Into Twilight (The Stefan Mendoza Trilogy Book 1)

by P. R. Adams

“There are chemicals that can cause very normal-seeming symptoms. A toxicology screening won’t necessarily catch them, assuming one is even called for.” I couldn’t see any hint of discomfort or uncertainty at that.

  She sat back. “You did not want to talk with me about how to kill the senator.”

  “I wanted to be sure you understood what you were getting into. There’s still time to walk away. I can still help you financially.”

  “I know what this is, Stefan-san. I have known for years. Before, when he said I was a lesbian, I thought I was being judged. It is not something I appreciate. If he were not a member of your team, I would have hurt him.” The set of her face said she would have hurt him quite a bit.

  “The only things I judge are trust and effectiveness.”

  She bowed slightly. “You can trust me. And you will find me effective. Like Norimitsu-san.”

  “No.” There was more heat in my tone than intended. “Your father spent years proving himself to me, same as I did to him. You don’t have that.”

  She blushed and looked away.

  I stood, felt stiffness in the small of my back. “I need to talk with Chan.”

  A sharp nod, and she disappeared into her room. The door closed without a sound.

  Chan was up when I let myself into the room across the hall. Danny’s door was open, a video playing loud enough to ensure any conversation was private. I took the chair across from Chan, the same one I’d had with Ichi in our room. Chan’s eyes never shifted from the display.

  “I reviewed the videos,” I said. “The feed we had from Ichi was slow. We missed the security operative moving up to the mezzanine. He nearly got up on her.”

  Chan shrugged. “Grid hiccup. Happens.”

  “It can’t happen for us. We need data flowing fast and accurate.”

  “Recon, right?” Chan’s face shifted slightly, almost enough to look up at me, but the eyes stayed on the display. “We’re safe.”

  I leaned forward and plucked the display from the coffee table. Images lasted long enough to register—data, photos, video. Most of it seemed work-related. Others…not. I set the blank screen assembly back on the table, caught Chan’s cold, dead stare. Those strange magenta eyes held hate. Fury.

  “I need your head in this, Chan. I need to know you’re focused on us, on the mission.”

  Chan glanced past me at Danny’s door. “You question him? Ichi? Nitin? Or just me?”

  “I’ve known Danny about twelve years. Nitin’s a proven driver. You, I don’t know from a computer chip. You’re just another Gridhound who happened to be in Jacinto’s snowcrash. I’m taking Heidi’s word that you’re a proven commodity.”

  The display came to life again, and Chan dove back into the data. “Jacinto did this? Soured you?”

  “Soured me? On Gridhounds?” I thought about that. “Maybe. He was good, but he was stubborn, and he was getting sloppy. He took unnecessary chances and put the team at risk. It’s possible he was responsible for what happened in Seoul.” I touched my eyes.

  “I’m not Jacinto. I’m Chan. He’s dead.”

  I didn’t feel a lick of pity or sadness. “You’re a Gridhound. You live in the data, suck it in like a junkie. It’s realer to you than what’s all around—”

  The magenta eyes finally came up. “Chan. C-H-A-N. Me. Unique. No one else. Understand?”

  There was a twitch to the face, a distance to those alien eyes.

  “You take drugs on your own time. You do—” I pointed at the displays. “—anything you want on your own time. When we’re running a mission, you’re clean.”

  The hallway door opened. Nitin stepped through, smiling. He grabbed a water from the refrigerator and headed into Danny’s room.

  I stood, gave Chan a final glance. “Focused.”

  But Chan was already back in the digital world.

  I knocked on Danny’s door. Nitin had settled on the end of the bed while Danny reclined against a mountain of pillows. A horrible laugh track filled the room. Danny muted it and got off the bed, then motioned for me to close the door. He opened the end of the drapes just enough to glance outside.

  When the door clacked shut, he closed the drapes and turned, rubbing at the corners of his mouth. “What was that about?”

  “The Grid interruption that caused me to miss the Indian security guy,” I said.

  Danny and Nitin exchanged a look, then Danny began to pace. Little steps, four or five forward, shoulders brushing the drapes, head down. “I’m not sure I trust this kid.”

