by P. R. Adams
“When’s the next presidential election?”
“Uh.”
That drew a smile. I wasn’t the only one unconcerned with politics.
“Next November.”
That sounded about right. The election system had come unhinged decades before. All the money, the insane theater, the brainwashing mechanisms.
“Weaver’s behavior—the security detail, the meet-and-greets. That’s not senatorial; it’s presidential. Does her party have a front-runner candidate, someone being whispered as the sure thing?”
“Brown. Delaware governor. Strong bank ties.”
They all had strong bank ties. “Check the committees or councils or whatever she’s on. See what sort of press releases she’s been doing. Interviews and all the talking heads nonsense. Compare all that to the past two years. See if there’s any indication she’s going to announce something soon.”
Chan killed the connection.
For the first time, something made sense to me. Weaver wasn’t a natural politician. Any way the wind blew, she followed. If she was running for something bigger, she would need polish. A young consultant who could operate under the radar until things heated up. She would need security. The MPS team. More staff would be hired on, probably once the announcement was made, but they would already be lined up.
I toured the area while I waited, strolling north for a few blocks, then cutting west, then coming back. Nitin followed. Each step brought me confidence. Why else would someone want a long-time senator eliminated? She was making waves.
My device chimed. It was Dr. Jernigan.
“Mr. Mendoza, I just saw your video.” She was somewhere I couldn’t recall seeing, probably her office. “I’m sorry about the incident. If you’re available tonight, I can download detailed copies of your logs and run an update to your MMI.”
“I’d appreciate that, Doctor.”
“Would…seven work?”
“Please.”
“I have you scheduled.” She pressed the base of her palm against her forehead. “Once again, I apologize for the inconvenience.”
“See you at seven.” I disconnected. It was nearly eleven. We were running out of time to plan.
I let Nitin catch up to me and stopped in an alley again. I pinged Ichi with our location. She was off the Grid. That hadn’t been part of the plan. Something to talk about later. When I asked Chan for an update on Danny’s aerial views, a new link showed up. It was just as expected: Traffic was getting heavy as the lunch hour approached.
Nitin came closer. “What’s the plan? Going to try something today?”
“Just…tests.”
Ichi watched us from across the street. She had a calm assurance that said she’d been there a while. Good. When she joined us, I shared the video link.
“Traffic’s getting worse, like we expected.” I brought up the video I’d taken at the two restaurants. “This is the only place I can see any opportunities to get close and evaluate that security team. I want to test their awareness and reaction time. Ichi, I want you outside the area, in case they have any images from last night. Nitin, same with you. Six blocks out should be safe. Keep your channels clear.”
Nitin took off, but Ichi stayed. “You can do this?” she asked.
“I can do this.” My smile convinced her I could.
I waited a minute and returned to the open area between the restaurants, pretending to choose between the two menus. After fifteen minutes, I ordered what appeared to be the most intricate appetizers and a pot of tea.
Then I waited.
When the SUVs arrived, I was finishing my second pot of tea.
The security team deployed the same as the night before, with one of the team lingering in the shared area between the restaurants I was in just long enough to scan each face before moving into Ming Dynasty. It was the same big-eared, dark-haired young man who had checked the library out first. Probably Ravi’s number one. McFarland stayed on the outer edge, watching, biting her bottom lip and looking up from beneath bangs that were a little too long. Her hair was up in a bun this time. I had to force myself to look away from her emerald eyes. She never looked away from Weaver, as if expecting a disaster at any moment.
Up close, I had a better chance to watch the security team in action. It became immediately clear that Ravi was in charge. The female on the team stayed close to Weaver—personal bodyguard.
People spilled out from the shops and restaurants: owners, managers, photogenic staff, maybe even some plants. All smiles. Bows and laughs. Weaver still looked uncomfortable and distracted. She made mention of a renewed push for better trade deals with China, and when she slipped into a string of details, she actually seemed to relax.
A young waiter set my spring rolls in front of me, shook his head lazily at the big to-do, and headed back into the restaurant.
That’s when I spotted her.
Sitting on a low stone wall outside the Ming Dynasty, pretending to watch a data device. Long, dark hair twirled in the light breeze, trailing over a gray and pink Lycra jacket that matched mid-shin jogging pants. Sunglasses hid her eyes, upper cheeks, and the area where her brow met nose. Tall and slender, she slid off the wall and slipped into a walk with the grace of a leopard. Something slender and nearly transparent slid down her left sleeve as she approached Weaver.
I powered down my data device, pulled the napkin from my lap, grabbed my butter knife, and wiped my hands as I stood. “Senator Weaver?”
She turned toward me. Ravi’s head swiveled enough to let me know he was watching me. The team was on alert.
Weaver shielded her eyes from the sun. “Yes?”
I stepped closer, the towel now bunched around the knife in my left hand. “Will you be participating in the Snyder Triathlon next month? Haven’t seen you at one in the last year.”
The dark-haired woman didn’t turn away, even with the team alerted. She moved closer, crossing in front of McFarland. Approaching the semi-circle of fawning restaurant workers and owners.
The clear thing in the woman’s hand gave the impression of a knife.
