far as we knew, Mikki and the soldiers from Panic Cell were still doing Crohn’s dirty work. What was their exit strategy?

  “What do you think?” Jessie asked me. “Drop him or take him with us?”

  “He’s Bobby’s lawyer. Whatever he knows, we can use it. I bet he can give us more than bank-account numbers.”

  “I . . . I will not be illegally detained,” Linkletter protested. “You’re going to answer for this.”

  “Shut it,” Jessie snapped. She glanced sidelong at me. “Good thinking. Let’s take him with us, find a place to put him on ice, and we can squeeze him dry later.”

  We marched him out ahead of us. Navigating the twisted halls by memory, making our way back toward the parking garage. I tapped my earpiece.

  “We’re on our way back, and we’ve got a prisoner. Are we ready to get airborne?”

  “Aselia says the plane is fueled and ready,” April’s voice replied. “Where are we headed?”

  “That’s the problem,” I sighed. “I’m not sure—”

  Linkletter, two feet ahead of us, crossed an open threshold. His palm shot out and slapped a chunk of the wood paneling. It sank like a stone under his hand. I jumped back as a steel grate whistled down between us, chopping down through the archway and sealing the hall. Jessie cursed and fired off a round at his back. The bullet pinged off the grate, sparking as it ricocheted, tearing into the mahogany wall.

  “Damn it, get back here!” she shouted. The lawyer couldn’t run fast, but he was putting his all into it. I pointed left.

  “Through here,” I said. “We’ll go around and cut him off.”

  We sprinted as fast as we could, faster than I dared—Bobby had studded the house with his psychic traps, and I hadn’t charted them all coming in. Jessie and Linkletter had the employee ID cards with concealed warding talismans. I didn’t. My senses in overdrive, my mind raced five feet ahead of my pounding footsteps.

  We caught up to him just as he darted into Bobby’s altar chamber. His expensive shoes sank two inches into the muddy loam. He turned, wide-eyed, and hit another concealed panel.

  Bars slammed down between us. He fumbled for his phone, standing in the dark. The odor of wet dirt and rotting flowers grew stronger, curdling in my nostrils.

  “Linkletter,” I said, my heart pounding as I caught my breath, “you need to come out of there, right now. Open this gate.”

  He shook his head, trying to dial with shaking hands.

  “I have to tell him,” the lawyer stammered. “If I warn Bobby, it’ll be all right. He’ll forgive me.”

  A shadow rose up at his back.

  It was a figure, a man, emerging from the mud. His featureless head crested from the soil, then his shoulders, rising up silently behind him. Jessie saw it, too. She shook the bars, the grate rattling in her grip.

  “Come on,” she said, “get out of there.”

  I clasped my hand over my mouth. The rotten stench stole my breath, my stomach churning. Linkletter fumbled his way through his contacts list. His sweaty, panicked face glowed in the light of his phone’s pale screen.

  The faceless muck man clamped a wet hand on Linkletter’s shoulder. The phone fell from his grip and into the loam as it spun him around.

  Then, just before he could scream, it plunged a curled fist into his wide-open mouth. Shattering teeth, cracking bone, Linkletter’s neck bulging as the muck man forced his putrid arm down the lawyer’s throat one brutal inch at a time. He gurgled, drooling blood. Pressed to his knees in the rippling black soil.

  “Linkletter?” Bobby’s voice echoed from the fallen phone. “Is it done? Did you make the transfer? Hello?”

  The creature ripped his arm from Linkletter’s throat. A spray of liquid filth spattered across the silken drapes on Bobby’s altar, glistening black in the shadows. The lawyer fell, dead, his white face and broken jaw an inch from the phone.

  “Hello? I can’t hear anything,” Bobby said. “Your connection is shit—call me back on a better line.”

  The screen went dark. The muck man descended into the loam, dragging Linkletter’s corpse down with it. The soil rippled with one final squelching pop, then fell still and silent.

  “Okay,” Jessie breathed. “That just happened. Let’s get out of here. Carefully. I was thinking we’d come back and search this place after we got done dealing with Crohn. Now I’m leaning more toward bombing the entire house from orbit.”

  “Bombing has my vote,” I said. We were almost out, stepping off the elevator and jogging through the parking garage, when April’s voice cut in over our earpieces.

  “Are you near a radio?” she asked.

  “We’re almost back to the SUV,” Jessie said. “Why? What’s up?”

  “Turn on the news. Any channel.”

  We jumped into the car, and Jessie fired up the engine. I tapped the radio presets until we found a news broadcast. It didn’t take long.

  “—apparent violent abduction of Senator Susan Cheng from her home in Columbus, Ohio. While authorities refuse to release details, this is the third such abduction of a senior government official to be reported this evening. Officials have declined to comment on whether these disappearances have any connection to the arrest of former FBI director Benjamin Crohn and his alleged illegal surveillance program, and have only said that they are pursuing this matter with all due—”

  Jessie threw the SUV into reverse and spun us around. We jarred to a stop on screeching tires. Then she hit the gas, and we tore down the private drive, aiming for Pacific Coast Highway.