  “We’re not sure we trust this whole thing, boss.” Nitin tossed back the last of the water.

  I found the controls on the video system and brought the volume back up to a mumble, then settled on the end of the dresser. “Talk to me.”

  Danny stopped pacing. “Why’s a senator got a security detail? A bodyguard, sure. She can afford that. A security detail? And not just for when she goes outside the Green Zone. I followed them back to her apartment. One SUV never left.”

  “And there’s that,” Nitin said, pointing the empty bottle at the door. “Never worked in the community. No one I talked to ever heard of her.”

  I looked them both over, searching for any sign they were lost. There was definite stress, but neither seemed too frayed. I turned to Nitin. “The name’s Chan. Let’s stick to that. It means a lot, and it doesn’t really take much.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  “Chan’s one of the risks we take. For now.” I glanced at Danny for approval; he shrugged. Nitin did the same. “Ichi’s another risk we accept. Also for now.”

  The bottle made a crinkling sound as Nitin rolled it between his hands. “That’s a lot of risk.”

  “And it’s not what has you worked up,” I said. “This is about Heidi.”

  “Yeah.” Danny began pacing again. “And, uh, about what happened in Seoul. You know they never recovered Jacinto’s body? We thought we might find him when we found you. Did you ever see him—” He halted. “Oh, shit. Sorry.”

  I waved it away. “Chan says he’s dead. Did you ever figure out what happened? Who had me?”

  “Nah. I got out of country using the second alternate route. Stovall said he got out using the primary, but I don’t know. They had security all over Daegu. I checked. Maybe his connections took care of him. When I saw him about six weeks later, he was testy, like he thought I was blaming it on him or something. I saw the video. That robot…”

  Clemens’s head was in the metallic feline jaws. Bone snapped, and gore sprayed across my face.

  The past. All in the past.

  “Yuh never had backers with that sort of money. And the place they were holding me—”

  “Osan. What was left of it. We think it was one of the old storage bunkers. No one goes there anymore. Radiation levels are safe, but the place is a mess. Stovall said the State Department wouldn’t authorize any sort of diplomatic feelers or anything. No one in the Agency would approve even a soft probe. An intercept caught mention of an American asset being interrogated, and they still wouldn’t budge.” Danny paced again. “And then my contracts…” He shrugged. “It all just dried up. Nitin said word went around that I was trouble.”

  Nitin snorted. “Not even on a gig in Ethiopia. Could’ve used a sniper. That one was close. Hot as radiation.”

  Danny blinked rapidly. “Yeah. I, uh, took on some private work. And then Heidi called. She had money backing her, wanted to know if I might have some ideas for an old Agency hand who could run an operation for her. A sticky one. I told her I was out. She knew that. And then the craziest thing—she threw your name out there, wondered if I’d ever heard anything more about you. I told her the last I’d heard, and she said she’d call back.”

  “And she did?” I was starting to get a feel for why they weren’t comfortable.

  “Yeah. Said her contacts in the Agency thought you might still be alive. Chatter said the American asset was being held at Osan. I told her you ran the best teams I ever
worked with, so if she had something sticky, you were the guy. I hope you don’t take offense, but I never thought she’d say anything more about it, but two weeks later, she’s got me on a plane to Tokyo and then we’re out on a helicopter cruiser, me and eight contractors, guys I never worked with before. I don’t even think they were Agency.”

  “Nine of you? What, were you planning an extract?”

  “I guess so. Then they just dumped your body. One of our drones spotted them moving…you to that benjo ditch in broad daylight. We went in, a small team. Really, we were just expecting to extract your corpse. Shit, it was raining, and they just threw you in.”

  It sounded like they panicked. But why? Why not just shoot me and leave me to rot?

  I pushed off the dresser and put my back to the door. “Stovall taught me that my first mission was to watch for shit that’s out of whack. One thing, keep an eye on it and be ready to bail. Two things? Bail. I’ve lost count of how many things are out of whack with this, so I understand if you want to back out.”