“Well,” Weaver said, taking a step closer on her own, “my schedule is packed tight right now, Mr.…”
“Stefan Mendoza.” I extended my right hand and approached, drawing in the bodyguard on Weaver’s left and Ravi on her right. “I watched you in the National a few years ago. What a sight.”
Weaver blushed. “A mess, you—”
The dark-haired woman leapt in, the knife an extension of her hand.
“Look out!” I grabbed Weaver’s wrist and yanked her to me.
Ravi fell on top of her, throwing his body over her and shouting into his communication device.
The female bodyguard sensed the dark-haired woman at the last second and turned. The knife sparkled in the sunlight, something more than steel.
The bodyguard deflected two slashes that cut through her jacket and shirt, but when she went for a grapple hold, the dark-haired woman slipped free and drove the knife into the smaller woman’s throat with enough force to knock her sunglasses off.
Blood fountained out, and the bodyguard fell to the ground. Air escaped through the wound with a hiss.
The other security members drew their guns and shoved forward through the shocked crowd. The dark-haired woman kicked one of the hostesses in the gut, knocking her into the farther of the two security men, then brought the knife up to slash at the closer of the two.
I lunged, hooking the napkin-covered knife over the sparkling blade. It cut through towel and steel, but her attack was fouled.
The standing security team member braced and fired three shots, center mass, and the woman went down without a sound.
And then she swept his legs out from under him.
She rolled and leapt to her feet and plunged into the gathered crowd, knocking people aside and plunging into the mass of bodies.
I knelt at the injured woman’s side, saw panic and fear in wide, dark eyes. Her hands clutched a
t the gushing wound, working to squeeze it shut.
I leaned in close. “You saved her life. You understand? You did your job.”
She nodded, and there was a small measure of relief in her panicked face.
Weaver hovered nearby, gasping, held tight by Ravi.
The man who’d shot the assassin shoved in beside me and fumbled with the wound. He shouted her name: Katy.
An all-too-familiar peace came over Katy’s face, and she reached out. I took her blood-slick hand and held it until the last strength was gone from her. Sirens approached, and the security detail pulled Weaver away.
I let the paramedics take the corpse, saw the blood on my hands and clothes, saw the blade of my knife in the road.
Ravi watched me from the door of the SUV, where Weaver was doubled over, crying.
My eyes drifted to McFarland, who looked at me as if I were some sort of monster.
Chapter 9
Heavy clouds choked off the sunlight, but the street was lit in the strobing red, blue, and amber from police and security light bars. Electricity seemed to connect everything, building heat and pressure against my skin with every movement and change. Distant horns echoed through the quiet plaza, crystal clear in the hushed silence. Uniformed security contractors cordoned off the area with yellow crime scene tape, while plainclothes detectives—middle-aged, scruffy, bleary-eyed—launched video-recording drones and set up an interrogation booth.
An actual FBI agent arrived in a long, whisper-quiet, sleek, black car with smoked windows. She was black, approaching middle age, with a short hairdo that sharpened round cheeks. Bright red lipstick glistened on full lips. She adjusted her washed-out navy blue scarf and black suit top, then scanned the gathering with wraparound, bubble-lensed shades. She acted as if she expected everything to come to a halt just for her. For a few seconds it did.
She looked me over at one point, then looked away.
Moments later, a Chinese Security Services van rumbled up to the taped-off perimeter, flooding the plaza with pungent diesel fumes before clanking to a stop. All the while, the patrons and restaurant staff looked on, faces drawn and pale.
Committing a crime inside Washington, D.C., was always messy. I spent a few hours filling out security reports and talking with the assorted law enforcement types.
A half dozen Chinese Security Service members watched over the whole affair, dour and glum in their olive drab paramilitary uniforms. They seemed out of their depth, the oldest among them pulling back the sheet and inspecting the bodyguard’s corpse at one point, testing the strength of the perimeter tape at another. He was a little pudgy, with small, beady eyes and hair that was gray-streaked and slicked back. His behavior drew smirks and rolled eyes from the police and security contractors, but the FBI agent carefully watched everything he did.
When the pudgy Chinese Security Services man looked at me, it was with a strange familiarity, as if he were experiencing déjà vu.
Once released, I hurried away from the scene with several contact names and numbers cached and ready to add to my still-offline data device, among them Ravi Lingam’s. My background had held up to scrutiny, a good sign for Chan’s competence. To be sure I wasn’t being followed, I stayed on foot and shifted course several times, then brought up my data device and hired a car for a ride into an older section of the city where video coverage was spotty and security services were unlikely to go. After an hour wandering around amid curious residents, I headed back out and hired another ride.
A few miles north of the Guillaume Clinic, I got out and walked. It was cooler, the sun nowhere to be seen. Buildings rose up on either side—stone, steel, and glass. Not the towers of the Canyon. Street and pedestrian traffic was light, leaving me some peace to think.
About halfway to the clinic, my data device chimed.
Heidi. “What are you doing?”
“Clearing my head.” I let that hang out there long enough to annoy, then said, “And making sure I’m off their surveillance.”
“Whose surveillance?”
“I’m not sure yet. FBI, Chinese Security Services, police…”
Heidi sighed. “This is the death of the Chinese waiter?”
