"Logan," he said.
"Michael," Logan said.
I guess it makes this easier that they know each other. Or harder, Ria thought.
"Here's your warrants. Try not to need them. They're forged." He handed Ria several blue folders and a badge case. "Welcome to the Justice Department."
Michael turned to the door. Like most of the office buildings in Washington, it had a keycard lock. He produced a card and slipped it into the slot. The light flashed green. The three of them walked inside.
The lobby might have been that of any large corporation—no fancy inlaid seals on the floor here, just a reception desk and security gates similar to the ones in her own building in New York. Two guards seated behind the desk. One for use and one for show.
"May I see your identification?" one of the security officers said as they approached.
Both armed. And a panic button within reach that will seal the building and alert on-site security personnel, but no one outside. She's just about to reach for it. . . .
"No," Ria said simply. She made a gesture, and both guards settled back in their seats, staring straight ahead, asleep with their eyes open.
She pointed. Logan and Michael headed toward the elevator, going around the barrier and the screening gate. Ria turned back to the security console.
:Sleep,: she said silently, placing a hand lightly on the security console. Within seconds, all the lights and monitors dimmed to black. She turned away, following the two men.
Michael's keycard opened the elevator as well.
"Where to?" he asked. "I warn you, this is where the fun begins."
"Five," Ria said without hesitation. It had been a number much in Nichol's thoughts, as far as the objects he had handled retained them. And it was as good a place to start as any.
"Here we go."
The doors closed. The car began to move. And everything went completely silent.
Not in a physical fashion—Ria could still hear the mechanical sounds of the elevator, the sounds of breathing and heartbeats, and even—if she Listened—what Michael and Logan were thinking.
But everything else—the hum of Power, the background hum of all the other minds within her reach, the faint sense of other preterhuman intelligences now and again—all that was gone, shut off at the instant the doors had closed.
I guess I've come to the right place, then, Ria thought, fighting down an uncharacteristic wave of anxiety at the odd sense of blindness. This was shielding on an inconceivable scale. It didn't matter how much Power you had. Punching through these shields would be simply impossible. Any form of magic that required Piercing the Veil simply wouldn't work here—human sorcery would be powerless, and Elven magic would burn out quickly, unable to renew itself without its link to Underhill.
But a human/Elven hybrid ought to be able to show them a few tricks, if I'm careful . . .
The doors opened.
"Showtime," Michael said.
* * *
He'd tried another conjuration—after what Nichol had done to him he'd been afraid to do anything else. He'd fasted and prayed, knowing all along it was useless but going through the motions anyway, wondering if he had the courage to cut his own throat.
He should have. But instead he'd kept on, finding safety and comfort in the familiar prayers and invocations, thinking—God forgive him—that at least they'd leave him alone while he was in the workroom.
But they hadn't.
Suddenly—after hours? days?—all the lights had come up. He'd stood there, stunned by the sudden actinic brightness, and two men had come in, walking across his carefully drawn diagrams as though they were meaningless scribbles, dragging him from the room. He was weak by then from fasting, dazed from the sudden interruption. He'd barely had enough sense of self-preservation left to keep from protesting.
He'd been sure, then, that this was the worst thing they could do to him, this disparagement and contempt for his sacred Art.
They'd had so much still to teach him.
They'd brought him to another room. With a last vestige of self-mockery, he realized it was also a workroom. Their workroom.
There, time had ceased to have any meaning. Very soon, Marley Bell would gladly have broken the holiest and most sacred oaths he'd ever sworn, only they didn't care about those.
Elves. They wanted to know about elves.
He knew about elves, of course—the medieval inquisitors had been obsessed with them, and no one who studied old grimoires and the history of magic could avoid at least a passing familiarity with the Inquisition.
They hurt him.
He told them everything.
But it wasn't what they wanted to know.
They said he was lying.
And they hurt him again.
He had never understood before that time how the fear of pain and the fear of death could be separated, but in that room they taught him. In that room, they taught him to fear life, for only the living suffered, while the dead were beyond pain. But he was young and strong—they told him that—and his capacity to endure was extraordinarily good.
They said he worked for the elves. He swore he did not—over and over he swore to them; his soul was his own; he hadn't sold it; what did they want?
They wanted him to tell them about what he did with the elves.
Nothing—nothing!
And they hurt him again.
Perhaps, they said, he worked for the elves without knowing it . . . ?
And dear God, he'd seized upon that possibility, anything to be able to give them answers that would stop the pain, stop the whine of the generator, the lancing of the fire through the electrodes taped to his body.
But still his answers weren't right, though he tried, he tried very hard, he really did, begging them to just tell him what they wanted him to say, he'd confess to it, all of it. . . .
Pain, fire, and the stink of his own burning flesh.
* * *
He woke up in his cell, lying on the floor.
He'd been here before, he thought, though by now he knew his memory was not completely trustworthy. Sometimes they stopped and let him rest before taking him back to their workroom again. So he wouldn't die too quickly, Marley supposed.
