by P. R. Adams
As the car took me north, I searched for the business address of one Mr. Anthony Wicker and plugged that in as my destination, then I dialed a number in Idaho that I hadn’t in far too long. It rang several times before a scratchy, confused voice answered and matched up to a wrinkled, liver-spotted face with faded wheat-colored hair and a nose that had once looked like mine.
“Hello?”
“Mom, it’s Stefan.”
“Stefan?” A smile lit up her face and voice.
“I know it’s early. Don’t tell the nurses I called, okay?”
“Never! It’s been so long!”
“I’ve been—” Dead seemed too harsh. “—really busy. I wanted to talk to you, though. Ask you about you and Carlos.”
“Oh.” A happy twinkle, then a pain-filled frown.
“No. No drama. Just what it was like. When you fell in love. What it felt like. How you knew what you felt was more than physical.”
“Well, it always starts with the physical, now doesn’t it?” She brushed back the thinning blond strands that had stuck out wildly after waking. “But you’ll get past that.”
“Sure.” The car accelerated up a ramp and into the light early morning traffic already starting to fill the Beltway.
“Just like you did with—”
“Mom.” That stopped her. “So, how did you deal with it? The way Grampa didn’t approve and all that?”
“Oh.” She chuckled. “Some things you just have to deal with. If love is real, if it’s meant to be, well…” That simple, damaged smile that should’ve been twenty or thirty years out crushed my heart, same as the crease in her skull visible through the wild tangle of hair. I focused on the scar on her forehead that had finally sent the bastard away. “You really should come back to Idaho, Stefan. It’s beautiful out here now. The birds—”
“I know. I’ll be out there before you know it. Soon.”
“Well, when you come out here, we can all go out for a nice ride. Wouldn’t that be the nicest?”
A black limo like the one Weaver had used changed lanes, pulled even with my car. My car’s dash flashed an alarm: system failure. “Look, I’ve got to go. Thanks for the chat.”
“We should talk again soon. Oh, look! It’s already dark out. I should be going to bed.”
“Love you.”
I killed the connection and watched the limo. It braked and pulled in behind me, then followed me down the ramp to a side street. The car limped into an empty lot and powered down.
The limo came to a halt a few feet away. The passenger door opened, as did mine. Dong Jianjun leaned out from the rear seat, dressed much as he had been the night he’d met with Wicker—informal, casual, not the sort of outfit a member of the Chinese Security Service would wear. He had on a gray wool coat that made him seem even pudgier than before, and reflective sunglasses covered his eyes. The wind tossed his gray-streaked hair, no longer slicked back.
“How terrible about your car, Mr. Mendoza.” The voice. A refined Asian accent, not at all Korean, I realized. “Please join me.”
He slipped back out of sight, and I got out, unable to even consider saying no. I took the opposite seat, and the limo sealed up. It accelerated, a much smoother and quieter ride than the cheap sportster.
“You seem surprised,” Dong said. He came across almost pleasant, chuckling. “We’re not so crude as your Mr. Stovall, although we have the same objectives.”
“Not the same methods, I see.”
“The compulsion?” He nodded. “Your gun, please.”
I took the R60 out of its holster and handed it to him.
“An inelegant weapon.” He sniffed, as if the gun exuded a rot. “American.” It disappeared inside his coat. “What were you doing going to Mr. Wicker’s office?”
“I wanted to get some stock tips.”
Dong’s shoulders shook from barely stifled laughter. “Playing the futures? Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be something I would plan on for you, Mr. Mendoza. Do try to relax. We have a good deal to discuss once we arrive.”
I settled back and tried to find some peace as the limo retraced the route Heidi and I had taken a few nights before. Before long, we were beyond the city and traveling into the construction site of the old arena, then the limo came to a stop.
“This is our exit,” Dong said. “Please maintain your calm and distance.”
The door opened, and I stepped out, staying a few steps ahead of him. An air limo descended, possibly the same one that had picked up Heidi and me that night. It landed, and the doors opened, revealing the giant Greek man who had met me at the mansion the night Ichi had been injured. One of the nights she had been injured.
