by Sam Sisavath
Ben. Where are you, Ben? Where are you when I need you the most?
He was dead. That was where Ben was. He was dead because of her, and the most she could hope for was that his killer was, too. Maybe one of the steel girders had smashed Ringo’s head in when they came down. The man had somehow survived four bullets at point-blank range, but what were the chances he could walk away from a collapsing building?
She had to make sure one way or another, but it would have to wait as one, two—four HRT commandos stepped over the pile of debris above her and onto the floor on the other side.
The warehouse would have been ghostly quiet if not for the continued pek-pek-pek of pieces of the ceiling and second floor still falling around her like soothing raindrops. There were no sirens, nothing that indicated a police action outside. And most of all, there were no signs that Porter, Xiao, and Aaron were still out here with her.
Maybe she was all alone, again.
I’d trade them all for you, Ben, she thought as she watched the squad of black-clad HRT move past her and toward the backroom.
There was precision in the way they moved, in the fluidity with which they reacted to one another’s proximity without having to say a word. They were facing the jagged remainder of the door frame into the back room, where Ringo (Be dead. Be dead, you asshole.) was still inside when she couldn’t stand it any longer and had to open her mouth and suck in a lungful of air, along with the pulverized concrete and dirt that was everywhere—
Oh, dammit.
One of the uniformed men—the one at the very back of the four-man unit—turned at the sound of her first breath in what seemed like an eternity, the barrel of his rifle and the breathing apparatus of his gas mask preceding the rest of his body by the slimmest of milliseconds.
She rolled out into the open, and even before she was entirely clear of the rubble, Quinn stuck out her right hand and shot the commando in one of his kneecaps. It wasn’t where she had been aiming, but the combination of moving and a bad angle made the shot go lower than she had wanted. If not for the fact they were only ten feet apart, she might have missed the man completely.
The operator’s right leg buckled and he went down on one knee, and might have also grunted behind his gas mask, but the sound was muffled and the echo of the gunshot dominated everything, including her still-frazzled hearing.
Quinn scrambled to her knees even as the other three spun around. She shot a second one, this time actually hitting her intended target—the man’s right thigh. It wasn’t a killing shot, but she wasn’t trying to kill him. These men were just doing their jobs, and there was a good chance—slim, but it was a chance—that she might have known one or two of them if she could see their faces.
She was moving as fast as she could, but she knew instinctively it wasn’t fast enough. The element of surprise was gone, and even as the first agent remained on his knee, grabbing at his bloodied kneecap, and the second one stumbled while trying to stay on his feet, the other two were already taking aim at her with their weapons.
In the split second before one of them pulled the trigger on his rifle, her thoughts were filled with Ben, all those times they spent together right up to the moment when Ringo and the other faceless man came to his apartment and murdered him. But most of all she remembered Ben from her graduation ceremony, sitting in the middle of the crowd, beaming as she made her walk across the stage.
I tried, Ben. I swear, I tried.
But it wasn’t good enough. It just wasn’t good enough.
She started to squeeze her eyes shut as the first carbine took aim, and she swore she could see the whites of the man’s eyes behind the gas mask’s lenses as he zeroed in on her. But she hadn’t completely gotten her eyes closed when there was a sudden flicker of movement above the commando, and something dropped down from the ceiling.
The M4 leapt as it opened fire, and bullets raked the air over her head, snapping off pieces of concrete and ping-ping-pinging! off steel beams behind and above her even as she lunged to the floor.
Porter!
He had jumped down from the second floor (What the hell was he doing up there?) using the opening created by the blast and landed on the commando, knocking the man’s aim off at the very last second. Porter was straightening up to his full six-two frame even as the shooter he had pummeled to the floor lay unmoving next to him, pieces of the man’s shattered gas mask lenses scattered around them.
Before the fourth commando could do anything, Porter grabbed him by the back of his bulletproof jacket and lifted him into the air.
That’s impossible. No one’s that strong, Quinn thought, because the HRT had to be at least two hundred pounds without even counting his full load-out. Nevertheless, Porter had picked him up like he was a child before flinging the agent at and through the remains of the back room door.
The two HRT that Quinn had shot were desperately reacting to the sight of their two comrades being assaulted when Porter wrestled the M4 from one of them and punched the man in the chest hard enough to send him sliding across the room, scattering debris on the floor as he did so, before thumping against a wall and flopping forward on his chest.
The one with the obliterated kneecap was trying to stagger up from the floor and Quinn thought she could actually hear his labored breathing, a combination of desperation and pain, even behind his gas mask. The commando had smartly abandoned his fallen carbine and gone for his sidearm instead, and was lifting it to aim when Porter snapped his hand at the wrist by grabbing the barrel of the Sig Sauer and twisting. The HRT was still screaming when Porter broke the gas mask (Crack! as the lens shattered) with the heel of one hand and dropped him.
Porter had moved so fast—blindingly fast—that the commandos never had a chance, and Quinn thought, Better them than me.
