Into Twilight (The Stefan Mendoza Trilogy Book 1)

by P. R. Adams

  I was still hacking when Heidi’s limo pulled to a stop a few feet ahead.

  The door opened, and her voice floated from inside. “Come along, Stefan. We can’t have the centerpiece of the disaster falling over dead prematurely.”

  Walking had never felt so inviting. I climbed in and settled opposite her.

  Dressed all in black, and with dark shades covering her eyes, she looked like a grieving widow. She looked me up and down as the limo door closed and we pulled out into the sluggish traffic. “Were you tempting pneumonia?”

  Bitter rain dripped from my hair, somehow staining my coat. “I needed to clear my head.”

  “Clear your head, and there won’t be much left to you at all.” She set an elbow against the window rest to her left and settled her chin on a bony, shaky hand. Her head moved ever so slightly, as if she were caught up in the flow of traffic. “I’ve done what I can to convince our employers that they should eliminate you and give us an extra week with a new operations manager.”

  “Thank you.” I buckled in as the limo accelerated. “The lack of a gun and a tearful reminisce about the good old days leads me to believe your request was denied.”

  “Sadly, your inflated reputation saved you yet again.”

  “You really don’t know who’s behind this operation, do you?”

  She stiffened, which was all the answer I needed. She was as in the dark as me.

  “That’s got to be eating at you. I know it is me.” I cranked up the seat’s heater. “We’re going somewhere other than a peaceful meadow to dump my body. Care to share?”

  “Nowhere, actually. I wanted some time alone.” The shades shifted back to me. “To clear the air.”

  “What’s to clear? We operate differently.”

  “You have experience out in the field. Experience I lack. And you were undeniably successful, if a pain in the ass. Why did Stovall leave you to the Koreans?”

  Heat flashed through my body—the parts that were truly me. “If I knew that, maybe I wouldn’t be planning to kill him. Actually, I would, but it’s the only thing keeping me from killing him on sight. I have to know why.”

  That drew a smile that seemed sincere, even sympathetic. “One problem at a time.”

  “He knew I wouldn’t break, I guess. Without any fear of that, it wasn’t worth the effort to be sure I was dead or to secure my release. He always said our business was just accounting with human lives as the currency.”

  “I’ve heard that. Who knew there was such excitement to be had with numbers?”

  Slush drummed against the limo’s bottom for a bit as it maneuvered through an area piled deep. Icy tears trickled down the window with halting indecision. We were moving north, and I had the briefest moment of doubt about my security.

  “We have a few leads,” I said once the doubt receded.

  The fine hairs of her eyebrows rose over the shades.

  I held up my index finger. “Chinese government involvement. But you knew that.”

  The slightest of flinches in the parts of her face I could see confirmed that she knew.

  “There’s a dangerous Gridhound at work. Whoever it is, they have Chan rattled.”

  Fine wrinkles became more pronounced around her pursed lips. “Chan is a problem.”

  “You were the one who brought Chan onboard.”

  “The name was out there. If you would prefer someone else—”

  “Chan’s going to be okay. Anyone who ran with Jacinto’s snowcrash had to be skilled.”

  Heidi’s lips twisted disapprovingly. “If Chan isn’t a problem, let’s move on.”

  “Ravi Lingam. The head of Senator Weaver’s security detail. His background is locked down. Tight.”

  “He probably paid for it.”

  “Possibly. Or he’s got ties to something big.”

  She looked away again—anything but denial.

  “Have you heard of him? Was he Agency?”

  “It’s a big organization, Stefan.”

  “Not an answer.”

  The limo shuddered and shifted around, as if we’d hit a patch of ice.

  Heidi shook her head but continued to stare out the window. “I’ve never heard of him, but I didn’t…network well.”

  My data device vibrated. I checked, hoping it might be a call from Gillian.

  It was a text from Dr. Jernigan.

  Can you come to the office before 8?

  I checked our position. We were fifteen minutes away in good weather, and it was 7:51 a.m.

