by C. E. Murphy
Outrage flooded her, so sharp and hot she nearly laughed with it. That was her factory! That was her plan! How dare someone else sneak into it before she did? Alisha darted to the edge of her rooftop, lifting her hands again, as if she might somehow make binoculars out of her cupped fingers.
But she couldn't see clearly, not at that distance, not at night. He moved elegantly, despite dangling upside down on a handful of wiring. Despite the sixty-foot drop beneath him; despite the black, close-fitting clothing that must have been too warm in the night's heat. He moved with strength and grace, approaching the factory quickly. He curled his hands around one of the window frames and folded himself inside, disappearing from sight. He could have been anyone.
Could have.
Alisha's outrage faded into a new certainty, then flared up again. She'd been followed, spied on, used! And she'd known better. She should have known better. Should have looked for a tail, for the man who wouldn't have let her simply walk away.
She should have known that Frank Reichart would find a way to betray her again.
Chapter 16
The thing that separated humanity from the beasts was the ability to apply intellect over instinct.
Alisha had reminded herself of that more times than she cared to think about in the last twenty-four hours. Her every impulse had been to dash in, helter-skelter, after Reichart, and to hell with good sense or preparation. He'd followed her, and worse, he'd beaten her, entering the production factory the way she'd intended to, but earlier.
She wanted to kick his ass.
But following him in unprepared would have been the moral equivalent of signing her own death warrant. Worse, if he'd been compromised while inside, the entrance he'd used would have been discovered and she'd be walking into a trap.
And Alisha had yet to see him come out.
True, she hadn't watched the place for the whole twenty-four hours. Despite her anger, she'd had preparations to make. Things to buy, and a difficult phone call to put through to Langley.
She could still hear Greg's voice, the strain in it echoing louder in her memory than it had when they'd actually spoken. "Carry on," he'd said. "I'll contact you if I can find any verification on Brandon being deep undercover. Otherwise, complete your mission objectives." That was when his voice had almost broken, that sign of weakness sending a chill through Alisha that she felt again now, even in the close heat of the Beijing night.
Brandon had asked her not to involve his father, and she was sure he would have liked that very much. It had never been likely, though. First off, Greg deserved to know the truth. Brandon's departure from the CIA had cut his father deeply, and Alisha thought the truth—if it was the truth—would help Greg rest better. But more, she wasn't quite reckless enough to charge into what Brandon claimed was a deep undercover op without some kind of backup from home base.
An almost silent hiss of fire sprang from the tip of the soldering iron she held. Chain link glowed and melted, an arch cut into the bottom of the fence just large enough for Alisha to wriggle through. The sky route was too dangerous now: Reichart had already used it, and if he hadn't made it out—
—then she would get a chance to kick his ass after all. Alisha thrust the idea away, even as it brought the ghost of a smile to her lips. She tugged her backpack—so compact she probably could have fit through the arch wearing it—through after her.
Evidence was stacking up against her ex-fiancé. Not that she'd been inclined to trust him anyway, but his sunset entrance into the factory only seemed to prove Brandon's story had merit. She would still talk first and hit later, assuming she even saw him again. It was hard, remembering that stories usually had two sides. Her job was to see one side as the important one. The CIA's side. Her side.
It raised the question of why she'd let Brandon go.
She pushed the thought away. The answers were there, clear enough, but it wasn't the time to go into them. One of the roughed-up bulldozers loomed in front of her and she sidled along it, watching the darkness for signs of motion. The tractor bays were the best option for entering the factory, since Reichart had already used the windows. She could have tried buying an ID off a factory worker, or having a false one made up, but if she was right and the Attengee facility lay inside, she doubted security would be lax enough to let her get away with either of those attempts.
Alisha pressed into a shadow beside the tractor bay doors, searching for locks or keypads. The latter sat in a recess that she could only barely fit glove-clad fingers into. With effort, she popped the pad forward and pulled its base off so she could clip rerouting wiring into place. Dim numbers appeared on the code breaker display, changing faster than she could read. They slowly settled, and she slashed a blank key card through the narrow gap. There was a hesitation in which she held her breath, and then the door rolled up, surprisingly quietly, given its size. She rolled through as soon as there was room, pausing only long enough to pull a block of C4 from her backpack and press it into the darkness next to the door.
It was already late, nearing midnight. The factory was almost empty. A fire alarm should empty it of the remaining workers before she detonated the bombs. She knew it was only a temporary solution to the drone army question, but for the moment, it would do. It would provide time to regroup and consider, before Brandon's life's work rolled out onto the market.
Greg's voice filtered through her memory again, stressed and tight. "I don't know what this Sicarii thing is, Alisha. I've never heard of it, or them. I can follow Brandon's trail beyond what you can, but for now the mission is a go. Obtain what information you can. Destroy what you can't. I'll be in contact as soon as I learn anything."
She touched a fingertip to her ear, checking to be certain the bud was still there. It was set to receive so Greg could make that contact if necessary, but she had no intention of broadcasting on it. It still lay snug against her skin, almost invisible, barely there even to the touch.