  Nitin considered his water bottle. “I passed up a decent gig for this. I need the money.” He tossed the bottle to Danny, who caught it clumsily. “I’m in.”

  Danny tossed the bottle into the waste bin. The arc was perfect, and the bottle rattled off the bottom. He smiled proudly. “In.”

  I crossed to the door, opened it, and turned. “Get some sleep. We start probes tomorrow.”

  Chapter 8

  The annoying chimes of the data device woke me from the siren song of the Grid in my ear, the whisper of persistent data flowing through my cybernetics. Sunlight was a pale sliver beneath the drapes. Early, maybe 7 a.m. Cool against my cybernetic skin and human flesh. Quiet except for the chiming.

  It had to be Chan. Retaliation—

  My torso went rigid. Muscles bulged, veins popped up. Explosions roared in my head, like a battlefield pounded by artillery. My arms and legs refused to respond while phantom limbs told me they were doing exactly what I was telling them to do.

  Panic throttled me.

  The MMI—Man-Machine Interface—was acting up, firing off erroneous messages and screwing up communication from my brain.

  My jaws clenched tight. Breathing became a struggle as my brain fought for control.

  Reboot!

  The thought was enough, a root command that cut through the chaos in the interface. One at a time, the cybernetics came back online.

  I relaxed, controlled my breathing.

  Shivering, I leveraged myself off the bed. The arms I couldn’t command seconds before settled against the thighs that had similarly rebelled. Hands that had been dead weight brushed at my hair, touched my rebuilt cheeks, tested the cybernetic eyes that had never failed me.

  Dr. Jernigan. I needed to tell her about the failure. She’d warned it could happen, but it seemed awfully early in the acclimation process.

  The chiming persisted.

  I got up, shuffled cautiously to the dresser. Chan’s magenta eyes smiled at me—malevolent, vindictive. I accepted the connection request. The still image expanded into a full-sized video.

  Chan’s head tilted. “Wake you?”

  “I was doing calisthenics. What’s up?”

  “Good news.” The focus went elsewhere. The microphone caught soft typing and swiping sounds. “IDs. The pretty lady, the Indian guy.”

  I scratched my chest absently, wondering suddenly if it was me or the arm running the show. “Who’s the Indian guy?”

  “Ravi Lingam. Former Secret Service. Thirty-nine. Divorced. Son. Joined MPS last December.”

  An employment CV filled the screen. The video showed the same man who’d gone up to the mezzanine and pursued Ichi.

  “Hello, I’m Ravi Lingam. I have eighteen years of federal employment and several certifications in personal security, electronic surveillance and counter surveillance, as well as trauma treatment. Push the green button if you’d like to arrange an interview.”

  The video froze.

  There was an immediacy and intensity in his eyes. He was challenging me to hit the green button. “Are the certifications legitimate?”

  “Still confirming. His CV is secured. Probe too hard, he’ll know.”

  “What about the young woman?” She seemed unlikely to offer the unknowns this Lingam did.

  “Gillian McFarland.”

  Another file opened on the device. The young woman, scruffy, glaring, heavier: a mug shot. A tattered, buttoned sweater, open on a simple shirt with stains and a tear.

  I drilled in closer. Despite puffier cheeks and a scowl that made her look older, the face was still attractive. “What’s this from?”

  “Student protest. University of Pennsylvania. Poli-sci and communications majors. Graduate degrees. Protest turned violent. LEO assault. Charges dropped. Thought there might be more, but…”

  LEO—law enforcement officer. That was bad enough. “Anything else?”

  “Out-of-state student. Residence in New York. Still checking the particulars.” The hint of agitation in Chan’s voice became more noticeable with each word. “Should’ve been more records. Missing.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I didn’t need Chan freaking out. “Poli-sci and communications. So, a consultant?”

  “Not on the payroll.”

  “Weaver’s private consultant, possibly.” I pulled up the image from the library. With makeup, a nice outfit, and combed hair, the lady was eye-catching. Really eye-catching. Prime material as a spokesperson. In a year or two, she’d be too polished for a senator. “Mark her as a possible intern. Good work. We’ll need more details soon.”