  “Not three abductions so far tonight,” she said. “Four.”

  “Linder.”

  “And more coming, if my guess is right. Crohn’s buying his safe passage to Xanadu, and he’s bringing more than stolen data. He’s gonna serve up the entire Vigilant Lock directorate on a sil
ver platter.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “Bobby gets his revenge, and Crohn cuts all ties with his past. That’s why he scattered his team, back in New York: he gave them a target list. They’re rounding up hostages and bringing them someplace for safekeeping.”

  Jessie fixed her eyes on the road.

  “They won’t be safe for long. You heard the Concierge. He’s bringing one person to Xanadu. Those hostages are living on borrowed time.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And we’ve got no idea where to look for them.”

  We regrouped with the team in a private hangar, Aselia’s plane polished and ready to fly in the shine of harsh white work lights.

  “So that’s where we are,” Jessie said. “I figure Crohn’s gonna round up all the Vigilant directors, including Linder, and kill ’em all at once. Probably film it as proof, or maybe he’ll do it while Bobby watches on a video feed. His token of sacrifice, to join the Network.”

  Kevin hunched over a workbench, surrounded by a scattering of half-assembled electronics. He peered through a magnifying glass on a boom arm as he twisted a screwdriver.

  “We lose them,” he said, “we pretty much lose Vigilant. No funding, no intel, no inside connections.”

  Aselia grimaced. She leaned against the bonnet of the Cessna with her arms crossed tight. “And then Crohn skips off on his merry way and vanishes forever. Can’t believe we actually have to save these assholes, but the kid’s right. So what’s the plan?”

  Jessie’s face fell. She took off her dark glasses. Her turquoise eyes stared out at the empty runway.

  “I don’t have one,” she said. “Trying to get info out of Bobby’s smuggler was a bust. The raid at Diehl HQ threw a wrench in the works, but we didn’t get any actionable intel . . . it’s a dead end. We’ve got nothing.”

  “Maybe not,” April said.

  She rolled across the smooth concrete floor, over to Kevin’s workbench.

  “How fast can you build a GPS transmitter, and how small can you make it?”

  “Real fast and real small.” He nodded at the bench. “I already have one. Supposed to build it into the new drone. It’s light, about the size of a gum ball.”

  “Good,” April said. She patted her armrest. “These parts unscrew fairly easily, and the armrests are hollow. Build the tracker into my chair and get it online, if you would, please.”

  Jessie turned around, furrowing her brow. “Aunt April? What are you doing?”

  “If Ben Crohn is on a kidnapping spree, I see no reason not to join the party.”

  She pulled down her bifocals, gazing at Jessie over the gray steel frames.

  “We’re going to give him a target he can’t resist. Me.”

  FORTY-TWO

  “No.” Jessie paced the hangar, shaking her head. “No, absolutely not, nuh-uh, no way.”

  “It’s the only way,” April said.

  “It’s the insane way, was that what you just meant to say? They’re not kidnapping these people for ransom. They’re going to kill them.”

  April took a deep breath.

  “Not until he has them all in one place. Otherwise the news would be talking about bodies, not abductions. Crohn doesn’t know that we know Linder’s been taken. If we send a mission report with our locations, and I appear to be alone and unguarded, he won’t be able to resist. We let him kidnap me, take me to the location with the other hostages, then you and Harmony can move in.”

  “While you’re unarmed,” Jessie said. “And in the line of fire.”

  “I’ve been in worse situations. We need to know where Crohn’s infernal contracts are. If I can get him talking, I think I can burrow my way into his head. Manipulate him into giving up the location so you’ll have a chance to retrieve and destroy the documents.”

  “Isn’t getting into people’s heads what he does, too?” Kevin asked.

  “Yes.” April favored him with a thin, humorless smile. “I’m better at it than he is.”

  Jessie floundered, grasping for an argument. “What if they leave your chair behind? No GPS means we don’t have any way of knowing where they’re taking you.”

  “Put yourself in their shoes,” April replied. “I weigh a hundred and never-you-mind pounds, and I can’t walk. If you had to take me prisoner, would you really want to carry me off—making a scene in the process, and discovering there’s nothing wrong with my fists—or just leave me in the chair and roll me to my presumptive doom? If there’s one thing we can trust, it’s the human tendency to take the path of least effort.”

  Jessie’s gaze snapped my way. “Harmony, back me up here.”

  “I’m sorry, Jessie.” I shrugged, helpless. “I don’t like it, either. It’s a dangerous plan, and there’s no telling how many ways it could go wrong. But the clock’s running out, and I don’t see another way.”

  Jessie fell silent. She stopped pacing.

