by Sam Sisavath
Quinn stood in front of the door and gave the 5A engraving a good, long look.
5A. What does 5A stand for?
Fifth floor? Room A?
She glanced back in the direction she’d come, then over at the nearby intersection. What were the chances she’d find another JS situation inside 5A? Then again, what were the chances she might have to walk through another long corridor before she stumbled across something else? What were her options? Did she even have options—
Voices, coming from the turn in front of her!
Quinn grabbed the door lever and pushed it down and stepped into 5A.
The sudden drop in temperature might have been the first thing she noticed if the size of the room didn’t catch her off guard. But it made sense: This was the first (only?) door she had stumbled across since discovering this part of the building, so the space on the other side could afford to be more generous than the rooms she’d encountered so far.
It was a warehouse in shape and size, with tall raised ceilings that were a good two stories high. If the 5 in 5A meant she was on a fifth floor, then there would be a sixth above her. Maybe more.
A lot of assumptions. And we all know what happens when you assume.
Quinn imagined the place might have looked even more spacious if not for the rows of tall boxes of black matted steel containers that began about twenty yards from the door. They stretched from one side of the room to the other—not that she could tell where the room began and ended—about five feet apart with ten feet between each row. They were identical—approximately four feet across and six feet high. Like dominos standing at attention, except it was going to take more than just a finger to topple these. Bright-colored lights with a generous dose of blue blinked rapidly behind thick glass doors that had four-digit numbers with an accompanying letter stenciled on them in fluorescent white color so that they stood out against the black casings and soft mood lighting.
Quinn had been inside the FBI’s cybercrimes lab before and had studied computers in Quantico so she knew she was looking at heavy-duty frames, essentially metal racks, that contained data servers inside them, even if the sheer number took her breath away. How many racks was she looking at right now? A few hundred? A few thousand?
She moved toward the nearest one and gave it a long look. She recognized what she was looking at, if just superficially—individual computer hard drives slotted inside separate shelves. The one in front of her looked similar to the one on its left and right and behind it, with only minor differences. Strings of cables of various sizes and color ran out the backs and disappeared through strategically placed grommets along their casings.
She knew of places where the government maintained large buildings full of computers that collected data to be shared with the American intelligence community. Depending on who you asked, there were questions about what they were (really) collecting and who were using them and for what purpose. But it wasn’t just governments, it was private companies. Google, Microsoft, and any high-tech business worth their salt had their own data facilities that functioned day and night and were staffed by hundreds of employees. What people knew as “the cloud” were all ran out of places like this.
So what are they collecting? Better yet, how do I get out of here, wherever “here” is—
Click! from behind her.
She had been so preoccupied that she had forgotten all about the voices that had driven her into 5A in the first place.
Shit!
Quinn darted into the nearest aisle between casings and didn’t stop until she was two rows deep. The metal frame was cold against her body—made even colder because of the regulated temperature that set the room apart from the rest of the building she’d explored so far—but at least her suddenly accelerated breathing was lost against the hum of machines around her. She slid along the length of the container until she was on the other side—
Just as the woman walked past her and kept going.
Quinn slid completely around the box until she was once again back at the front, with the woman now behind her.
That was close. Too close.
She leaned around the corner to look after the woman. She was small—petite would be the right word—and dressed in slacks and a blazer, carrying a tablet in one hand. The woman turned right and disappeared behind another block of steel racks.
Quinn glanced back at the door. There was no one to stop her from leaving 5A, but then what? She didn’t know where she was going, and sooner or later she would run out of places to hide. That is, until Hofheinz realized she was gone and sent people to come looking for her.
And then what?
The problem was the not knowing. She didn’t know this place, didn’t know where the exits were, or what she was up against.
She needed answers, and right now there was someone in the room with her that could provide them. If not all the answers, then some. And right now, some would be better than the bupkis she had to work with.
This is such a bad idea, she thought as she moved sideways, passing blocks of black containers with blinking lights until she found the woman about four rows up ahead. Forty feet, give or take, though right now it might as well be a hundred.
Shorty had opened one of the glass doors and connected her tablet to one of the devices using a small cable. The lights on the server blinked rapidly, data either being dumped or uploaded.
Such a bad idea, Quinn thought again as she slid between two of the black boxes—then two more—toward the woman.
Quinn was at least comforted by the fact that she made very little noise as she moved, thanks to being barefoot. The only sounds were her racing heartbeat, but even that was easily overwhelmed by the machines whirring around her. Or at least she hoped it was, because it sounded pretty damn loud to her own ears.
It’s just your imagination. Keep going.
The woman had moved on to another container, and Quinn used the opportunity to get closer. When the woman stopped, Quinn did too.
She bided her time, listening to the soft tap-tap-tap of the woman’s fingers against the tablet and the suddenly louder noises of the racked computers every time she opened one of the glass doors to access the devices inside.