She'd studied the plant's layout through the walls in the small hours of the morning with illegally-obtained infrared goggles. Legano, illegano, she thought. Is gray area. The contact she'd used had been a legitimate CIA asset, which didn't make it any less illegal, just sanctioned. Only a few bodies had moved through the factory at that hour, while warm water pipes blazed the walls and providing her with the mental map she required. There was no sign of Reichart.
He had gotten out, she told herself. Maybe. Maybe he'd left while she hadn't been watching, but there were underground structures to this factory. Unlike its neighbors, it had a foundation, possibly more, beneath it. The earth had blocked her ability to see those foundations with the goggles from outside, but now, as she pulled them over her eyes, the building lit up, heat spots blossoming below her. An itch between her shoulder blades told her she would find her quarry under the factory.
Her quarry, whether it was the drone production facility, or Frank Reichart.
She placed another block of C4 by the front entrance, obscuring to some degree the way she'd come in, then made a rapid exploration of the main floor with no narrow escapes. The guards were timely in their rounds, and Alisha slipped behind them without fuss. She saved the bulk of the explosives she'd brought in her backpack for the lower levels of the factory.
Which, on the surface—literally—produced stuffed toys with soft glossy looped fur: red bears and blue rabbits, the kind she'd seen in vending machines with claws too weak to lift and hold the weight of the toys they were meant to fetch. Alisha felt a stab of dismay for the honest workers whose livelihoods would be lost when the factory went up in flames. At least, with a late-night explosion, their lives would be spared.
And besides, she might be lucky. Greg might get back to her, in which case, the electric current that would set off the C4 would never be discharged. Alisha cast a brief glance upward, as if to say Are you listening, God? and went on.
There. A private door in the midst of the factory, marked Keep Out, with a lock and keypad. Alisha shot a l
ook over her shoulder, searching for guards, then retrieved the descrambler from her backpack and put it to work. The blur of flashing numbers on the screen seemed interminable, though both her watch and her mental countdown said only fourteen seconds passed before the lock opened. Alisha disengaged the scrambler and slipped through the door to the head of a well-lit stairway. It was only partially finished, the ceiling open, pipes exposed and so close to the top of her head Alisha felt the impulse to duck. A camera above her whirred and she took in its angle with one glance, then flexed her fingers and leaped.
For a brief moment the potential humor of catastrophe hit her. If the pipes wouldn't bear her weight, or if they proved too hot for the rubber-pebbled gloves she wore to handle, she would tumble, pipes breaking and hissing all around her, to the bottom of the stairs. Steam billowed in this scenario, the clang and tear of metal loud enough to wake the dead. It would be a hell of an entrance, but in the worst possible way.
Fortunately, the pipe she grabbed held. Alisha crunched upward, folding herself into the black and silver metal above the lights. She spread her weight across them, spider-like, angled precariously down.
And none too soon. Voices—neither speaking English—preceded two men, their footsteps clacking rapidly down a hall Alisha couldn't yet see. She froze, heartbeat accelerated for the first time, preferring to maintain silence and stealth than to see who might be coming. At the best, they'd continue on; at the worst they'd pass directly below her, and look up.
A curl of hair escaped the hood she wore, tickling the corner of her eye. Exasperation and amusement flooded Alisha as she winked against it, the only move she dared make to alleviate the itch. Then the tickle was swept away into a coldness that seemed to come from her bones as the men came jogging up the stairs, one after the other.
The younger man, in the lead, was almost no surprise. Sandy blond hair and good shoulders, even viewed from above. Brandon Parker took the steps up two at a time, a jaunt in his step that suggested pure confidence.
Behind him, following his son's long-legged steps but using the stair railing to help make the stairs in equally good time, came Greg Parker.
This is your local spy network radio station, said a sonorous voice inside Alisha's head. Welcome to today's broadcast on KFQD, where you are FQD day in and day out.
The door at the head of the stairs banged shut, leaving Alisha numb and alone, tangled in the open pipes. It was not possible. She'd spoken to Greg only a few hours earlier, nowhere near enough time to get from D.C. to China.
Although it was now obvious he hadn't been in D.C. Phones could be forwarded, and it certainly explained the stress in her handler's voice. Alisha began moving again, self-preservation overtaking the white shock that hissed through her like static. That was the combat pilot, moving her along regardless of the situation. It left her mind free to run in circles as she edged forward.
Compromised. Somehow, she'd been compromised. Whether Greg had known about Brandon's assignment and hadn't told her, or whether she'd been entirely sold out. Whether there was something so real to the Sicarii Brotherhood that Greg couldn't allow her to know about it. Whether—
She stopped again, this time on purpose, spidered over the pipes. One deep breath, then two, cleansing, sending strength into muscles that felt watery. Sending the clarity of breath through her mind. That was the center of yoga: breathing. Giving herself the ability to shake off the cares and worries of the world, and to focus on one singular thing. It could help her feel more deeply, or it could remove her entirely, taking her a step away from any situation so she might see it more clearly and make her choices more wisely.
It was the ability that had let her assess and determine that Brandon Parker needed arresting, in Rome. It was the ability she'd deliberately shaken off then, needing to be reminded of her own humanity by accepting her own strong emotions. But now she embraced it, desperate for the clarity that removal brought. Ironic to spend so much time trying to feel, only to willingly banish feelings now.
