Faceless

by Jus Accardo

  “I start a new job in—” I shot a bleary-eyed look at the clock. “A few hours. We’ll hook up tomorrow, okay?” That would give me a day to come up with another excuse. I wasn’t touching this girl with a forty-foot pole. Sure, she was hot, but Devin’s comment zinged around inside my head. I wasn’t interested in the village leftovers. I also made a mental note to have Cain’s body checked out. I had to live here for the time being and the guy was worse than a stray cat. I had a feeling a hefty dose of penicillin might be in order.

  “Asshole,” she muttered, and stormed from the room.

  Perfect. Not even five hours in my new body and I’d gotten into a fist fight, pissed off the boss, and insulted the resident tramp.

  How would I top that tomorrow?

  Chapter Four

  Daylight rolled around way too soon. I managed to catch three hours of sleep before Anderson pounded on my door telling me I needed to be in the rec room by seven—which gave me ten minutes to get ready.

  The headache seemed to be subsiding, and the detached feeling started to fade, but I still wasn’t a hundred percent. Every now and then a flash from Cain’s memory would do its best impression of subliminal messaging and throw my equilibrium out of whack. Like with Sheltie, his brain seemed to be cycling through the important events in his life as my stuff merged with his. It was kind of like shuffling two decks—or three in my case—of cards together. I didn’t understand exactly how it worked and I didn’t care. All I knew was that it was nauseating.

  I’d woken to the memory of a shouting match between him and his father, Samsen, a cruel man with an ability much like Cain’s. They hadn’t seen each other in years, but Cain still carried the pain. His father once forced the guy to hold his hand over an open flame as punishment for not taking out the trash. The hate I felt in those first waking moments was more intense than anything I’d ever experienced. No wonder Cain was seven kinds of fucked up. With a father like that, it was a wonder he wasn’t off chopping people into bits.

  My name is Brandt Cross, and I miss my father…

  I threw on the least grungy looking pieces of clothing I could find—a pair of faded jeans and a black button down shirt with a small rip at the base of the collar. When I was finished, I rummaged through Cain’s drawers to find his cell. No luck. In fact, after sifting through the drawers, I realized what a miracle it was that I’d found any clean clothes. Cain was a frigging slob!

  I found half-eaten boxes of cookies, empty soda cans, and several pairs of socks with a smell strong enough to repel any living thing. After five minutes, I gave up the search and made my way to the rec room.

  Anderson was there already, arms folded and foot tapping. I was ten minutes late—which was kind of a miracle. The one thing Sheltie, Cain, and I seemed to have in common was the inability to be on time. That saying about being late for your own funeral?

  Well, I had been.

  Boss-man stepped forward and handed me an envelope. “You will be taken to the main building at Dromere Industries. In this envelope is the information you’ll need to know to complete your task. A brief job description of what you’ve been hired to do for Franklin Wentz, as well as the other details.”

  “Other details?” I wondered if Anderson was always so annoyingly vague.

  He pointed to the envelope. “It’s all in there.” As he turned to leave the room, he said, “Outside the main gate, there’s a car waiting for you. Best get moving. Cynthia is an impatient woman with a nasty temper.”

  I ripped open the envelope and took off. Inside was a file on Wentz and a single sheet of paper. I stuffed the file back inside and pulled out the sheet. A small paragraph at the top and several bullet points on the front of the page, and that was about it.

  Enter the building and ask for Mr. Pincher. He will get you started. Be sure to keep a low profile and attract no unnecessary attention. Franklin Wentz is a bit eccentric. You should have no trouble getting in and retrieving the formula within the first twenty-four hours of this assignment. Below are the simplified parameters.

  Get close to Franklin Wentz.

  Push Wentz to give you the formula for Dromin12.

  Collect any pertinent information.

  Get out without attracting attention.

  I had no idea what pertinent information might be. And twenty-four hours? They didn’t waste any time, did they? Didn’t matter. It was fine with me. The faster I got this formula, the faster I could get it home to Dez.

  I stuffed the paper into the envelope as I got to the white minivan waiting at the curb, and slid into the passenger’s side seat. The driver was a blonde Soccer Mom type—Cynthia, I guessed. She drove in silence most of the way, only speaking when we pulled up alongside the curb outside an impressive looking glass building.

