by Kari Nichols
She moved quickly, sparing little attention to the beam. At the next intersection she didn’t notice that the crossbeam was raised higher than the others. She tripped, couldn’t regain her balance and fell. She hit the insulation hard. When she didn’t crash through, Tate thanked whoever had built the place for not going cheap and putting up flimsy plywood ceilings.
Pax heard the crash and looked up at the ceiling. Raising his weapon, he fired through the ceiling and into the attic.
The bullets pierced the air around Tate, but she managed to avoid the initial barrage. Faster than she would have liked, she skirted her way around the next beam and down toward the other end of the house. A sound at the far end caught her attention, but it was too dark to make anything out.
Light shone up through a square in the ceiling as someone pushed a panel up. She saw the barrel of a gun appear, followed by a head. Raising her Sig, she took a bead on the head. He turned toward her and there was just enough light to stop her from blowing Gibson away.
Hauling himself into the attic and replacing the panel, he signaled her over. She continued her precarious walk across the beams and watched as Gibson angled toward the back of the house.
Tate was halfway there when the panels ten feet in front of her blew away. Bullets crashed through, offering cover as one of the guys climbed up into the attic. Tate put a bullet in his head. Gibson rushed over and aimed his M4 at the hole, firing a grenade through it. Tate, calculating the trajectory, started running forward as the beams beneath her feet buckled.
She crashed through the ceiling and down into the room below. She hit the island in the middle of the kitchen. A tearing pain jolted through her arm as her stitches ripped wide open. Turning toward the entrance, Tate saw one of the soldiers diving out of the way of the grenade. She threw a shot his way, but her aim was off and she barely nicked him in the thigh.
Tate leaped from the island to the counter on the far wall and scrambled up the cupboards. She grabbed the edge of the ceiling one-handed and hauled herself up as a gun exploded over her head.
Ducking, she rolled out of Gibson’s way as he sprayed his kitchen with bullets. Pumping two grenades, one right after the other, through the ceiling, he turned and ran back toward the far corner of the attic. Tate sprinted after him, leaping along the beams, her wounded arm tucked into her side.
Ripping the tar paper off the wall, he exposed a metal rollaway door where there should have been wood siding. Throwing the lever, he pushed it up to reveal a natural cave in the mountain.
Tate stepped in and turned back to cover Gibson as he climbed through. As he was pulling the door down shots rang out from the far side of the attic. Pax was standing on a beam, his own automatic rifle trained on their exit. The suppressive fire forced Tate back into the cave. Gibson pulled the door halfway down before the whistling sound of a grenade stopped him.
Forgetting the door, he and Tate scrambled further into the cave as the grenade exploded. A ball of fire shot over their heads. Tate skidded across the ground on her already abused arm. The metal door was a charred mess and wouldn’t close all the way.
“This way,” Gibson called out, heading down the path. The uneven ground made it difficult for Tate to maintain a steady pace. She kept her focus on Gibson’s back. The light filtered in from a crack thirty feet above their heads and from the tiny penlight in Gibson’s hand.
He ran deeper into the mountain before taking a path to the left that veered toward the edge of the mountain, into a natural crevice. Exiting the tunnel into the crevice, he led her down a slope, to an armored Hummer. It was pointed away from them and the windows were tinted.
Tate slowed up, wary of whoever was in the vehicle.
“It’s ok. Tommy sent him.” Gibson ran to the passenger side and pulled the front door open for her before climbing into the back seat. Her hand on the gun at her side, she peered into the vehicle.
Morrison sat behind the wheel, grinning at her, a lit cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. “Trouble follows you everywhere, doesn’t it, sugar?” he drawled.
“Kind of like you,” Tate said. She rolled her eyes and climbed into the front seat. She barely had time to shut her door before Morrison stomped on the gas pedal and raced away. They drove in silence while Morrison navigated them away from the mountain and back onto the main road.
“So, where we headed?” Morrison asked.
Chapter 9
Emily changed hotels twice before deciding she was as hidden as she was going to get. She’d left Boston two days ago, after giving the new information to her brother. She hadn’t ignored his suggestion to leave the country so much as she’d postponed it a little. New York City was the perfect place for anonymity. None of her relatives lived there, so no one would think to search for her there. She’d get on that plane to Paris soon enough. She’d had an epiphany on the train and needed some quality time with her bots to determine if it was as good as she thought it was.
Booting her laptop, she connected with The Sector's servers and sent out her bots. She wanted to try to trace the signal from the jammers. If she could determine where her signal got lost, she might be able to pinpoint it geographically. If not, she could try to triangulate the signal. It was a long shot and she wasn’t certain the jammer would allow her to get a lock on its location. But she had to try it.
She used Warp’s ID to trigger the signal. The jammer bounced back, as she’d expected it would. She followed the jammer’s frequency back to the satellite it was relaying through, before she slammed into a wall. The jammer passed through the satellite’s buffers, distorting the first leg of the signal. She couldn’t track it any further. If there was a way to disable the buffer so that the jammer signal came through clean, she didn’t know how to do it.
