Two Weeks' Notice: A Revivalist Novel

by Rachel Caine

  She looked past him at the screen. It had a cell phone number on it, but he quickly crashed her hopes by saying, “The number’s not useful in itself; it’s a throwaway. But I have the cell’s last GPS location. It’s been switched off, but you were right. It was at a marina, right here.” He brought up a map, and pointed. “It’s not exactly the yacht club. The place is a favorite for drug smugglers. If we go, we go in armed and ready.”

  “If we go?”

  “Mercer—”

  “Pat, Mercer didn’t set this up. If he had, he’d have at least had her give the location to feed to me, wouldn’t he?” Even as she said it, it had a hollow ring and she knew it. She wanted to believe that Annie had gotten free of him, that she could be saved. Could be fixed.

  And at the same time, she knew that was bullshit, but she couldn’t let it go.

  Pat, however, was going to make her do it. “Knowing we could grab the number off your records and get the GPS coordinates? No. He gives you more credit than you give him, Bryn.” He leaned forward, capturing and holding her gaze in his intense stare. “I will not let you throw yourself away on this. We’ll play the game, but we’ll play it safely. You don’t go charging in, are we understood? Say yes and mean it, or I zip-tie you and leave you here while Joe and I go on our own.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “You think not?”

  She couldn’t actually swear that he wouldn’t. McCallister could be coolly ruthless when he needed to be, and he might think that he did need to be right now, with her. “I could probably get those zip-ties off. I mean, skin and bones do grow back on me.”

  A smile shadowed his lips but didn’t show itself plainly. “Probably,” he said. “But it’d slow you down.”

  “So does a bag over the head.”

  The smile, never really present, disappeared completely. Pat’s grip on her hands tightened, then deliberately loosened. “I will never, never do that to you,” he said. “You believe me?”

  She did believe him, and always had—from the moment she’d first seen him on her second birth, she’d somehow believed in his essential goodness. And on impulse, she leaned forward and kissed him—caught him by surprise, for once, and for a second his lips were soft, yielding under hers before pressing forward, parting, meeting hers with equal amounts of need and longing. His tongue stroked gently over her mouth, and there was a buried wildness in her that broke free when she allowed it entrance. His body was tense against hers, and his hands traveled slowly down her sides, curved inward, cupped her hips, and pulled her tighter against him. She had no idea what drew him to her with such constant and consistent force, but it was always there, that buried attraction that required only a moment’s slip of control to surface. It was wildly sexy, but more than the pure attraction of him, there was a kind of beautiful strength to Patrick that she couldn’t begin to define.

  Why he wanted her was such a mystery to her, but there was no question in her mind, no question at all, how much she wanted him. She wanted to blot out the world with the red race of pulses and bodies, the damp solace of kisses and sweat and hot, mind-wiping sex. She needed to feel alive, with Pat, now.

  But she couldn’t. Because of Annie.

  So she sucked in a deep, angry breath and backed away.

  McCallister reached for her, but when he saw the look on her face, he let his hands fall back to his knees. He pulled in a deep breath, dropped his head against the cushion of the chair, eyes narrowing. “I still mean it about the zip-ties.” He almost succeeded in making it sound as if nothing had happened between them. Almost. But there was color in his face, and his lips were damp, and she couldn’t stop zeroing in on them.

  On the shining focus in his eyes.

  “I know,” she said. “And I want to…continue this. But if she’s out there, if Annie’s out there and loose, we need to find her before Mercer can. Please.”

  It had been unfair of her to do that to him, but he only nodded and said, “Then we go in five minutes.”

  He meant five minutes to tell Liam where they were going, put on body armor (Bryn didn’t need it to survive, but she did admit that not being shot was still preferable), and arm up with what Patrick kept on the premises—almost as complete a selection as Joe Fideli had in his workroom. Patrick and Joe had been friends a long time, and there was no doubt that part of what had built that foundation was how similar their backgrounds were—if they’d served together, they’d never spoken of it, but Bryn wouldn’t have been surprised.

  Joe almost certainly provided Patrick’s armory.