I fumbled for his name. Nikos.
Dong waved me into the limo. I took a seat across from Nikos, and Dong climbed in next to me. The limo lifted off with a lurch that sent me back into the seat cushion. We banked, and the stadium quickly receded into the distance.
“You remember your trip to the Hightower Mansion,” Dong said. “Of course you do. And your employers remember you as well.” He chuckled, full of mirth. “It is quite unfortunate, but you may not enjoy your visit so much this time.”
I wasn’t expecting to.
Chapter 30
The air limo came to a rest on the same field next to what could easily have been the same air limos that had been at the mansion a few nights before. Powdery snow obscured everything, although I could still make out the stone path leading up to the side of the mansion. It seemed appropriate, what with the nature of the meeting.
Dong directed me to step out first, so I did. That’s the way compulsions work, after all. Wind brought the fresh scent of the surrounding woods to me and dusted me with snow. The cold dampness soothed my battered face.
The Greek giant laughed when he saw me, probably thinking I was crying. Maybe I should have been.
I led Dong and Nikos up the steps, both feeling and hearing a deep buzz in the air. It came from a house-sized building across the patio from the back door of the mansion. A generator, of course. The necessity of seclusion, the amenities of modern civilization. Maybe it had been that way in my little Korean dungeon, and I had simply never noticed.
Once more, the grounds were empty of guards. I let myself in the back door, caught raised voices and wood smoke. It was warmer, and the lights were on. The aroma of bacon—the real thing—hovered in the air. And coffee. The kitchen was a mess—dirty dishes, pots, and pans.
The staff would be around later to clean up. Someone always cleaned up.
I led my friends to the den and took up Heidi’s position at the fireplace, my back to the silver-haired bastards idling on the chairs and sofas. Delicate china replaced the wine glasses. They wore sweaters—cream for Wicker, black for Chambliss, even duller solids and patterns for the rest.
Wicker snorted. “We were misled about you, Mr. Mendoza.”
I twisted enough to catch the sneer on his face. I wanted to remember it. “In a good way, I hope.”
“Your final opportunity to kill Weaver was today, yet you were driving to my office. Care to explain what had gotten into your fool head?” Wicker sounded even more dismissive and impatient than normal.
“I wanted to talk to you personally, but you and your friends don’t exist out in the open like the rest of us.”
Chambliss set his coffee cup down and brushed a cloth napkin across his lips. “You think we should, Mr. Mendoza? Lower ourselves to be a part of the common folk? Even with the valuable work we provide society? That seems petty even for you.”
“I guess I’m a petty man.” I held my hands out to the embers.
“He’s as impertinent as they said he was.” It was Little Man—Roberts. Testy, frustrated. “Let’s get this over with.”
Chambliss said, “Of course, of course.”
In my peripheral vision, I caught him glancing behind the sofa. To Dong and Nikos. Interrogation time.
Dong spoke in his cultured and smooth voice, hypnotic,
with undertones of pain and promise of relief. “Where is Heidi Ostertag?”
At least we shared one thing. I smirked into the fire. “I was hoping you might know. I guess she bailed when she realized I was starting to connect too many dots.”
“Why have you not killed Senator Weaver and her daughter?” Dong’s tone was calm but commanding.
“Because I didn’t want to. And I didn’t like the idea of you manipulating me to screw Gillian, by the way. I like to pick my own problems.” I let a little heat slip into my last few words, but I stayed still.
The floorboards creaked in the silence—the giant moving closer.
“Disobedience is not acceptable.” Dong’s voice was raised to match mine. “Remember who you work for.”
Pain flashed through me—my legs snapped beneath blows; ribs cracked beneath a smothering weight; teeth yanked from bloody, puss-oozing gums. Dark hair tickled my chest, and soft breasts brushed against my face. The choice was simple: Work for pleasure; fail and experience exquisite pain.