The first time, he'd thought it was over, that they believed him. Then they'd come for him and begun all over again, asking the same questions in endless variation. Now he no longer hoped. He'd tried making up the answers they wanted, but when the pain began he couldn't keep his stories straight.
His muscles shuddered uncontrollably, cramping and spasming painfully. His bones felt hollow, and his mouth tasted of bile and blood. His throat was raw from screaming.
Mother always told me the world was going to hell. And she was right. More than that, it's already there.
Was it worth trying to move? Maybe, to get from the floor to the bed. He might be able to manage that. And maybe they'd left him some water.
There was a sudden loud sound. Marley cringed. He couldn't help himself. It came again.
Gunfire.
Suddenly there was a sizzling sound, like frying bacon, from the door of his cell. It began to swing inward. Marley cried out, finding the strength in sudden terror to scrabble backward on hands and knees.
Not now! Not yet!
* * *
There hadn't been anything she wanted on Five; a corridor of anonymous doors, deserted at this time of night. Marley had been there, briefly, but he wasn't now.
"Come on," she said to Logan. "Michael?"
Michael was regarding the corridor of anonymous doors like a boy with a roomful of Christmas presents, unable to decide which one to open first.
"Oh, I'm fine here. But you'll want this," he said, offering her a second keycard. "Use it wisely. And do try to stay out of trouble."
"Of course," Ria said with grave amusement. She left Michael there, happily opening doors, and went out into the stairwell.
:Where are you, Marley Bell?:
It was
a simple Seeking spell, one she used every day almost without thought, but now she could feel the cost of it, the power that she spent that went unrenewed, draining away like water poured into sand. Ria dearly wished she knew exactly how the interior of the PDI was shielded—was it just the whole building, or were some interior rooms separately shielded as well?—because without that information, she might be about to make some lethal mistakes.
But she had an answer—or part of one, anyway.
"Up."
Seven was occupied. The lights were on, and Ria could hear the fleeting hash of thoughts. But there was no one in sight, and that was good.
She knew Bell was somewhere on this floor, but that left a lot of places to look. She hadn't wanted to push for details down in the stairwell—she didn't know how much reserve she had, and once it was gone, it was gone—but now that she was closer, it was worth trying again.
"We need to get out of sight while I look for Bell," she said. Logan asked no questions. They moved off down the corridor, choosing a room at random.
It was dark and empty. Ria looked around. Curious. Doctor's office, some kind of infirmary?
Then she saw the generator in the corner and Ria knew exactly what this room was used for.
"I can't work in here," she said tightly. "Let's find someplace else."
Marley had been in here, and recently. No doubt of that. But he wasn't here now. And her sorcerous psychometry wouldn't be at all reliable against the background noise produced by torture.
Logan nodded, his face impassive, and opened the door.
And a man in a green suit started shooting at them.
Logan kicked the door shut and shot through it all in one swift motion. Ria heard a scream, and wrenched the remains of the door off its hinges.
The man was down, but Logan had shot low. He was still alive. Amazingly, he smiled. "I was right," he whispered. "Right all along."
"Where is he?" Ria snarled, grabbing the man's jaw in her hands.
She couldn't hear his mind. His thoughts slid away from her in a peculiar way, as if she couldn't quite reach them.
But he'd been where Marley was now. He'd touched him. And now Ria was touching him. And that was all she needed.
"This way," Ria said, getting to her feet and taking off at a run. "Buy me time."
* * *
The man on the floor of the cell looked very little like his photographs. Dazed, emaciated, naked, filthy, and covered with contact burns, he scrabbled away from her, whimpering in terror.
She didn't have time to either soothe or reason with him. She crossed the cell in a stride and hauled him to his feet, then slung him over her shoulder in a fireman's carry. She was stronger than she looked, but it was still awkward.
This was it. Her spells were tapped. Blowing the lock on Bell's cell had taken the last of them. All she had left was a little innate ability to read minds, and she didn't require that to see that things were going straight to Hell in the proverbial handbasket.
She hadn't expected the building to be deserted, though it would have been nice if they could have just walked in, found Marley, and walked out again. She didn't even cavil at a little cold-blooded murder, if it came down to it; anybody who forced her to kill them wasn't likely to be anyone's innocent child.
The only trouble was, the PDI seemed to be even more paranoid than she was.
She saw a flicker of movement outside the cell—it wouldn't be Logan; Logan was up ahead, securing the way to the stairwell—and fired at it. It pulled back.
"I'm pinned down," Ria said into her throat mike.
"Coming," Logan said.
Ria smelled smoke.
She fired again, just for fun. An office building was a lousy place for a firefight—all straight lines and no cover. And if the bad guys could get to the cell door and shut it, she'd be bottled up here with Marley, and that would be a fine end to the evening.
She wondered where Michael was.
Suddenly everything went black.
Power's gone out, she realized after a moment's surprise. There was a flicker, then the backup generators went on, bathing the corridor in a faint amber glow. The smoke smell was stronger now.
There was a figure crouching low in the doorway, reaching for the door. Ria shot. In the enclosed space, the Desert Eagle spoke like the Wrath of God. The muzzle flash blinded her for a moment; when she could see again, Ria stepped out into the corridor.
