The Rising dr-3

by Kelley Armstrong

  “No, there aren’t cameras in the bedrooms,” he said, then mouthed, “just microphones.” I knew that, from Rafe, but it was nice to have someone admit it.

  “Tell them I’m ready,” I said.

  Antone shook his head. “Get some more rest.”

  “No. Let’s get this over with.”

  Nicole was all right. I was . . . I would say I was glad to hear it, except that I was really only relieved because I didn’t want to be responsible for her death, which isn’t nearly as altruistic. Did that bother me? Intellectually, it did. Canada doesn’t have the death penalty, and I agree with that. There was no part of me that wanted Nicole dead for killing Serena. Punished, yes. Locked up, yes. But her death wouldn’t bring Serena back.

  She was fine, though. Bruised and battered, but fine.

  Had she been drugged? When I raised that possibility, Dr. Wiley acted like I was being paranoid. Nicole was unstable. That was all. Still, when I described how she’d behaved—the wild eyes, the inhuman strength—Dr. Inglis agreed she should be tested and promised to do it herself.

  I was relieved that no one tried to say Nicole’s escape was an accident. Nast had already ordered a full investigation and all security personnel on duty last night had been put on a plane to Los Angeles to face questioning there.

  Near-death experience aside, I was still in trouble for trying to escape. I could have laughed at that. I think I might have. Nast did not appreciate it. Antone pointed out that, given that Nicole had almost killed me and I suspected someone in the house had engineered the attack, it made perfect sense for me to run. It was self-defense, really. And I had been about to turn myself in when I was shot. The other guard had confirmed that.

  Nast wasn’t convinced. I would spend the rest of the day in isolation. No visitors other than authorized personnel. And Dr. Wiley needed to run another complete examination, because Nast was concerned that my attack on Nicole proved I was regressing.

  That really pissed Antone off. I’d been fighting for my life and they were blaming me for hurting my attacker? I said nothing, because I remembered that blind rage. I was regressing; I was just afraid to admit it.

  If their tests discovered anything abnormal, no one told me. Dr. Wiley and Dr. Inglis didn’t whisper any theories or suspicions for me to overhear. They didn’t even give me hints with their expressions. Just ran the tests. Took the data. Escorted me back to my room. At least, Dr. Inglis did.

  I wanted to ask what she’d found. I wanted to ask a lot of things. If I was regressing, would Annie’s treatment work on me? If they caught it soon enough, would they be able to fix it faster, too?

  If I asked, that would suggest I knew something was wrong, which would only earn me closer scrutiny. So I just walked in silence. Dr. Inglis didn’t seem to notice—she was too busy chattering at me. While she’d never been cold or standoffish, I swore she said more to me in five minutes than she would have in a year at Salmon Creek. It wasn’t anything important. Just talk—overly bright, overly optimistic, overly flattering talk. Under the misguided impression, I guess, that I might put in a good word with Antone. Still, I could use allies, so I nodded and feigned interest.

  We seemed to take an overly complicated route back to my room. As we walked down a corridor, Dr. Inglis slowed and talked louder, and I wasn’t surprised to catch a glimpse of Antone and Moreno through an open doorway, Antone sitting at a desk, Moreno perched on it, talking.

  Hearing us, Antone came to the door. “All done?”

  “Yes, and I was just taking Maya to the kitchen for something to eat.” A conspiratorial smile my way. “And letting her avoid her room for as long as possible.”

  “Good plan.” Antone walked out. “I’ll take Maya from here and grab us coffees on my way back. We need to go over a few memos.”

  She hesitated, but it was clear he didn’t want her accompanying us, so she reminded him she took her coffee black. When he said “I know,” she glowed.

  Before we left, Antone remembered something in his office and popped back in. I waited while he jotted a note on a piece of paper and dropped it into a file. As we walked, he asked how my exam went. He didn’t seem to be listening, though, and when we turned the corner into another hall, he opened his hand and I saw the piece of paper that I thought he’d put in the file. He unfurled it and held it out for me to read.

  Dead zone coming up.