  It was five minutes on the dot when she met him downstairs. He was holding a shotgun and sliding a handgun into the holster he wore.

  “Are you sure that’s enough?” she asked, as she checked her own sidearm. He handed her extra clips for her belt pouch, and after ensuring the magazine was ready and there was a bullet in the chamber, she safetied the weapon and put it away. “Remember who we’re dealing with.”

  “I’m well aware,” Pat said. “But your sister’s in the middle of it, and as much as he probably deserves it, we can’t take the risk of killing Mercer. So pick your shots. Joe’s our backup. He’ll have the heavier stuff.”

  She hadn’t seen him call Joe, but it didn’t surprise her that he’d managed to fit the call in while her back was turned. As she watched, Pat readied a small bag with more extra clips, shotgun shells, and three sealed preloaded syringes. “You said that Annie didn’t sound so great. She’ll need boosters, if so.”

  “Manny’s formula?”

  “No,” he said. “Pharmadene standard’s all we can spare. We don’t have enough of Manny’s to use for anyone but you.”

  He strapped on his own bulletproof vest with smooth, competent, almost instinctive motions, and Bryn was suddenly struck by the fact that he was the at-risk one in this equation. She could take a bullet. So could Annie. So could Fast Freddy, Mercer’s slimy little thug, equally Revived.

  But not Patrick McCallister. He was still alive, and vulnerable. “Pat, you don’t have to do this with me. I can go alone and just check it out. I promise, I won’t do anything stupid.”

  He glanced up at her and smiled—a real smile, one that lit up his eyes, crinkled the skin next to his mouth, and made her shiver somewhere deep. “I’m not that fragile,” he said. “Trust me. And I need the practice.”

  She sincerely doubted that last part. Pat looked about as comfortable with weapons as anyone she’d ever seen; his movements with them were precise, careful, and had the grace of incredible familiarity. He’d never told her exactly what his military experience had been, but it must have been far, far more intense than her own. And the fact that he’d survived it without too many visible scars told her that he was either seriously good at it or lucky, or both.

  It was a very good combination, if so, because right now, she could use some serious luck.

  And so could Annie.

  Pat was right about the area of the marina.…It was murky, industrial, poorly lit, and in a part of town where the police traveled in numbers if they came at all. As she braked the dark sedan in a spot as far from the wan security lights as possible, another vehicle coasted to a stop beside her—a big pickup truck, in the same basic, lightless black. She knew it by sight: Joe Fideli’s vehicle. It wasn’t a surprise when he stepped out, dressed for battle in dark gray urban camo, with a black watch cap over his shaved head. As Pat had promised, Joe held the heavy arms: an FN P90, or a look-alike. The military had classified it as a PDW, a personal defense weapon, but it was capable of some fearsome offense and was probably highly illegal to carry around in the wild.

  That was the weapon she could see, but she had every confidence that Joe had a selection at his fingertips. He was the kind of Boy Scout who came prepared.

  Joe leaned against the bed of his truck as she and Pat got out of the sedan. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said. “Going for a midnight sail?”

  “Nobody goes for a midnight sail out of this m
arina unless their passenger is a hundred pounds of coke,” Pat said. “Thanks for coming out.”

  Joe shrugged. “You know. Five hundred channels on TV, nothing’s on. What’s the op?”

  “Annie called me,” Bryn said. “She may be out here somewhere.”

  Joe looked toward the marina and the bobbing shadows of ill-kept boats. His eyebrows rose, just a little. “Somewhere,” he repeated. “So, very specific intel, then. That’s always just so great. We got a plan, or is it just as poorly defined as our objective?”

  “It’s loosey-goosey,” Pat said. “But we haven’t got much of a choice. If she is out there, she’s in trouble and she needs help. Joe, I need you to stay put and watch our backs.”

  “Right. I’ll be lurking here, by the transformer. Pat, what channel are you on?”

  “Three,” Pat said, and reached up to touch a control on his earpiece. “Test.”

  “Got ya.”

  “I don’t get one?” Bryn asked. The two men exchanged a look.

  “You don’t leave my sight,” Pat said. “So you don’t need one.”