"Three more on this level. I started a fire," Logan said quietly behind her.
"Let's take the stairs," Ria said.
If things had been wrong before, they kept getting worse. When they got to the stairwell, the keycard didn't work—and Ria had no more spells to expend.
"Power failure probably seals every floor as a security measure," Logan said. "Nice. Melody. Basement retrieval. Find a way."
Logan reached into his jacket for the remaining Thermite pencils and began taping them to the door.
"They'll take about a minute to burn through the lock," he said. "We'll make for the basement level."
He motioned her back around the corner. Ria leaned against the wall, letting it take Marley's weight while she covered Logan and tried to watch in all directions at once. He'd said there were three of them still on the floor. She'd feel much better if she got to shoot all of them.
Logan joined her as the Thermite began to sizzle and flare. Ria closed her eyes against the glare, listening hard.
Something.
Not thoughts, but more of a disturbance. The same sort of disturbance she'd felt when she'd tried to read the thoughts of the dying green-suited man.
"Down!" Ria shouted, swinging blindly toward the thought-shadow. Marley slid from her shoulder, hitting the ground as she ducked and fired.
Logan fired just after she did, and when Ria could see again, he was standing over a body.
"One down," he said.
She turned away to check Marley. He was breathing, but unconscious. Just as well. She heaved him onto her shoulder again.
There was a crash as Logan kicked the door open.
The stairwell was dimmer than the floor had been. They took the stairs all the way down, moving as fast as they could. They'd left two hostiles alive behind them, and it would require no great detective ability for the PDI to trace their movements. But there were no interior doors blocking the stairwells, and no one followed them. Bless OSHA and its finicky requirements for government office buildings. Even ones that weren't supposed to exist.
But the door that led out to the basement was steel, and solid, and locked. Very thoroughly locked.
"No good," Logan said, inspecting it. "What I've got left won't get us through."
Ria swore, feelingly. But suddenly she realized something.
She could Hear again.
Whatever shielding Wheatley had put around his little fief didn't extend below the second floor. She was weak, and still far from the top of her game, but she had her external power source back.
She took a deep breath, and reached out and touched the door. :Open!:
Magic wasn't effortless for Ria, but it had never been this hard before. She felt herself greying out, needles of strain lancing through her; the forerunner of a really spectacular headache beginning behind her eyes. :OPEN!:
After several seconds, a grinding shudder passed through the metal as its locks released. The door shifted in its frame and a crack of light appeared all along the edge. Logan pushed it open. His face showed no surprise. Ria doubted his expression would change if he saw the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse appear accompanied by the Angels of Mons.
They stepped out carefully into the dark, silent, underground garage, Logan going first. Ria strained her senses to the uttermost, but heard no trace of thoughts that might indicate an ambush. The weight on her shoulders was utterly slack, barely breathing.
"Very nice, Princess, but I'm afraid you're just going to have to put him back."
She knew the Men in Green were shield
ed against her sorcerous telepathy, and the background hash of other minds had kept her from Hearing the faint trace that did leak through their shields. Ria swung around—awkwardly, with Marley's weight to compensate for—to face the man who stepped out from behind the car.
No wonder they hadn't been followed. The agents had known they were running into a trap.
He was wearing the same green suit they all wore, with Kevlar armor over it, and holding a Mossberg 12-gauge. Ria didn't think it was loaded with rubber bullets. On the opposite side of the garage, two more agents, also in green, also heavily armed and armored, rose up out of concealment.
"Oh, I really don't think she should have to do that," Michael said, strolling into view.
He was holding a grenade in one hand, and a briefcase in the other. The man facing Ria flicked a glance toward him, but his weapon never wavered. Michael stopped a dozen feet away.
"You'll want to know if I've pulled the pin. I assure you I have. You'll doubt me. But it's not being quite sure that adds so much zest to our daily lives, don't you think, Mr. Collins?"
There was a squeal of tires and a flare of headlights. The Lincoln Navigator roared down the ramp, headlights flaring.
That got Collins' attention, and in the moment he looked away, Ria put three rounds into his chest just as the other two PDI agents opened up on the Navigator. The impact knocked Collins flying. She could hope it killed him, but she couldn't be sure.
"Ria—catch!"
The briefcase came flying toward her. She staggered as she caught it, gripping it against her with her gun arm, clutching at Marley's body with her free hand.
Bullets were flying everywhere, and any one of them could take her down—or kill Marley. She crouched low, using the bulk of the Navigator as a shield. Michael simply stood there, as unconcerned as if there were no men, no bullets, no guns.
The doors of the Navigator popped open and she staggered forward, throwing Marley and the briefcase ahead of her. She clutched at the back of the seat in front of her as the SUV began to accelerate, and barely managed to draw her legs in before the doors slammed shut with a bank vault chunk.
In the rearview mirror, she saw Michael drop the grenade into his pocket and placidly raise his hands. The two agents were standing behind the car now, firing directly into it. The vehicle shuddered as it was struck, but the bullets had no other effect.
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