She staggered up to her feet as Porter hurried over to her.
“You hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head and wiped her bloody palms on her soot-covered pants legs. “What now?”
“We get the hell out of here.”
“How? There are probably more of them outside waiting to come in.”
“There’s a way out. Follow me.”
She gave three of the four-man HRT team in the room with them a quick look. They were hurt, injured, bleeding, and maybe a couple of them might never walk again (Christ, how is Porter so strong and fast?), but they would leave this place alive. It wasn’t much comfort, but assault and attempted murder on federal agents was better than the alternative, though not by very much.
Like it matters anymore, considering your growing rap sheet.
Quinn turned and hurried after Porter. “Where’s Xiao and Aaron?”
“They’re gone,” Porter said.
“Gone where?”
“They’re gone,” he repeated. “Worry about us.”
Quinn looked around at the remains of the warehouse as she stumbled after him. The smoke had mostly dissipated through the openings above them, and she could see more of her surroundings. Twisted metal slabs and foundation beams surrounded them, and as they moved closer to the front of the building, she could just make out the remains of the white van—it somehow still looked to be in one piece—but there were no signs of either Xiao or Aaron or the Dodge.
“Porter,” she said, when something hit her in the chest and Quinn fell, one side of her cheek slamming into the floor.
The blow should have introduced a whole new world of pain, and maybe it had, except she didn’t notice because she was too busy convulsing as electricity coursed through her body. She spasmed on the floor like a fish out of water, all control over her arms and legs disappearing in a flash.
She had landed on her side and was able to make out Porter as he turned back in her direction. His movements looked erratic, as if he was having difficulty steadying his legs. That might have had something to do with the two small metal prongs connected to wires that were sticking out of his chest. She watched him grab and pull them loose with a gru
nt.
Porter looked hurt, but he remained on his feet until two more wires appeared at his back, and he arched his body and let out a loud, annoyed growl. He was reaching behind him for those two new prongs when two more attached themselves to his chest in almost the same spot as the previous two. Porter dropped to his knees, hands clenching into fists at his sides, and he gritted his teeth as if he were trying to fight through some invisible monster holding him down.
And then they appeared—ghostly figures swarming Porter from every side. Five—six—she lost count after ten.
Their weapons were trained on him, and only him.
“Target’s down!” someone, somewhere shouted. “We have Porter! I repeat: We have Porter!”
Chapter 24
She was hoping she’d never see his face again, either because he was dead (the preferable option) or their paths didn’t cross for a second time, but neither of those things turned out to be the case when she opened her eyes and his insect-like face was propped in front of her. The possibility that he had been looking at her, able to do whatever he wanted while she was unconscious, made Quinn shiver involuntarily.
He smiled as she stirred. “Welcome back. This is starting to become a habit.”
Hofheinz.
“Where am I?” she asked. Or croaked. Or whispered.
“My lab,” Hofheinz said. “My real lab, the one I told you about before. Didn’t I say we’d end up here eventually?”
The first thing she noticed was how white everything was. So white, in fact, that the walls seemed to be glowing. She didn’t discount the very real possibility that her vision was still warped after being hit by the TASER gun. The mind tended to experience strange things once a few tens of thousands of volts had been shot through it.
She felt fine, though, which was the troubling part, because she swore the walls were glowing. Or maybe they just seemed that way because they were so white and her eyes were still attempting to adjust to the monotonous color. So why did the floor and ceiling have the same brightness about them? And where were the lights coming from?
“I’m glad you made it here in one piece,” Hofheinz was saying. “When they told me about what happened at the warehouse, I wasn’t so sure. But here you are, safe and sound. Call me crazy, but I’m starting to think this might be destiny.”
You’re right, you are out of your goddamn mind, Quinn thought even as she balled her right hand into a fist and tried to punch him in that thin face of his—
Except she couldn’t move her hand, or get her fingers to form a fist, never mind strike with it.
What the hell?
She also had difficulty moving her head, and when she peered down, expecting to find restraints, there was nothing of the sort. Her right hand rested on the arm of the chair without anything holding it in place, and yet she couldn’t lift or get it to move even a little bit in any direction. Her left arm was in a similar state of paralysis.
Why can’t I move?
There was something very odd about the chair she was sitting on. Not just that it looked nothing like the last one Hofheinz had put her in back in his (filthy torture room) other “lab,” but it also felt very different. It appeared to be smooth metallic silver and shouldn’t have been the least bit comfortable, but for some reason it was. Impossibly so, in fact. Her body felt light, like she was resting on a cloud; it was less that she was sitting on the chair and more that every inch of it was conforming itself to her body.
But none of that explained why she couldn’t move any part of her.
How is this possible?
She strained her eyes to get a better look at the chair. If there was nothing holding her in place, then why couldn’t she move? Had he drugged her again? Given her another one of his paralyzing agents?