She needed another brain on the idea. If she’d been at The Sector she would have gone to Bailey. No one knew hardware better than she did. There was one other person she could think of that might be familiar with the satellites. Emily’s predecessor, Colin Finnegan, had been on board for all of the initial testing on the locators. He would have helped secure the satellites. She sent out her bot. Though her search should only take a minute, she still bounced her signal through a multitude of relays to ensure she wouldn't get caught.
When her bot returned, it had a name and address for her. Colin Finnegan was now living in Venice, Italy. She'd never met the man, but she'd known where to search to find his current whereabouts. The Sector kept tabs on everyone, past and present employees alike, no matter how long ago they had left the company.
Disconnecting her bot from its search, Emily loaded a popular flight website and booked a one-way ticket to Venice. Checking her watch, she had just enough time to grab some lunch before she would have to hire a taxi.
***
The Sector, HQ
“Yes!” Tommy crowed. This time he had been ready for her. He’d anticipated her relays and set up his own program to slam through them quicker than she could set them up. He had the location of the motel she was staying at as well as the information she’d been looking for.
Colin Finnegan was a surprise. Emily was miles ahead of him as far as skill was concerned. He remembered when The Sector had fired the man. Tommy had been with The Sector for two years by then. He had met the man once, but he had heard all of the stories. They had caught Finn activating locators on high level Sector people as a means of tracking their whereabouts when away from HQ.
He had set up a little blackmail ring among a few highly-placed people. When he had tried it with an SA, the agent had taken exception to some wimpy little tech trying to extort money. The agent had set up their own sting and all of the details Finnegan had compiled became common knowledge around the water coolers.
A few marriages had ended and one of the employees in Finance was outed, but no charges were ever laid against Finnegan. He had been forced into retirement without pension, but he had already made enough money that he didn’t need it. It was not a satisfac
tory outcome.
If Finnegan knew that Emily was wanted by The Sector, he would sell her out in a heartbeat.
***
Tate had spent two days recovering from the heavy dose of morphine that Gibson had given her. Recalling what the stitches had felt like the first time, she’d damn near given herself the morphine shot. Morrison had dropped them off at a motel on the outskirts of New York. After spending the night, Gibson had rented a car and driven them further into the city, offering cover amongst the millions of other people in New York City.
Tate hadn’t been up to any sightseeing. Gibson had scouted the area for supplies since Tate wasn’t up to eating out, either. One thing New York City didn’t lack was good places to get take-out food. They wouldn’t starve. He hit a few hardware stores and one Army surplus to round out their hardware supplies.
Neither one was good at conversation. Granted, Tate was semi-comatose half the time, but they did very little talking. She could hold her own in a conversation, unless someone was talking about shit that was way off in the stratosphere. Bailey had a tendency to do that; Tommy, too. Tate would tune them out and listen to every third or fourth word and soon they would get the hint.
She didn’t know what to make of Gibson. Mainly she figured it was strange to be working with another Sector Agent. It hadn’t taken her long to determine that Gibson wasn’t on a Task Force. His actions were too autonomous for teamwork. She didn’t know how this would work. Agents were in charge. If a Task Force team accompanied them, that team took their orders from the Agent. When two Agents were on the same mission, hierarchy got messy. This was Tate’s mission, but if Gibson wanted to, he could veto her decisions and muck up the works. She’d have to play it by ear and see what moves Gibson made. Having a doctor on hand wasn’t a bad deal, though. She’d taken more than her fair share of bumps and cuts along the way.
Another good thing about having another Agent on her team; she knew what he was capable of. Each Agent had to be proficient at a few specific things before they could be set free to complete missions. They had to be able to drive, fly or sail anything known to man. They had to be trained in close combat, hand-to-hand, lethal- and non-lethal fighting, and they had to be able to shoot. That was a big one. Tate had learned to shoot in the Army and they’d trained her well. She’d fucking loved it, so they’d pushed her to shoot further, faster, two-handed, while driving, flying and sailing. She’d mastered it all and knew that Gibson would be as proficient as she was.
Tate had just about gotten tired of the silence when her cell phone rang.
“Emily is on her way to Venice, Italy,” Tommy said without preamble.
“What’s in Italy?” Tate didn’t think Emily was going on vacation.
“Colin Finnegan.”
Tate scowled at the name. “What does she want with him?”
“No idea, but she accessed The Sector’s personnel records to find his current location. Her flight leaves from JFK in two hours.”
Tate cut him off before he could finish. “We’re in New York. What hotel is she at?”
“Holiday Inn Express at 45th and 5th, but she’s already checked out. She hasn’t checked in at the airport yet. Do you want me to put a flag on her file?”
“No, we’ll follow her, see what she’s up to,” Tate decided.
“She used a Swiss passport under the name Amanda Blint, but it has the Mapleton address.”
“For a geek, she has excellent resources.”
“Indeed. I’ll get you and Gibson on the next available flight.”
***
Blackburn felt the acid begin to rise up his throat and burn the back of his mouth. He chewed a fistful of Tums, but the damn tablets didn’t work anymore. If this mission didn’t get any better, he’d have to go out and buy something stronger to deal with the pain.