Shorty finished another task and pushed the door closed, then bent down and made some notes on her tablet. Quinn steeled herself and got ready to make the final move. They were close enough now that Quinn thought she could smell some kind of perfume on the woman—
“Are you going to say hi, or are you just going to skulk back there all day?” the woman said.
Every inch of Quinn’s body tightened into an unnatural coil against the metal surface of the container it was pressed up against.
Oh, hell.
Shorty slipped the tablet under her left arm and turned calmly around until she was smiling in Quinn’s direction. “You must be Hofheinz’s little pet project. It took you long enough.” She looked down at her watch. “Just in case you decided to let me finish my rounds before making your move, I thought I’d save us both some time.”
Quinn didn’t answer. There was enough space between her and Shorty that Quinn thought she could make the door if she took off now.
And then what?
“Well?” the woman said. “If you’re going to run, you should start running. Not that you’d make it anyway, but hey, I wouldn’t blame you for giving it the ol’ college try. I can be pretty intimidating. All five-two of me.”
Quinn sighed and stepped out from behind her (failed) cover.
She had been right when she gave the woman the “Shorty” nickname—Quinn was taller by a good five inches, and heavier too, so why wasn’t she feeling more confident?
Maybe, she thought, it had something to do with the smile on the other woman’s face as they looked across at one another.
“What’s the matter?” Shorty asked. “Cat got your tongue?”
“You know Hofheinz,” Quinn said.
“Who doesn’t? I bet he’s still up
there trying to impress the higher-ups with what he found about you. He’s like a little boy on the night before Christmas, but with a Power Point presentation. I think he might have even peed himself a little with excitement.” She looked Quinn up and down. “Frankly, I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to judge a book by its cover?”
“So prove me wrong.”
Shorty tossed the tablet to the floor and reached behind her back and brought out a metal rod.
Now where had she been hiding that?
It was identical to the one Quinn had seen in the alley when she and Xiao were attacked by the faceless men. It had been clutched in one of the dead man’s hands, a smaller version of the kind that had impaled Xiao. So what did Shorty expect to do with such a small—
There was a sharp snikt! sound, and the ends of the rod extracted outward until it was almost five feet long. It had gone from a baton to what could have passed for a shorter version of a bo staff in the blink of an eye, and Quinn hadn’t been fast enough to see the transformation, but the final result was very clear. It looked almost like the staff that had nearly killed Xiao, but without a sharp point on either end.
“Not that I need this,” Shorty said, “but I owe you for what you did to Brandon. So before I drag you back to Hofheinz, I’m going to make this hurt. A lot.”
Quinn took a hesitant step backward. What were the chances she could outrun the woman to the door?
The better question was, even if she could, then what? Play a game of hide-and-seek in the hallway? There was no sanctuary out there. In here, at least, she had a chance. After all, it was just her against one person. If Shorty could have alerted the building, she hadn’t yet. On purpose, from what Quinn could tell.
And really, what could a five-two brunette do with a steel metal pole that probably weighed more than she did?
Xiao might have some ideas…
“I don’t know a Brandon,” Quinn said even as she took another step, then another one down the aisle.
“Of course you don’t,” Shorty said, mirroring Quinn step for step and not allowing her to put any additional space between them.
She suckered me in. She knew I was back here and she suckered me in one foot at a time. What an idiot!
“But you killed him just the same,” the woman finished.
“I don’t—” Quinn started to say, when the woman lunged, the weapon in her hand whistling through the air, and Quinn thought, Jesus, she’s swinging that thing like it’s a piece of twig!
Shorty was fast—much faster than Quinn had expected her to be—and she devoured the seven feet of space between them in less than a heartbeat, swinging the weapon in her hand like it was a part of her as she did so. Quinn just barely managed to jump back as the staff carved a deadly path through the air and missed her face by inches.
Quinn hadn’t landed back on her feet when the woman swung again (God, how is she so fast!), and there was a cracking sound as something broke—
No, not just “something,” but Quinn’s left hand as she raised it to protect her head against the attack. The metal weapon hit her almost exactly in the middle of her forearm, and she knew without having to think about it that her radius bone had just snapped in two. The pain should have been excruciating, but she was too busy stumbling back, because the woman was coming again.
Quinn ducked, and the rod swooshed! over her head and slammed into one of the boxes. Chipped metal flicked across the air and Quinn thought, Holy shit, what’s that thing made of?
But of course she was too busy fighting to maintain her footing to ask such a stupid question out loud. She darted sideways, trying to find some respite from the relentless attacks, all the while trying not to faint from the growing pain.
Her entire left arm was on fire, not just the part that was broken. Quinn had always been a healthy child and couldn’t remember having broken anything, but as bad as the pain was, she was surprised it wasn’t worse. Or maybe it was, but her mind had mentally erected a wall to keep her from feeling the full force of it, knowing very well that the second she stopped to acknowledge the godawful pain, the woman would be all over her and a useless arm would be the least of her worries. Shorty was on the warpath, and what was that saying about hell and a furious bitch swinging a metal stick?