  I typed: 8:10 okay?

  Yes.

  I looked up, saw Heidi watching me. “Could you drop me off at the Guillaume Clinic?”

  We rattled along on the slick ice for a bit. When things steadied out, Heidi said, “Guillaume Clinic.”

  The limo accelerated, braked, turned, and accelerated again. Heidi said nothing more until the door opened as we came to a stop outside the outpatient entry.

  She pulled her shades down, revealing glaring eyes that were bloodshot and tired. “Time is running out, Stefan. No matter who you think is behind this, you’ll be as damaged by failure as the rest of us. We need a resolution and we need it soon.”

  Sunlight broke through gray threads of cloud to the east and turned the snow cover blinding. It was like a fire flaring up instantly, burning away all the impurities.

  Rather than reply, I strode through the automated door and into the clinic. Dr. Jernigan was waiting inside. She directed me across the lobby. When I glanced out the door, the limo was gone.

  We took a small table in the cafeteria by a window facing north, away from the few occupied tables. Dr. Jernigan set a small storage device on the table and got up to order from the robotic cooking unit. A few minutes later, she returned to the table with a plate of eggs, a slice of toast, and wedges of cantaloupe. I pushed the storage device back to her as the scent of melting butter settled between us.

  “What’s on it?” I asked.

  She popped the egg yoke, cut it up with the white, and scooped a large portion onto the toast. “Should I assume you’ve made a personal duplicate?”

  “Of course.”

  She chewed and chased the food down with a loud sip. Her hands were thick, her fingers long. There wasn’t a hint of hair visible in the reflected light. “Her name’s Maribel Clavel. From El Salvador.”

  The name sounded familiar, possibly someone I’d come close to brushing across in the field. “Worked on here in the clinic?”

  Dr. Jernigan stabbed a cantaloupe wedge, cut it in half, and stuffed the rest in her mouth. She ate with gusto, then took another sip of coffee. “UCLA. A case study. Almost five years ago. Automobile accident. The end result was about the same as yours: full limb replacement, skeletal reinforcement, and in her case some epidermal enhancements during the skin grafting. That last part was apparently aftermarket.”

  “Aftermarket?”

  “Not officially done by the UCLA team.” She finished off the last of the egg and toast. “But there were people who knew about it. It’s good work and took a lot of money. Bulletproof.”

  “How much of her is covered by it?”

  Dr. Jernigan swished coffee around and squinted. “She wouldn’t be any good in bed. No sensitivity. Anywhere.”

  That was a problem. “She’s still going to have problems with the impact, right? It can’t be strong enough to distribute the kinetic energy completely along that pseudo-skin, can it? Some of the energy has to get through. Bruising, internal damage, that sort of thing. It’s still an issue, isn’t it?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not an expert on that. I haven’t seen this skin myself. What I heard is she can walk away from anything she’ll see from a typical security guard.”

  Small arms fire, conventional rounds. I nodded toward the last piece of cantaloupe as it disappeared in her mouth. “You just finish your workout?”

  “An hour ago. If I ate—”

  I waved her apology away. “No. I used to be able to do that. E
arly-morning workouts leave me nauseated now.”

  She stared at me over her coffee cup. “Now as in with the cybernetics, or…”

  “As in I’m getting to be too old for it.” I realized she was looking at my hair, which was still damp. “I went walking. The sort of exertion I can manage at this hour.”

  “My schedule presents challenges. Early morning is my only real option, and I don’t make excuses or exceptions.” She set the cup down. “When you survive a close call, you change.”

  “I’m having a hard time imagining someone so full of vigor being sick. What was it?”

  “Breast cancer. Stage 4.”

  “I don’t mean to be so forward, but I didn’t figure you for a week over fifty.”

  She leaned back, mouth open, then smiled and looked down. “You didn’t show much of a sense of humor while under my care. Let’s just say the odds of me surviving were only slightly better than the odds of me developing the cancer in the first place. I came out of the experience a new person, including changing to this field of study. I felt my biggest reward would come from helping others rebuild their lives.”