“Check the premium news sites, not the free ones. This was one of Weaver’s bodyguards.”
“I thought we had discussed the requirements—it needs to look like an accident.”
“Not my doing. You have someone else on your payroll? Backup?”
Silence. Finally, Heidi said, “What did he look like?”
“Very definitely a she. Long and slender. Probably Central or South American. Took a few small arms rounds to the chest—point blank—and ran away, so I’m guessing some level of modification. If she was wearing armor, it wasn’t anything I’ve seen. You sure she wasn’t working for you?”
“Yes. Quite sure. We need to talk.”
Amber lights glowed through a glass facade, Habib’s in pale red neon. A small eatery, something meant for the professionals in the area.
“I’ll be back tonight. My cybernetics acted up this morning. I’m seeing Dr. Jernigan in a couple hours.”
“Stop by my room when you get back.” Heidi hung up.
Inside the eatery, I caught a mix of turmeric and cucumbers, cumin and garlic in the air. Kabobs, salads, and sauces dominated the offerings. I ordered mint tea, a salad, and lamb—the real stuff—then settled into a corner seat.
My head felt clear for the first time since the attack. Details that had eluded me before were now clear. My eyes had recorded everything I’d seen; I downloaded the video to the data device as I ate—tart olives and cheese, smoky meat, tomatoes that burst in my mouth when I bit into them. It was a minor pleasure that eased my mind.
I played the video back as I drank my tea.
The assassin had arrived a few minutes after I’d ordered my food. She’d stretched out and settled on the low wall, pretending to examine her data device. She’d scanned the crowd with the device, making it look like she was simply taking a video. It was probably a weapons scan as well as a chance for her to look everyone over.
Threat assessment.
I fast forwarded to the convoy’s arrival. The security agent who had walked inside the restaurant had glanced at the woman, seen no threat, moved on.
I replayed, just to be sure. No threat.
Weaver got out. Those waiting on her advanced, greeted—strained and awkward.
McFarland stood outside the circle, watching. Anxious. Grimacing at Weaver’s clumsy interactions. It was like watching a father trying not to coach his kid at a soccer match.
Freeze frame.
I drilled down on McFarland’s face, searching for the violent university protestor. The chubbiness was gone. Makeup highlighted pleasant features that had before been contorted. The clothing was off-the-rack, but it reinforced the idea of a professional working to establish credentials. The frayed sweater and stained shirt were a forgotten history.
Fast forward again, double speed. Stop.
Rewind. Drill down on McFarland’s face. Those eyes. That face.
Fast forward. The assassin went by.
Freeze frame.
The assassin and McFarland had been inches apart and oblivious. Death could have removed McFarland from the world before her career even began.
The attack played out, first at double speed, then at normal, then at half.
The woman’s moves were perfect. She knew the weapon. She moved with grace, speed, and power. The bodyguard didn’t really make any mistakes; she just couldn’t keep up. Deflected strike, deflected strike—blood misted from the wounds. A classic grab, the setup for a takedown maneuver, but the assassin just…slipped free.
I rewound and played that again. She popped free of the hold. Casually. That took a lot of power. The sort of power my cybernetics supposedly had.
And then the knife. It shimmered in the video. The blade just seemed to taper off into light. Drilling down, the blade had an imprecision about its
shape, a blurring. Less a solid metal, more a glass or plastic that kept transforming. Vibrating.
The knife sheared through my own hidden weapon, cutting through steel without catching.
I made notes.
Heavy modifications, possibly cybernetics, possible armor weave in her skin.
Knife that cuts through metal. Maybe vibrating. Maybe glass or plastic.
Not working for Heidi, so not working for the Agency. That assumed Heidi was working for the Agency, which seemed less likely by the minute.
Back to the video of the law enforcement groups and analyzing their interactions with Ravi’s team. Was there any hint there might have been some sort of connection between them? Only professional courtesy came across.
The Chinese Security Services interaction was different. They were the only ones to pay any attention to the butter knife, and that was the old, pudgy guy.
No. The FBI agent watched them, as if she had left it alone to test them.
Cat-and-mouse bullshit. I tagged her and him.
I added the note: FBI and Chinese Security Services suspicious of assassin’s weapon. Suspicious of each other. Need identities.
I powered down, paid for the meal, and headed for the clinic.
Dr. Jernigan met me in the lobby and escorted me to the elevators. “How have they been behaving today?”
“Much better. I had a little bit of an unscheduled stress test this morning.”
She cocked her head but didn’t ask for details.
The clinic was mostly abandoned at that hour. We rode up without running into anyone, but I saw lights on in offices down the hall from what turned out to be her office. The building was warm and quiet, almost welcoming if not for my associating memories of suffering.
She took me into one of the smaller labs and had me lie face down on a couch. “Your MMI is the most current design we have, but we’re constantly updating the software.”
“I thought that was what you did through the Grid connection.”
Her hand pressed against the base of my skull. Fingers dug around until she rubbed at the raised patch of skin covering the interface. There was a pinching sensation. “It’s monitoring. You shouldn’t even be aware of it. Is it bothering you?”