Thanks for nothing, Brandon, whoever the hell you are!
Shorty had halted her attack (Thank you, God!) for some reason, but continued to follow Quinn down the rows of spinning and blinking machinery at her own unhurried pace. The staff twirled in her hands, making an almost hypnotic swoosh-swoosh sound as it spun round and round. It was almost as if the woman knew there was nowhere for Quinn to go, that sooner or later she would run out of space so there was no point in exerting herself until then. That, and she was clearly enjoying every single second of the moment.
“How’s the arm?” the woman asked.
It’s fucking killing me, how do you think it is? Quinn thought, but said, “Just peachy,” even as she continued to back up.
The never-ending fields of black metal containers blurred by to both sides of her, and she had lost count of how many she had stumbled past. (Two? Three? A dozen?) The pain grew more unbearable with every step she took and soon she was struggling to keep her focus, never mind continuing to backpedal out of harm’s way.
After a while, she realized she wasn’t going back toward the door anymore, but had changed directions without realizing it. That meant she had no idea what was behind her. Not that she stopped moving, because whatever was back there had to be a lot better than what was in front of her: A five-two woman wielding a metal staff as if it weighed nothing.
“You remember him now?” Shorty was asking her.
“Who? Benjamin?” Quinn said. She flinched as she pressed her left arm against her side to keep it from moving around too much. “Was that his name?”
The woman made a face. “Brandon.”
“Right. Brandon. Sorry, but I’ve killed too many of you Rhim types. After a while, you all start to look the same.”
Shorty scoffed. “Bullshit.”
“That’s not what Brandon said.”
A flash of anger creased the woman’s face and Quinn thought, I guess I touched a nerve. Maybe I can use that.
“So who was Brandon?” Quinn asked as she maneuvered around one, then two buzzing data racks.
“He was my friend,” the woman said.
“Maybe he was more than that.”
“Maybe he was. But you’re not going to find out.”
“What’s Hofheinz going to say when you cave my head in with that thing?”
“I had no choice,” Shorty said. “You surprised me. I reacted. Oops.”
Quinn lunged right to put a box between them, but Shorty was on the other side as soon as she emerged from behind it.
Dammit, she’s fast!
Quinn threw a quick glance behind her, but couldn’t locate the door. She really had taken a turn somewhere while backpedaling.
More good news. Why am I not surprised?
“I don’t know what you did to the cameras,” Shorty was saying, “or how, but that’s going to play into the narrative. No cameras means no witnesses, and I can take my time with you.”
She refocused on the woman while backtracking down another row of boxes, tuning out the (suddenly?) very loud whirring of computers around her. Her senses were overloading, not helped by the continuous pain and the cold floor sending jolts of shock up her legs. Or was that shock coming from her broken arm?
Does it matter?
“So this is personal?” Quinn asked.
“You just figured that out?” Shorty said. Then, as one corner of her mouth tugged upward into a smirk, “Where exactly are you going? There’s nowhere to go. There’s no help for you in here, or out there. You’re mine, Quinn. And you’re going to pay for what you did to Brandon. You’re going to pay dearly.”
“Brandon,” Quinn said. “Brand
on, Brandon. I remember him now.”
That was a lie. She didn’t remember any Brandon. She only knew one of the men in the alley as the driver, but the other three might as well really be faceless men, because that was what they were. Faceless and nameless. The same was true for the three at Mary’s, including the one who had been on fire. The irony, of course, was that she had only killed two of those men, while Xiao had notched the rest.
“Finally,” Shorty was saying. “So you do remember him.”
No, Quinn thought, but she smiled and said, “Of course I remember him. He was the one that screamed like a little bitch when I shot him,” just before she darted left to put another shelf between them.
And like last time, the woman mirrored her actions without missing a beat—which was exactly what Quinn was hoping for, because instead of stopping when she was on the other side, Quinn instead threw herself forward, pushing off the slick floor with her bare feet with every ounce of strength she still had left.
It was part desperation and part experience. Desperation, because what the hell else did she have to lose? Experience, because she had seen it work—on her. Not once, but twice. First Porter had pulled it in Gary Ross’s office that night, then Ringo had done the same thing to her in his apartment. Both men had chosen offense instead of defense, and the decision had forced half a second (maybe less, maybe more) of indecision on her part. It had been enough both times for them to get the upper hand.
And as Quinn saw the surprised look on Shorty’s face, she wondered if that was how she had looked as Porter and Ringo made their move. The same half-second of hesitation (maybe less, maybe more) flashed across Shorty’s face, and she was still in the process of raising her staff in a defensive move when they collided.
Instead of pushing the two of them to the floor, Quinn instead wrapped her right arm around the woman’s slim waist, lifting her slightly off the floor and carrying her back back back into one of the waiting racks. The glass door shattered against the woman’s weight and Shorty let out a shocked “Oomph!” The container jostled with the impact, but quickly settled.