  He counted down on his other hand. Five, four, three, two . . . another couple of steps and he whispered, almost too low for me to hear. “If you want to negotiate, we need leverage. You don’t have that while you’re in here.”

  “I—”

  He motioned for me to keep quiet. “I’ve arranged something. You’ll know when it happens. You need to take advantage of it. At that point, I can’t help. I need to stay clean.”

  “I—”

  A stern look cut me off again and he counted down from three this time, then said, “Any requests for dinner? Since you’re locked in your room, I’m sure we can make allowances. Takeout, maybe? Just tell me what you’d like, and . . .”

  He continued talking as we headed for the kitchen.

  I was going to get an opportunity to escape. To find Daniel and make sure he was all right, heal him if I could. Antone was setting it up, but once he did, he had to step back so he wasn’t implicated in my escape. Or I think that’s what he meant. I hoped it was. I also hoped I’d get some hints about what form this opportunity would take. An unlocked door? An ally who would break me out? And what about the others?

  But that was all Antone said. In fact, it was the last time I saw him all day. So I sat in my room, waiting for . . . whatever. Nothing came. If he’d launched his “opportunity,” I’d missed it. Unless he meant tomorrow. Or the day after.

  Damn it. I appreciated that he thought I was clever enough to need only those few cryptic sentences, but more detail would have been appreciated.

  THIRTY

  I DON’T THINK I got sleeping pills in my hot chocolate. I didn’t need them, considering my ordeal the night before—and the fact that I’d refused to nap all day, certain Antone’s “opportunity” would come at any moment. I stayed up until nearly midnight, then drifted off, Kenjii again curled on my bed.

  When I heard Kenjii growl and opened my eyes to see my door swinging open, I jumped up out of bed and sprang into fighting stance. So did Kenjii, snarling and planting herself in front of me.

  Two armed guards stopped in mid-stride.

  “Control your dog,” one said. He waved his gun to remind me what would happen if I didn’t.

  “Why the hell do they let her keep the mutt?” one muttered. “Like we don’t have enough to deal with.”

  “Calvin insists,” the first said, and shared an eye roll with the second. Then he turned to me. “Grab your shoes, sweater, whatever else you need. You have five seconds.”

  “Need for what?” I said, still sleep-dazed.

  “Grab it or leave it. Four seconds.”

  Antone. His opportunity. This was it.

  I’d gone to sleep wearing my clothing, just in case. So I only needed shoes, a sweater, and my stash of money. They hadn’t noticed the cash when they brought me in—or they didn’t care—so I took it now, shoved it into my pocket, and followed the two guards into the hall.

  When I stepped out, the noise hit me. Noise from everywhere—shouts and barked orders and running footfalls. The guards tried to steer me to the stairs, but I heard a voice behind me and turned to see Rafe breaking from his guards and jogging to join us.

  The whole house was in an uproar. All the bedroom doors were open, as if we were all being taken out.

  “What’s going on?” I whispered to Rafe.

  “Evacuation,” he said. “No idea why.”

  This must be Antone’s opportunity. Not just to get me out, but the others, too. That made sense. More leverage for negotiating.

  Still, as they led us downstairs, I kept looking for Antone. Just a glimpse of him s
o he could tell me, even with only a look, that this was his scheme. But he wasn’t there. Nor was Moreno. Had he launched this, then found an excuse to be elsewhere, so he couldn’t be blamed? Or did this have nothing to do with him?

  “Listen,” Rafe whispered.

  I caught snatches of conversations in other rooms. Conversations about what was happening. Most of it was out of context. Then I heard Nast’s voice behind a closed door and zeroed in on that.

  “—thought we had people working to prevent exactly this possibility,” he was saying. “If we found out about the projects, so could the Cortezes. When they did, they’d want in and that is a problem we do not want to deal with. People were supposed to be making sure we didn’t need to deal with it. So tell me why we are dealing with it?”

  “We don’t know for certain it’s the Cortezes, sir,” a man’s voice said. “That’s just the information we received—”

  “So we’re paying for unreliable sources?”