  “Plus the pay must be good based on the nice digs.”

  Her smile widened. “I’m debt-free, certainly.”

  My data device vibrated; this time it was from Gillian. “Excuse me.”

  Dr. Jernigan excused herself with a quick wave as I stepped away from the table.

  “Stefan?” Gillian’s voice sounded young and sweet. Too young.

  “Gillian! How’s your mother doing?” I leaned against a window and hated myself for hoping Weaver was still alive so I could collect my share of the five million.

  “Critical but stable. Hey, have you had breakfast yet? I was thinking about coffee.”

  “I’d really like that. Where?”

  “Where are you? You’re blocking location tracking. If you’re not too far out of the way, I can pick you up.”

  “Well…” I switched the call to my cybernetic implant and pulled up the address to the dinette up the street. “Can you meet me at this address?”

  “Habib’s? Sure. Half an hour?”

  “See you then.”

  Slushy snow made it hard to keep my pace up. I had to concentrate on the sidewalk when all I wanted to think about was Gillian. Her voice had excited me and sent my thoughts back to the previous morning. She had infected my dreams, left me shaking with shame when I’d woken. Like Ichi, she was too young, but Gillian’s connection to the woman I intended to kill made the attraction even more awkward.

  But there was more to denying the attraction than the impossibility of it coming to anything. I was a battered wreck of a man; she was young. Whole.

  She honked as I approached Habib’s. Her car was parked along the near side of the building. Streaks and stains covered the once glistening exterior, and melting snow clumps softened its hard angles. The passenger door opened; I hurried to it. When I ducked to get in, I spotted a black SUV with smoked windows parked a half block away.

  Ravi.

  My hand had barely settled onto the center rest before she took it in hers and squeezed softly. It was electric, sensual.

  She smiled and released me. “I had no idea you lived around here.”

  “Conducting business, actually.”

  The inside of the car was hot and filled with her scent: the woodsy pine perfume, a sweet and bright soap or shampoo. I picked up the vaguest sense of a perfumed detergent coming off her jacket or jeans, both black and tight. Percussion banged and boomed—tinny, almost more of a sensation than a sound. I shifted until I found a comfortable position on the hard seat.

  When the car pulled out into traffic, I glanced back at the SUV.

  It followed.

  I turned to Gillian, who was flipping through something on her data device. Her hair was partway done up in a bun, with lots of strands dangling free. “Do you have a favorite coffee spot?”

  She glanced up at me for a second, then back down at the device. “Actually, I make a pretty mean cup. There was a coffee shop on campus, so I was a barista for a while. Until they put in one of those damned robotic systems and took away even that job. Kind of put me off coffee. I was a senior by then, though, so…” She laughed, a throaty and alluring sound that drew my attention from the following vehicle. She covered her eyes and let her hair spill down over delicate hands. “That probably sounds pretty self-indulgent, doesn’t it? Millions unemployed by automated systems all across the country, and here I am complaining about losing a coffee shop job that barely covered my part of the tuition.”

  “It sounds like the sort of thing that would annoy someone who opposed the Hamilton Accord.”

  She uncovered an eye—emerald, dancing. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “No. I’m guessing you were socially active in school. Aren’t most poli-sci students?”

  “Ugh. Don’t remind me. I was a pimply faced, chubby, greasy-haired mess full of so much outrage that there was no room for…well.” She sighed. “Anything else.”

  We were moving west, into an area I wasn’t familiar with. The buildings were older, shorter, and constructed with brick. Draped in the last of the snow, they seemed motherly and watchful. The black SUV stayed on our tail, keeping a respectful distance.

  “What changed?” I asked.

  She shrugged, and the corner of her mouth quirked up. “Kelly’s situation, I guess.”