Who do you work for?
It wasn’t an attempt to break Agency training, but an attempt to superimpose their own control over that. It was an attempt to subvert me even more than the Agency had.
“Mr. Mendoza?” Dong. Impatient.
Nikos moved closer, a dense mass in the air behind me. Big enough to overcome my cybernetics.
“I work for you.” It was like bile in my throat.
“Good.” Dong sounded satisfied. “Now, once more, why have you not done what you were told to do?”
I lowered my head and shoved my hands into my pants pockets. “Because no one controls me, you bastards.”
Gasps. The Greek giant was like a black hole, ready to tear me apart with his pull.
Wicker snorted. “He’s useless, Dong. We’ll carry on as we discussed.”
Dong sighed. “Of course. If you value your freedom so much, Mr. Mendoza, I am afraid that we have no further need of you. Goodbye.”
Clothing rustled; the giant’s hand pinched my right shoulder where the cybernetics meshed with the organic. The pressure was like a hydraulic clamp, enough to snap bone, organic or plastic.
I gasped, slumped, and staggered to my knees. Nikos moved in closer, placed his other hand on my left shoulder, pushed his knees into my back. Popping shot through my torso. My muscles strained. Nikos pressed against me fully.
Maribel’s knife activated in my right hand. The blade slashed through my pocket as I drove my arm back and twisted the blade, shearing through the giant’s shin, slicing through bone and muscle as easily as wet paper.
He released me and made a strange, low howling sound.
I stood. He reached for me with huge, grasping hands—a desperate attempt at balance, maybe a last hope of killing me.
I sliced through both arms halfway up the wrist and shoved him back.
Dong brought the R60 up and pointed it at me. I strolled toward him as he pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
He looked at the weapon in disbelief.
“Biometric keys,” I said. Then I plunged the knife into his chest and slit him open. I deactivated the knife and drove it into his groin, using my cybernetic strength to drive the tip into his pelvis. He dropped the gun and clutched at that plastic hilt, already blood-slick, and fell.
I picked the R60 up.
They ran at that point, those silver-haired men who would lead the world with their wisdom and calm temperament. One stumbled, another was shoved, and another banged into a table and crashed against the hardwood floor. Roberts lost his balance as he turned in the hallway and a rug slid, but Wicker and Chambliss reached the kitchen at a surprising clip.
I put a round into Roberts and the other fallen businessmen—gut shots—and watched them writhe for a moment. They clutched at the wounds with shaking fingers.
Wind yanked the back door from my hand as I strolled out onto the lawn. Chambliss’s hair was a silvery swirl, barely visible for a moment as he ran down the stone steps to the air limos. Wicker would be in front of him.
I cut right, where the grounds sloped down closer to the mansion, and sighted on Wicker’s right thigh. The shot snapped his leg just as he planted his weight on it. He made a deep groaning noise and toppled forward, the wounded leg sticking out from under him at a crazy angle.
Chambliss rushed past, ducking slightly and covering his head. When he reached the closest of the air limos, I put a round into the small of his back.
He squealed and collapsed on lifeless legs.
I made my way down the steps at a casual pace, admiring the broad lawn and the solitude the estate offered. The air was peaceful and cold, but with the sun risen, the snow glistened like a diamond.
Wicker rolled over as I approached and tried to steady shaking hands long enough to train a small pistol on me. I yanked the pistol away and pocketed it.
I grabbed him by the ankle of his ruined leg and dragged him through the snow to Chambliss. The blood left a bright red trail, but it was the unintelligible scream that registered most on my senses.
Chambliss flailed his arms around as he tried to roll over. He had fouled himself and vomited a slick puddle of coffee and eggs.
I turned him over with a sharp tug; his eyes fluttered, and his gray dress slacks darkened as he peed himself.
Wicker pushed himself up on his elbows. He was pale, and the age showed more clearly on his snow-covered face. “Y—you son of a bitch!” Drool trailed from the corner of his mouth and fell to the snow. “Do you have any idea—”
I punched the wound, and he went silent.