  “No, sir, I just meant that it was a rumor. It might not be the Cortezes. It might not be anyone. Josef Nast has ordered an evacuation to be safe.”

  “Because he doesn’t trust my judgment. Who the hell went over my head to Josef?” A pause. “His father wasn’t notified, was he? I swear, if someone went all the way to Thomas on this . . .”

  The voices faded as the guards hustled us through the house. So someone had told the Nasts that a rival Cabal was planning to raid the house. Had Antone planted the rumor? If so, what good did it do us?

  As we were hurried out the front door, both Rafe and I scanned for an escape route, but the yard was filled with armed guards. Did Antone expect me to make a run for it? There was no chance of that. A minivan waited right at the end of the front steps. We were flanked by guards the whole ten seconds it took to get us into the van.

  When I tried to lead Kenjii in, the guard stopped me. “Driver’s allergic. Your dog needs to go in the second vehicle.”

  “Can’t you switch drivers?” Rafe said. “Kenjii should stay with Maya. Or she can switch—”

  “Got my orders. The girl goes here. The dog goes with the others.”

  Who’d given him the orders? Antone? So he’d have a hostage to secure my return? Or because it would be harder to run with a dog in tow? As much as I loved Kenjii, having her along in the city would be a problem. I whispered to her, asking her to go with the guard, then let him lead her to a second van behind ours.

  As we crawled in, the others came out the front door. Nicole was first. Her hands were tied behind her and she’d been blindfolded. She held her head high, the bruises on her pale neck obvious even through the tinted glass.

  Rafe took my hand as we watched her come down the steps. His grip loosened a little as they led her to the second van. Next came Sam. She was escorted to the same van. Annie and Hayley came out together. Annie seemed disoriented, blinking as if she’d been sleeping. Hayley was talking to her and she was nodding. Then they took Hayley on to the rear van and brought Annie to ours.

  “Hey,” Rafe said as she leaned in for a look. “Is everything okay?”

  She nodded. “Emergency treatment. I’m still a little fuzzy.” She looked from me to Rafe, then turned to the guard. “Actually, can I switch with Hayley? I know she hasn’t had much time with Maya. I’m sure they’d like that.”

  Rafe snorted a laugh, but before he could say anything, Annie said, “I don’t think I belong in this van.”

  She spoke slowly, her gaze locked with mine. Did she know something? Or was she just guessing that we’d try to escape?

  “I’m better off in the other one,” she said. “The doctor is there to look after me.”

  The guard started to say something. Then there was a commotion from the other vehicle.

  “I am not riding with a killer.” Hayley’s voice traveled to us. “Shouldn’t she have her own van? With padded walls?”

  “We’ll switch,” the guard said quickly. “Come on.”

  Annie leaned in before she left. “I’ll see you soon,” she said to Rafe. Then to me, “Take care of him.”

  “I will.”

  It turned out we had a doctor, too. While Dr. Wiley went in the second van, we got Dr. Inglis. Other than the driver, she was our only guard. Well, the only one in the vehicle, that is. Another car swung out in front of us and I was sure it was full of big guys with guns. The second van pulled in behind, followed by another car of guards.

  Rafe was studying the situation, too, and not looking very happy about it. Hayley just curled up in her seat, legs pulled under her, eyes closed. Great. She wasn’t going to be any help at all. I tried prodding her awake, but she only grumbled sleepily and pushed me away.

  Rafe rolled his eyes, then discreetly gestured at the cars in front and behind. Even if Hayley was awake—or had some defensive power—it didn’t look as if we were going to get a chance to escape. Was this really Antone’s grand opportunity? If so, he’d given me far too much credit for ingenuity.

  “Are the Cortezes another Cabal?” I asked Dr. Inglis.

  “Yes, they’re one of the four North American Cabals. There are the St. Clouds and the Nasts, then the Cortezes and the Boyds. The Boyds are the smallest.”

  “But the Nasts are the biggest, right? So why the emergency evacuation?”

  “While the Nasts are a larger organization, the Cortezes are widely considered—” She glanced at the driver and cleared her throat. “Some people consider them the most powerful. I wouldn’t agree, but for both size and power, they come close enough to present a serious threat.”