  Kelly again rather than…what had she called her? Mother. “What situation?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Not public knowledge. I forget about all the things money can buy. If I got a cold in school, everyone knew about it. She gets diabetes, and it’s national security, hush-hush. I heard about it through my grandmother.” Her face scrunched up. “I guess I should tell you about that, too, huh? The McFarland name and all. Probably confusing.”

  “It sounds more interesting than politics.”

  “You really should give more thought to that. Politics defines the world we live in. If we don’t stop…” She groaned and raised a fist in mock anger. “Sorry. Radical days. You go from a prodigy in computer studies to political science, and your eyes just see everything so much clearer.”

  The car turned down a road and headed toward a building that seemed even nicer than the rest. Eight or nine stories tall, with smoked glass revealing a stairwell in the nearest corner.

  She pointed. “That’s home. Somerset. Who can figure how they come up with these names? You going to be okay with this? If you wanted something specific, I’m fine with whatever.”

  “Nah. This is fine.” I spotted the SUV turning onto the street, now nearly two blocks behind us. “I haven’t had a master barista make me coffee in a long time.”

  “I promise not to let you down.”

  Her car pulled into a packed parking lot. Most of the other vehicles were nicer, but few were as new. We got out into a biting gust of wind, and she ran over to use me as cover. Once again, it felt awkward and yet so comfortable. I found my hand rising up to pull her in close and wondered if the cybernetics had gone off on their own.

  Gillian’s apartment was on the fifth floor; the elevators were on the seventh and going up. We took the stairs, our steps thumping hollowly. The city was crystal clear through the glass, the floor free of debris and mostly dry. Her breath was heavy and loud when we stopped at her door, which popped open as she approached.

  She laughed. “Look at you, not breathing even a little harder. I’ve been working out the last couple years, but I really need to get serious about it.”

  “You’re fine. I used to compete in triathlons. I still have my endurance.”

  “Oh, right.” Her eyes gave away the tiniest hint of relief.

  Fact-checking. She didn’t trust me fully yet.

  She led me into a hallway with paintings on both walls and a chair set just outside an open door. Beyond that door, a large potted plant sat against the wall, and to the plant’s left, four chairs surrounded a table with a granite table
top. A matching countertop was visible to the left. A few feet beyond the dining area, a love seat and recliner looked onto a stylish chrome-and-plastic entertainment center with matching speakers. I’d seen a similar setup before. It was an extravagance I could never justify.

  She kicked off her boots and pushed them into the corner by the door, then unzipped her jacket, tugged it off, and tossed it on the chair by the door, revealing a sleeveless, flimsy, cotton half-shirt and a soft, shapely belly that curved slightly over the low-riding jeans. Not what you’d wear out to breakfast normally.

  “Toss your jacket on the chair. That’s what I use it for.”

  Music floated up from the entertainment system, and she danced into the kitchen.

  I took my sneakers off and put my jacket on top of hers while taking in the rest of the apartment. There was another door—closed—beyond the plant, and the open door revealed a large bedroom decked out in dark brown bedding and matching curtains that blocked out the sunlight.

  “That’s my room,” Gillian said over a clatter of dishes and silverware. In the bright light coming from the ceiling, her hair seemed fairer than before. “The other room’s empty, if you’re worried we’re going to wake my roommate or something. I got a sweet deal on this place. All mine.”

  Too much noise. How heated did her discussions typically become?

  What had seemed a countertop proved to be a bar with two padded stools tucked beneath. I settled into one and watched her move through the kitchen. There was a confident grace and economy to her motions, a thorough knowledge of the organization and reason of the layout. Spatula and whisk came from one drawer, mugs from a cabinet above—she made a point of stretching to get to mugs from the top shelf that seemed no different from those below.

  And I took in what she showed appreciatively. Too young or not, I wasn’t going to deny myself the pleasure of the view. I thought back to the hard women in the video Ichi had been playing. Gillian’s form became all the more pleasant in contrast. Her breasts swayed beneath the loose top as she whisked the eggs. I felt a surprising stirring.