Jagger had just called in and given his report. To say that it had been a complete fuck-up was an understatement. How many damn lives did this woman have? He’d warned them that Gibson was Sector and he’d have a fucking arsenal in that farmhouse, but Jagger still hadn’t gone in prepared for a war. A sixteen-man team against two, when one was wounded, and Jagger had lost a third of his team and hadn’t accomplished a goddamn thing!
When his phone rang, Blackburn checked the caller ID. It was an internal call, from Signals. “What?” he demanded.
“The file on Finnegan was just accessed by an outside source,” Trina responded. She hated having to report to Blackburn. He wasn’t her boss, but Morrison said she had to do whatever he asked of her. She’d do whatever Morrison wanted, but she didn’t have to be nice about it.
“What did they want to know?” he demanded.
“It was his personal file, so they wanted his personal information.” Dumbass, she thought. “I can’t trace what they looked at, I can only tell you that the file was accessed and that the hacker is no longer in the system.”
Blackburn ground his teeth together. Trina had been Morrison’s choice. Blackburn had worked it out that she was the only person considered for the vacancy that Fiona had left behind. He knew Trina didn’t answer to him. Still, she was useful.
He hung up on the girl and dialed Morrison’s cell. It rang once before Morrison picked it up. “Get on a plane to Venice,” Blackburn ordered.
***
Venice, Italy
A shiver skittered down the back of her neck. Emily quickened her pace as she navigated the twisting streets. Venice had always been one of her favorite places to visit, but this time she wanted to be gone from it.
Colin Finnegan lived on the third floor of a four-storey walk-up. The square, rust-colored building was a fifteen minute walk from Academia Station, or could be accessed by boat via numerous waterways. Emily had called him once she’d reached Venice and asked to meet with him. He’d agreed, but had put her off for four hours, saying he had errands to run. The wait had grated on her nerves. Now, as she headed toward his building, she found herself searching the shadows and checking over her shoulder.
At the front door of his building, she pressed the call button next to his name and waited. She felt exposed, the light from above the doorway encapsulating her while everything around her enjoyed the cover of the darkness. When Finnegan answered, she gave her name and he buzzed her in. Climbing the stairs, she reviewed the things she wanted to discuss with him.
At his door she listened for a moment, but didn’t hear any movement from inside. She raised her hand and knocked. As soon as her knuckles touched the door it creaked open.
“Hello?” she called inside. “It’s Fiona Engleton, Mr. Finnegan.” She waited another moment before pushing the door open and stepping inside. “Mr. Finnegan?”
Emily looked around the room. The apartment was stuffy and warm. The heat was on and it felt a full ten degrees hotter than it was outside. None of the windows were opened to let the breeze in. The smell of fish and garlic permeated the air.
Finnegan was sitting in a wingback chair facing the windows. He had a lovely view of the piazza below his window, but the grime on the panes made it next to impossible to see out. Emily stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. She could see the tufts of white hair above the back of the chair and wondered if the man had fallen asleep. One arm splayed out to the side.
Emily cautiously approached him. She didn’t want to startle him awake. As she got closer, the smell intensified. It wasn’t just fish and garlic anymore. She tucked her nose into her elbow, but the stench still made her eyes water. She knew he wasn’t asleep, but she still had to make sure.
Emily rounded the side of the chair and stared at Finnegan in horror. The spit had dried in her mouth and she felt the gag reflex threatening to spill her lunch all over the floor. She couldn’t look away from him, but she desperately needed to. There was no doubt that he wasn’t asleep. He’d been propped up in his chair. His chest cavity had been splayed wide open and the contents had been allowed to pool in his lap.
Emily turned away and
vomited all over the coffee table. She dropped to her knees and tried to force the blackness away, but it kept buzzing around her head. Her head drooping, she felt the tears coursing down her face. Her nose was running. Her mouth burned with the acid sting of bile.
He had been left here for her to find. Her brain could comprehend that much, but she couldn’t determine why. Why did she need to see this? She would never be able to forget it. Never be able to get that image out of her mind. Finnegan’s chest had been cut open as though a coroner had started a medical examination on a cadaver.
A creaking floorboard had Emily tilting her head up. Too late, she realized that someone had let her into the building and it couldn’t have been Finnegan. She stared up at his unfamiliar face, his eyes emotionless black pools. The man was tall, broad and muscular. He looked military to her. She blinked furiously, trying to clear the tears from her eyes. Then she saw the taser he held pointed at her chest.
Morrison unrolled his mat and spread it across the concrete roof. He’d passed over two other rooftops with better views for this one. It had a flat roof where all the rest had rounded tiles. The tiles weren’t easy to lie on and they were hell for balancing his bipod.
Pulling his rifle from its case, he attached the barrel to the bipod and rested the butt on the mat. He set the scope next to the rifle, adding five 7.62 NATO cartridges to the collection. Piecing together his rifle, Morrison scanned the street below. Blackburn hadn’t been able to provide Morrison with Emily’s ETA. He’d had no idea where she was when she’d accessed Finnegan’s file. Morrison could spend a day waiting on that rooftop or he could get the job done inside the next ten minutes. But he had to remain aware the entire time.