Chambliss came awake with a shake, and I said, “I need you both to listen. Are you listening?”
Chambliss’s eyes rolled back in his head for a second, but he nodded. Wicker groaned but nodded.
“We have a minute or so before I need to go.” I holstered the gun. “Long enough for you two to confess your crimes. Who came to you about Weaver—Stovall or Dong?”
“Dong,” Chambliss spat. “It was all Dong’s idea.”
“Did you ever interface with Stovall?” I tapped Wicker. “Either of you? Do you know who he is?”
Wicker shook his head.
Chambliss said, “We only worked with Dong. He represented the people we cared about the most.”
“The little dragons?”
Chambliss nodded.
I snorted. The sins of the father. “Dong was working for the little dragons all along, wasn’t he? Weaver’s family had too many connections with the Chinese government to ever let this FTC shutdown thing happen. Natural gas exploitation, deep sea oil wells, illegal uranium sales and technology exports.”
“Couldn’t trust her,” Chambliss gasped. “Look, Mendoza—Stefan, I’ll pay you. I can’t feel my legs. Get me to a hospital. No one needs to know.”
I tapped Wicker’s wounded thigh; he hissed. “What about your friend here? What about the others up in the mansion?”
“I don’t give a damn about them.” Chambliss’s eyes focused on me. Cold eyes. A businessman who’d risen to the top of the pile through craftiness and cruelty. “Twenty million. Thirty. Dong said you weren’t an idealist, just a mercenary. You’d do anything for money. I have it! I’ll pay!”
I dug out my data device. “I really think you would, Nigel. Is it okay if I call you Nigel?”
“Yes, o-of course!” He took the data device and brought up a banking interface, cheerfully showing me what he was doing. “How much?”
“Make it thirty. Put it in an orbital account for me. You guys have all sorts of things up there, right?”
A smile crept across his trembling lips. “Thirty million’s a steal. You’ve outsmarted them all, Stefan.”
I shook Wicker’s leg. “What about you? You want in on that?”
He grimaced, but a scowl broke through.
“All right.” I pulled his pistol back out. “But you don’t have to suffer. Hypothermia might get you. That’s not so bad. You might bleed out.
Also not so bad. Shock—” I swatted his wounded leg. “Yeah. I think it’s going to be shock. That’s probably the easiest way to go out. I should’ve gone that way from the torture, but they wouldn’t let me. Your body just sort of shuts down. It’s a protection mechanism, pooling blood up in your torso, but it starves the brain of oxygen. That’s a real drawback.” I looked the pistol over.
“You don’t run a global business and not learn a little something about bravery,” Wicker said. “I’m prepared to die with my dignity intact.”
I pushed the pistol barrel against his balls. “Or not. Who was your person inside Weaver’s inner circle? Yeah, the dumb mook figured out there was someone operating with inside knowledge. I thought it was Ravi’s favorite until he died. So who is it? Ravi? Hmm?”
Wicker sneered. “Go ahead and shoot me, you pathetic fool.”
Chambliss handed the data device back to me. “No need to kill Anthony. We never met our accomplice. Everything was conducted through the Grid. Anonymously. Except for Dong. He arranged one face-to-face meeting to finalize the details. Oh, we tried to ascertain the fellow’s identity, but he knew what he was doing. Quite clever. An expert with computers, no doubt. If this Ravi knows systems security, he may be your man.”
Wicker laughed. “It won’t matter. We’ve had a backup plan all along. Senator Weaver will never leave the hospital alive, and there’s not a thing you can do to change that.”
I pulled the trigger. Wicker jerked, and his mouth became a black circle, a perfect target. I fired again, and his brains sprayed across the snow.
I opened the data device and tracked through Chambliss’s activity. He had actually connected to a private bank account and shifted some money around, but he had also sent a message to an aliased ID.
“Proceed with alternate plan,” I said. “You really are a piece of work, Nigel.”