  Chan glared. “Don’t want to hear the rest?”

  “There’s more?”

  “Another last-minute appointment. Chinatown. Noon. Meet-and-greet.”

  “Chinatown? Old or new?” The distinction was huge. Old Chinatown was American citizens. It had a representative and local politicians. New Chinatown was part of the Canyon. It was mostly foreign workers on visas.

  “New.”

  I pulled underwear out of the bag. “Get Nitin up. I want to scout that area on foot and drive around. Thirty minutes. Have Danny put some aerial videos together. Weather, traffic—give me a full projection for noon.”

  The connection died. It was silent again except for the Grid’s whisper in my head. I pulled on my gym shorts and walked to Ichi’s door. My knock sounded louder than I’d intended.

  “What?” A mix of sleep and irritation. Norimitsu had said she wasn’t a morning person.

  “We’re scouting Chinatown. I want you on foot. Same routine as last night.”

  The door opened. She braced an arm against the jamb, as if advertising her wares in a black sports bra and panties. The shape of her shoulders and arms, the contours of her abdomen and thighs—it was the artistic construction of a gymnast and martial artist, what Norimitsu had managed in his youth. But feminine. Very feminine.

  “Are you testing me?” she asked. “Or is there a plan to actually use me?”

  “We’re all being tested, all the time.” I turned, stopped. “I’m going in this time, but I want you around.”

  “You do not trust me?”

  I looked down at the hands that had failed me earlier. “I don’t trust me.”

  I sent a message to Dr. Jernigan detailing what had happened, then showered. She would have the logs already, but I wanted to share my experience.

  Nitin was waiting for us outside the lobby. We were settled at a bistro by eight, using cups of coffee to keep the wind from tearing away the wax paper our rice balls and soy sausage had come in. Except for the last of the fog that hadn’t been burned off, our view of the plaza was complete. Restaurants, bistros, and tourist shops lined the fronts of the entire block on either side of the widened road. Concrete islands provided places for pedestrians to gather when traffic lights left them stranded. Elderly shop hands swept the sidewalks or sprayed them with hoses, but the smell wouldn’t go away—piss and dumpsters full
of rot. They were in the alleys, out of sight, but present.

  Foot traffic continued to pick up. We were losing our view.

  I finished off my rice ball, enjoying the spices and gooey texture for a second before washing it down with coffee that could have dripped out of one of those hidden dumpsters.

  Nitin stood and stretched, reflective lenses tracking the length of the street. “Too damned many stoplights, boss. Four lanes, not counting parking and turning.”

  I let Ichi finish her coffee, then tossed our garbage into a can. She used the garbage can as a wave break against the oncoming pedestrians as she surveyed the street for herself.

  “Better for operations on foot,” she said. “Put a scooter in an alley, and have someone warn you when the lights are changing. It is like a maze. Easier to escape than with a car.”

  Nitin chuckled. “Better be good on that bike.”

  “I can handle one.” She glanced at me, slipped on sunglasses, and disappeared in the crowd.

  I nodded toward the open space between two large restaurants—Ming Dynasty and Eastern Wind—just across the street. “She’ll stop there. I want to check out that gift shop.”

  The traffic flow carried me to the street corner, where I entered the crosswalk. Nitin hung back a few feet, but I could see his darker skin and thicker hair among the crowd. By the time I had reached the closer of the two restaurants, I was losing faith in the idea of any escape routes being of use. Foot traffic was now heavier than street traffic, and that would be dense until at least 10:30.

  I scanned the menus of both restaurants while surveying potential sniper positions and close assault opportunities. Chinatown was even worse than the library. The security team knew what it was doing, assuming they were being consulted.

  But why have a security team? Just as my team was coming online. Just as Weaver started doing meet-and-greets.

  One thing out of whack, keep an eye on it and be ready to bail. Two things, bail.

  I settled at the entry to an alley, away from the crowds, and pulled out my data device.

  “Chan?”

  “Yeah.”

  The pedestrian current rushed past. Foreigners, locals, tourists, all packed in together, uncaring.