She had an assignment. Until her orders were contradicted by the man she'd just watched leave, she would continue. That was her job. But by God, this time she would find a way to see the bigger picture and understand what, exactly, she was in the middle of. Promise made, she crept forward, sliding over pipes to take in the factory layout, and to be vindicated in an unsettling way.
The underground floors of the factory contained exactly what she'd feared they would: assembly lines that gleamed a purposeful silver in the scattered overhead lighting, diagrams and schematics littering the walls. The stairwell was the best-lit part of the floor. Everywhere else the lighting was periodic, turned down for the evening. Even in the dim lighting, the breadth of the hall was enormous, stretching well beyond the confines of the building above.
Alisha scampered across the pipes, moving with surprising ease, until she could drop into one of the darker spaces on the assembly-line floor. Cameras were visible here and there, but between her black clothing and the lighting, she thought she could go undetected.
Not that it mattered tremendously, if Greg had any intention of turning her in. He had to know she was in the building by now. The question was whether he'd encouraged Brandon to leave in order to give Alisha the time she needed to set the explosives, or whether he was acting out of forewarning and self-preservation.
Alisha sighed out a breath that verged on laughter, more frustrated than humorous. She'd know soon enough if she'd been betrayed.
Voices cut through the air again, sending her diving beneath one of the burnished metal machines. She held herself still beneath it through force of will, suddenly more afraid of assembly line being turned on than of being caught. She'd obviously watched too many movies that involved the heroine being nearly crushed in huge metallic teeth, and for a moment her mood lightened at her own silliness.
The voices were closer now, though still far enough away that she only knew they were speaking Mandarin, rather than understanding what they said. She lay on her belly, trying to catch a glimpse of the speakers, who came into sight, and into her range of understanding, as they spoke. Two men, this time—thankfully—strangers to her. Discussing saboteurs underground, a comment that made Alisha's belly cramp with panic. She drew in a slow breath through flared nostrils, forcing herself to listen instead of run.
The laowai—Alisha felt a trickle of humor warm some of the nervousness in her belly; the word meant foreigner, with less than flattering connotations—wanted the saboteur kept alive. The speaker was not inclined to oblige: one of his men had already suffered a broken kneecap at the devil's hands.
The second man shrugged. "We do as laowai Parker says."
Alisha made a slow fist and, even more slowly, punched the metal rack she hid beneath. It made no sound as her knuckles contacted the heavy steel, and certainly didn't hurt her, but the touch rebounded within her, as if it could lend her the same strength that the gleaming material had.
Frank Reichart was alive somewhere inside the factory. Personal feelings aside, the CIA wanted him alive, and he was certainly going to be last on the list of people the workers would save if the building went up in flames.
Alisha rolled out from beneath the assembly line treads and went to rescue her ex.
Chapter 17
Frank Reichart did not deserve her.
Alisha hung upside down from the pipes again, a full level deeper into the earth than she'd been. The vents in the factory were much wider and easier to traverse than the bunker's had been, for which Alisha was both grateful and mildly annoyed. The irritation came largely from the vague idea that rescuing ex-fiancés ought somehow to be more difficult than stealing top-secret plans. The plans, after all, couldn't possibly appreciate the trouble she'd gone to.
Not that Reichart was likely to either.
The second underground level of the factory was much smaller than the first. The vents she'd followed angled in so sharply that it'd been a near thing keeping herself from just sliding
down and bursting out through a grate. Alisha was almost certain the guards would shoot first and ask questions later. She would have.
There were secure offices beneath the factory, their small windows casting ghostly light on computer labs as extensive as the ones at the Kazakhstani bunker. Some had drafting tables littered with papers, and a couple were small, individual spaces with one desk and land-line telephones beside surprisingly old, clunky-looking computers. One room had neither ventilation nor any other sort of access besides a lone door.
Odds were good that Reichart was behind that door.
He didn't deserve her, Alisha thought again as she studied both ends of the hall she dangled over. Then again, he didn't have her, either, so maybe it all worked out. She allowed herself a breath of amusement at that, then let it go.
She'd finished her rounds on the first level, planting C4 in enough spots to bring the military production facility to its knees. As she'd worked, she'd realized that the plant wasn't functional yet. Not for mass production, at least, although she suspected the drones she'd seen in Kazakhstan had been largely constructed here. Still, there was no oil, no last vestiges of heat, no dings or scratches in any of the equipment to suggest it had been heavily used. She wasn't stopping an already-producing system, but rather destroying it before it began.
It lit a flicker of hope inside her, offered the slightest kernel of chance that a setback this severe, this early in the drone army's developmental stage, might bankrupt the whole process. It was a slender thread to hang idealism on, but it was more than she'd had.
Alisha unwound from the pipes with slow, deliberate actions, as graceful as a gymnast as she dropped to the concrete floor. The faint thunk of her weight hitting the ground, knees bent to absorb the impact, was swallowed by the hallway, though she held herself still an extra instant or two, listening hard. Then she darted forward, tempted to take one of the last C4 charges and simply blow the door apart.