  “Are you kidding? There must be a hundred boats here. If we stick together, we’ll never get through this in time!”

  “Nonnegotiable,” Pat said. “Are you coming?” He was already walking away.

  Bryn looked to Joe for some kind of support, but he just shrugged. “He’s the boss tonight. Sorry.”

  She had to take long strides to catch up, since Pat didn’t slow, but by the time she reached him, she’d calmed down. He was right, of course. This wasn’t an area where either of them needed to be poking around alone. It wasn’t just the risk of Mercer and Fast Freddy getting the drop on them; there were plenty of paranoid, well-armed gun enthusiasts out here protecting drug-related investments. She didn’t see anyone, but she could sense the danger; the shadows were shifting as the boats rose and fell on the waves, and the constant creaks and groans of wood whited out other telltale noises. It was calm in the bay, but never silent.

  Pat said, “We start on the right and work our way left. Don’t board any boats without signaling me first.”

  She nodded and took a deep breath. She smelled rotting wood, the low-level stench of the still water, a sharp, foreign tang of oil and metal. She had good night vision, but she saw no one moving.

  Certainly no sign of Annie at all.

  She tried to redial, but got nothing except a recorded message from a robotic operator telling her that the mobile customer she had dialed was unavailable. The phone was switched off, or (just as likely) tossed overboard.…If Annie had been caught, that would have been the most logical thing to do. And then they would have raised anchor and gotten the hell out of here, not waited around for us. Unless, as Pat assumed, it was a trap. Her gut was telling her that this was bad, and turning worse with every passing moment.

  But damn her gut. What it boiled down to was that she could not, under any circumstances, let a chance to get Annie back slip away. Not without a fight.

  The docks were as slimy and ill maintained as she’d expected, but Bryn had worn thick, gripping boots, and she had no trouble with her footing as they methodically examined the boats. Most were fast, light craft without a cabin; there were only two moored at the first dock that had any chance of holding Annie in concealment, and Bryn slipped aboard each of them and searched. Empty.

  The second dock didn’t hold anything of interest, either, but the third was clustered with larger fishing boats (probably not used for fish, these days; she imagined they were prime smuggling vessels). She and Pat were very quietly debating which to choose when he held up a hand for silence, and turned his head slightly to the side.

  She mouthed Joe? and he shook his head, gestured sharply, and headed back toward where they’d parked.

  Bryn had an urge to yell, but she was sensible enough to know it was not a good idea, not here. Besides, the speed with which he was moving was telling.

  When he was off the dock and onto the dirty gravel beyond, he broke into a full run, and she had to work to keep up with the sprint…but it didn’t last long. Pat skidded to a stop, and drew his sidearm at the same time. Not the shotgun, which was in a canvas holster on his back. He had a steady aim almost before his feet stopped sliding.

  Bryn pulled her gun as well, though she had no idea what she’d be aiming for…

  …until she saw Joe Fideli, on his knees, hands laced on his bare, bloodied head.

  With his P90 pointed at his skull.

  Fast Freddy Watson, former embalmer for Fairview Mortuary, stood there with his finger on the trigger. He bared his teeth at Bryn. It was his version of a winning smile, and she supposed if she hadn’t been acquainted with him, it would have had a charming quality to it. He was a good-looking man, but there was something base and rotten behind the candy coating. Something truly awful that the nanites had enabled to be even worse, somehow. Whatever shreds of decency he’d ever had were long, long gone.

  “Hello, friends,” he said, and pressed the P90’s blunt barrel to Joe’s head. “Drop ’em if you want Daddy here to see his kids again—”

  Bryn let her weapon fall.

  It hadn’t hit the ground before Patrick took the shot. No hesitation at all. The bullet hit Freddy in the exact center of his pale forehead. Freddy stumbled back, and his finger spasmed on the trigger once before the gun fell out of his hand to hit the gravel. The round went wild, spanging off the metal of the nearby transformer casing, and disappearing into the night.

  Joe pitched forward onto the gravel and rolled. “Jesus Christ, Pat!” he yelped, and got to his feet as he wiped blood from his eyes. “Little warning next time?”