  “And someone tipped off the Nasts that the Cortezes are launching a . . . a what? An attack? A mass kidnapping?”

  “We aren’t sure what they have in mind, but it seemed wise to move you temporarily. While I’m sure we could handle the Cortezes, we certainly don’t want you kids caught in supernatural cross fire.”

  “So the attack is supposed to come tonight?” I said.

  “Oh, no. The information was simply that the Cortezes have discovered the existence of the project and the location of the house. It would take them at least a day to mobilize. They’re based in Miami.”

  The driver murmured, “But they have a Seattle office.”

  Dr. Inglis looked over sharply. “Do they? Well, it would just be a satellite office, ill-equipped for an operation of this size, and certainly none of the staff would have the authority to lead the incursion.”

  “Lucas Cortez lives in Portland.” The driver shot a meaningful look Dr. Inglis’s way. “He is Benicio’s heir.”

  She fluttered her hands. “Everyone knows that’s just posturing. Benicio would never turn over the Cabal to Lucas. Not when he does all that”—another disdainful flutter—“anti-Cabal crusading nonsense.”

  “Maybe it’s just Lucas, then,” the driver said. “He’s found out about this and decided to get involved. Save the kids.” His tone was sharp with sarcasm.

  “He doesn’t have the means to pull this off. Idealism is all well and fine, but it doesn’t buy proper staff and equipment.” She cast a glance out the window, and in her reflection I could see anxiety as she scanned the night. “No, I’m sure he couldn’t do this.”

  Rafe looked at me and lifted his brows. He mouthed “Maybe . . .” I agreed and mentally filed the information.

  I looked out my window. We were almost off the mountain now, in a densely populated neighborhood near the bottom. Lots of houses, mostly dark, the road quiet.

  “Where are we being—?” I began.

  The squawk of a radio cut me off. The driver answered.

  “We’re being followed,” said the woman on the other end. “Could be nothing. I’m dispatching a backup car to handle it, but you need to follow protocol.”

  The driver said he’d do that. He’d barely hung up when the lead car made a sudden, unsignaled left turn, tires screeching slightly. We followed. The van behind us didn’t.

  “Splitting up?” Rafe said.

  Neither
Dr. Inglis nor the driver answered. He kept both hands on the wheel, gaze straight forward. She watched out the side window. After a minute she said, “There. The next street over. An SUV with its lights off is on a parallel course with us. I’ve seen them down three side streets now.”

  As we passed the next intersection, the driver looked. So did I. There it was—a dark, unlit SUV a short block over.

  He called it in. Again, he was simply told to “follow protocol.” This time, that meant he was the one hitting his brakes and making a sharp left turn. The guard car continued on without us. Our driver flicked off our headlights. At the next corner, he turned again. Same with the next.

  Voices came over the radio. Conversations among the drivers. The second van hadn’t noticed anything amiss and was continuing on with its escort. Our escort had gone after the SUV, which had taken off the second they appeared. They were chasing it now. We were advised to continue on, with the dispatcher giving directions that seemed to take us along every street in the neighborhood.

  Finally we came out on a back road in a housing development. The homes were unfinished and unoccupied, and looked like they’d been that way for a while and would continue to be that way for a while longer—another victim of the economic crunch. It was eerie seeing them in the darkness, half-completed skeletons, stark against the—

  I saw the truck at the last second. I don’t know whether it came from behind a house or out of a garage. One second we were alone on that desolate road. The next I heard a motor roar and looked over to see only inky blackness. Then it seemed to appear from nothing—a huge black pickup, with its lights off, coming straight for us.

  Our driver swerved. The other one did, too, our front hitting their side with a crunch that threw me against my seat belt hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. The front air bags deployed. That’s all I noticed in that first post-crash moment—the huge white bags billowing.

  The driver started clawing at his air bag. Hayley vaulted from the backseat and grabbed his seat belt, yanking on it with all her weight to pin him as she wedged one foot into the gap to block him from hitting the release.