No, she didn’t think so. The feeling was different. Instead of her muscles not reacting, it was more like an army of invisible hands was holding her down. She could fight against the powerful force, but it did no good. She couldn’t move.
Hofheinz was bent slightly over at the waist in front of her, close enough that she might have entertained the idea of smashing her forehead into his face if she had that option. The spray of blood (again) would have been incredibly satisfying. He had a thin tablet in one hand and glanced at it periodically, but he was holding it too high up for her to steal any glimpses at the screen.
“Porter,” she said.
“What about him?”
“Where is he? Is he still alive?”
“I don’t know. What happens to him is beyond my pay grade. But if it makes you feel better, I hear the higher-ups wanted him alive, too.”
“The Rhim,” she said.
Hofheinz lifted a curious eyebrow. “What about it?”
“You’re one of them.”
“You know about the Rhim?” Hofheinz straightened up and smiled. “What else did Porter tell you?”
Not nearly enough, she thought, but said, “Enough to know that I’m going to kill you the first chance I get.”
Hofheinz smirked. “Is that right?”
“You’re goddamn right.”
“Something to look forward to, then,” he said, and turned around slightly to consult his tablet.
She took the opportunity to get a better look at her new prison now that her eyes had adjusted to the brightness around her. Straining her eyeballs was still painful, especially when the rewards were so limited. White walls, white floor, white ceiling. What wasn’t white in this place? And where was the door? Somewhere across the room, which at the moment might as well be a football field away.
She refocused on Hofheinz instead. It was easier and took less effort. Her capture had put him in a chatty mood, and he could give her answers that the (too white) room couldn’t.
“What are you going to do to me?” she asked.
“You remember what I said last time?” Hofheinz asked, eyes still fixed on the tablet’s screen. Apparently whatever he was seeing was more interesting than looking back at her. “When we first met?”
“You mean when you were going to stick metal rods into my forehead and then lobotomize me the way you did Gary?”
He chuckled. “Yes. You’ll be happy to know that they’ve given you to me. We’re going to get to know each other very well before all of this is over.”
She pictured Gary Ross, sitting in a chair that looked so old it might fall apart at any second, with that odd expression of joy plastered on his face.
“What happened to him?” she asked. “Gary.”
“He’s been disposed of,” Hofheinz said as he walked across the room and stopped in front of a thin LCD monitor jutting out of the far wall from a metal arm mount. How had she missed that before? Maybe it had something to do with the computer’s all-white frame helping it to blend in with the walls.
Jesus, there’s a lot of white in this place.
The setup had a keyboard in a tray at the bottom, but Hofheinz touched the screen instead. Quinn was sitting at the wrong angle to see what he was doing, but she immediately heard, then felt a slight vibration as the chair seemed to hum as if coming alive under and around her.
She braced herself for some kind of electroshock, but instead the hum reached a crescendo after only a few seconds before fading, along with the vibrations.
“It tickles, I know,” Hofheinz said from across the room. “I’ve been in your position before. In that chair. Everyone who is recruited has to go through the same process. Even your new friend Porter.”
Porter. Where are you? What are they doing to you?
But she couldn’t help him right now. She couldn’t even help herself.
Hofheinz didn’t say anything else and seemed to temporarily forget she was even in the room with him. Whatever was on the computer screen had his full attention, like the tablet earlier.
Quinn closed her eyes and counted silently to ten, and when she opened them again, attempted to get a better grasp on her surroundings.
The room had lost
much of its vibrant colors, and while the walls, floor, and ceiling were still white and (too) bright, it was easier to make out the two round light bulbs above her. There were no markings or writings anywhere, nothing to tell her what the purpose of the room was. The place was so clean and spotless that the phrase “You can eat off the floor” flashed across her mind.
After about two minutes of silence, Quinn finally said, “You didn’t answer me before.”
“Hmm?” Hofheinz said, not taking his eyes off the monitor.
What the hell is on that screen?
“Are you one of them?” she asked instead. “The Rhim?”
“That’s not something you should concern yourself with.” He flicked at the monitor. “They’re distractions.”
“Are you, or aren’t you?”
He didn’t answer her.
“Well?”
Nothing.
Sonofabitch, she thought, and tried to recall the moment she first opened her eyes to the sight of him leaning over her. He was wearing a white lab coat with the collars turned down and the top button undone, which had allowed her to see—
The sides of his neck and the lack of a wound. She hadn’t seen even a small scar, nothing to confirm she had recently jabbed a scalpel into a very specific spot and watched (if just for a second or two) as blood gushed out. But there was nothing there now, just like there was nothing on Ringo’s chest or back.
“You are,” she said. “You’re one of them. That’s why you don’t have a scar on your neck.”
This time he waved a dismissive hand, but still didn’t bother to look away from the monitor.
What the hell is on that screen?
“You’re obsessing over unimportant things, Quinn,” Hofheinz said. “I’d think you would be more interested in finding out where you came from.”