  “He’d have killed you the second I disarmed,” Pat said. He sounded steady. He looked steady. “It was the best chance I had to save your life. The odds were bad either way. And since when do you get sucker punched?”

  “Since I met you.” Joe bent down and picked up the P90.

  He was in the act of putting the sling back over his neck when Annie’s voice said, softly, “Bryn?”

  Bryn spun around, reaching blindly for the gun at her side, but that was instinct, and the weapon was still lying on the gravel at her feet. No time to get it, and when she saw her sister, the gun was the last thing on her mind.

  Annie was dying. Worse than that. She was dead, dead and rotting and still standing. Bryn froze, unable to move, unable to think. She just stared, drenched in a cold, drowning horror. Annie’s eyes were cloudy, her face gray and wet, her hair in matted, thin clumps. There was something so wrong in the way her skin hung loose over her muscles.

  The wind shifted, and the smell of death made Bryn choke.

  “Bryn,” Pat said softly. “Don’t move. Stay where you are.”

  She didn’t think she could move. There was something gut-deep wrong, seeing her little sister like this—sweet, vibrant, laughing Annie. This was nightmare Annie, bathed in stark moonlight and black shadows. Something no one who loved her should ever, ever see.

  “Annie,” Pat said, and came a step closer. “Annie, we can help you. Where’s Mercer?” He didn’t bother to ask Is he here? because Fast Freddy went nowhere without his master. Mercer was here, somewhere. Watching.

  She didn’t seem to hear him for a long moment. Bryn knew, with sickening certainty, how slowly Annie’s brain would be processing things—how hard it would be to put together concepts and understand questions. Decomposing like this was like being lost in the dark, fumbling for a doorknob on a door that might not even exist.

  “Here,” she finally said. It came out a bare thread of sound. “He’s here.…”

  Regardless, Mercer didn’t show himself. Pat continued his slow, steady progress to Annie, and Bryn didn’t understand why he was going so slowly, so carefully…until she saw what Annie was holding in her hand.

  It was a grenade.

  “Supposed to…” Annie froze up again, then slowly stuttered on. “Drop it. Next to you.”

  Pat reached ou
t and squeezed Annie’s hand tightly closed, then took away the grenade. “The pin’s out,” he said.

  “Does she have it?”

  “Do you want to search her?” Pat asked. “Joe, your throwing arm’s better than mine. Go.”

  “Bad idea, man. We’re going to wake up the neighbors.”

  “I’m pretty sure shooting Fast Freddy already rang the alarm clock.”

  Joe carefully took command of the grenade, and ran to the docks, as far as he could get toward the ocean. Then he shouted, “Fire in the hole!” and threw the explosive out into the water. It hit, sank, and a second later erupted in a geyser of smoke and shrapnel.

  Someone from a nearby boat fired on him.

  Joe dropped and rolled, bringing up the P90; he returned fire, and Pat joined him, concentrating on the boat where the muzzle flash had appeared.

  Bryn dashed past him to take Annie’s arm.

  “I was supposed…to…do something.” Annie frowned, or at least that was what Bryn thought she was trying to do. “Drop it. I was supposed to drop it when he was close.”

  He. Mercer hadn’t set this up to get Bryn. He’d set it up to kill Pat McCallister. To rob her of her support and leave her alone and vulnerable. Bonus points—he’d almost gotten Joe as well. The grenade probably wouldn’t have killed her, but it would have destroyed them.

  “Pat!” Bryn said sharply. “Pat, we need to go, now!” Whatever else Mercer had in his bag of tricks, they didn’t need to stick around for the full show.

  Pat nodded and poured a white-hot stream of bullets into the boat, allowing Joe to get to his feet and make it to cover, then zigzag his way back. Other boats were showing activity now; there were people in several of the larger boats, and Bryn was sure they were all armed to the teeth.

  Joe made it back and said, “That was fun. Next time, you get to throw the grenade while people shoot at you.” He was panting, and favoring one side; Bryn saw a hole in his flak vest. He’d taken a round, but as soon as she noticed it, he was shaking his head. “I’m okay. The guy got in a lucky first shot, but the vest took the round. I’m just bruised.”