  “Kevin,” she said, her voice softer now, “this transmitter of yours. It’s long-range? Reliable? One hundred percent reliable?”

  “Yeah, mostly. I mean, it’s tech, nothing is ever a hundred—”

  “Kevin.” Her eyes flashed, softly glowing. “I’m asking if you’re willing to bet April’s life on it. Yes or no.”

  He swallowed, hard. “Yes.”

  “Fine,” Jessie said. “Then we’re doing this. Get her chair rigged. April, find us a staging ground. Then Harmony can make the call.”

  “Agent Black.” Linder was a good actor. I wouldn’t have caught the strain in his voice, the rough edges of his breathing, unless I’d been listening for it.

  “Reporting in,” I said. Every word from my lips going straight to Crohn’s ears. “Jessie and I finished our raid on Bobby Diehl’s mansion. We found some actionable intel. Financial irregularities at a Diehl Innovations subsidiary in Berkeley. We’re going to check it out now.”

  The line went mute for a few seconds, the sound cutting out as Linder was given his orders, probably with a gun to the back of his head.

  “Excellent work,” he said. “And the rest of your team?”

  “Since we’re staying in California, Kevin and Dr. Cassidy are holing up here in LA. No need to relocate them—they can provide mission support from the motel.”

  “Agreed.” Another pause. “I haven’t seen an expense request for the motel room yet. That’s not standard procedure. Usually you’re much more prompt with your receipts.”

  He effortlessly established the lie. I feigned contrition and passed on the intel: the address of a Red Roof Inn on a rough stretch of road by the airport. Room five.

  Jessie and I were in room four, huddled by the adjoining door with the lights out and the curtains drawn. Waiting. Kevin was across the street, keeping his head down and his eyes peeled. April waited alone in her room.

  An hour passed, then two, then three, the minutes creeping by like slow drops of molasses.

  “I hate this,” Jessie told me.

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “I know.”

  “We should just jump whoever shows up to take her. Force ’em to tell us where Crohn and the other hostages are.”

  “They won’t talk.”

  She glared at me. “Bullshit they won’t. I can make them talk. You know I can.”

  “You remember our briefing. These Panic Cell troops are true believers. They don’t mind dying: they’ve got cushy jobs waiting for them in hell.”

  “So why are they helping Crohn defect?” Jessie shook her head, brow furrowed. “Caitlin said these Network creeps aren’t demons.”

  “I doubt they know that. Who knows what excuse Crohn gave them? Point is, by the time we get through to them—the easy way or the hard way—those hostages will be dead.”

  Jessie’s head slumped. She stared at the adjoining door.

  “I hate this,” she said.

  “Movement.” Kevin’s voice crackled over my earpiece. “A car just showed up. Looks like one of those Panic Cell dudes and, uh . . . Special Agent Mikki.”
/>   Jessie put her fingertip to her ear. “We are not making ‘Special Agent Mikki’ a thing, Kevin.”

  “Well, she’s at the check-in desk and flashing her badge like she’s on a TV show. Okay, now they’re headed up the walk by the parking lot. She’s twirling a room key around—must have gotten it off the manager. Get ready, Doc.”

  “I’m prepared,” April’s voice said. “Taking my earpiece off now. I’ll toss it under the bed so you can pick it up after I’m gone.”

  “April—” Jessie started to say.

  “They’ll take it from me anyway and likely destroy it. No sense wasting good electronics.”

  We heard the door to her room rattle open, then the muffled sound of voices through the adjoining door.

  “Mikki,” April said, pretending to be surprised, “how did you find me?”

  “Because I’m smarter than you. Where’s Kevin?”

  “He’s not here.”

  Then we heard the crack of a backhand slap. Jessie lurched for the door as April cried out. I held her shoulder, firm, pulling her back.

  “I can see he’s not here, you stupid bitch,” Mikki snapped. “Where is he?”

  “Jessie and Harmony,” April said, her voice strained. “They needed his help on-site. He’s on his way to join them in Berkeley.”

  “Y’know what? I don’t think I believe you.”

  Whatever she did next, it made April squeal like a kicked dog. Jessie strained against my grip, her eyes squeezed shut and her hands curled into fists.

  “That’s enough,” said a man’s gruff voice. “The director wants her in one piece.”

  “I want Kevin.”

  “I don’t care what you want,” he told her. “We have our orders. Cassidy is the priority target—anyone else on the list is gravy. Let’s go.”

  Mikki started for the door. Then her footsteps stopped. I could feel her mind stretching out, tickling at the back of my brain like an anxious gnat. For once, Mikki’s prowess as a one-trick pony worked in our favor: her magic was great for lighting things on fire, and that was about it. She gave up, failing to sense us crouching ten feet from her, and walked out. They wheeled April to a waiting van. Jessie and I sat beside the door, breaths held, waiting for them to leave before we broke cover.