  “Leave all papers behind. I’ll pick you up right here at six. Don’t be late.”

  I unfastened my seatbelt and slipped from the car, setting the envelope on the passenger’s seat as instructed. The second the door closed, she sped away, narrowly missing my toes. “Okay, then,” I mumbled. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

  The Dromere building was seven stories high and covered from tip to top in dark-tinted glass. It reminded me of a scene from one of those disaster movies. The glass buildings were always the ones they blew up first.

  I walked forward as a shiver of worry raced up my spine. Sheltie’s ability had taken me a while to figure out. Unfortunately, I had to figure out how to use Cain’s ability pronto or I had no hope of getting the formula. No formula meant no cure. No cure meant Dez would… No. Not an option. I wouldn’t let Denazen’s little science project take her away from me.

  A steady stream of people trickled in from the parking lot to the right. They were dressed in everything from shiny shoes and pressed pants to jeans and corny T-shirts. The guy ahead of me, a freakishly tall man with thick glasses and a too-serious face, wore a shirt that had a picture of a stacked woman on the front. She was in a bathtub, leg dangling seductively over the edge. In place of her head though, was a silhouette of a rubber ducky. In bright yellow lettering, it said, Rubber Ducky, You’re the one… As he turned away from me and started toward the building, I saw the back read, You make bath time lots of fun… I shuddered and kept moving. Dez would have a field day in a place like this.

  “Hey,” I said, nodding to the cute brunette behind the counter after I entered the building. She looked flustered, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the stack of papers on her desk as people filed in on either side. “I’m Douglass Cain. I’m here to see a Mr. Pincher?”

  “Are you kidding me?” She stopped tapping and slammed her hand down, rattling the coffee cup beside her. Dark liquid sloshed over the edge, pooling inches away from a stack of important-looking folders. “Another one?”

  Her tone threw me. “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing,” she mumbled. Hitching a thumb at the door behind her, she said, “Through there and to the left. There’s a room marked orientation. Second door down. Just wait in there. Someone will be by shortly.”

  She turned back to her papers, resumed her tapping, and I was forgotten. Irritated, I made my way around her desk and pushed through the door, slamming it a little harder than necessary. The hall was full of people rushing back and forth, and I had to stop to ask someone where the orientation room was since the girl at the front desk was apparently unable to count. It ended up being seven doors down the hall, not two. Dromere hadn’t hired her for her math skills.

  There was one other person in the room when I arrived. A girl. She turned and stood as I closed the door behind me.

  “Wow…” I said before I could clamp my mouth shut. Her chestnut-colored hair was pulled into a messy pile atop her head with small wispy strands escaping to frame her pale face, accentuating bright green eyes. The perfect pair of legs disappeared beneath a black skirt—just long enough to be considered respectable, but still short enough to send the temperature in the room skyrocketing. It clung in all th
e right places as she moved toward me, making it impossible not to stare.

  My name is Brandt Cross, and…and…and… Yeah. I got nothing.

  “What are—?”

  She closed the distance and extended her hand, shoulders stiffening the moment we touched. The smile I got was one hundred percent forced, making it obvious she hadn’t expected to see me, and most definitely didn’t appreciate the surprise. “I’m Devin Glen. This your first day, too?”

  Okay… I wasn’t the only one undercover, and apparently we weren’t supposed to know each other. It might have been helpful if the stupid file they’d given me mentioned that. Blowing this right out of the gate wouldn’t do much to endear me to them. “Yeah,” I said slowly. “Douglass Cain. Nice to meet you, Devin Glen.”

  “Good. You’re both here,” a guy said as he slipped into the room. A little older than me, he had curly black hair and a white-blond soul patch. He was dressed in an expensive-looking suit and would have come across every inch the executive if not for the Rolling Stones T-shirt peeking from beneath his jacket, and the worn black sneakers on his feet. When we didn’t move, he tapped the doorframe and waved us forward. “Well? Come on. Tons to do today.”

  I glanced at Devin and shrugged, following him into the hall. Back down the way I’d come, and through the first door. He moved fast, weaving deftly in and out of the crowd like the building was on fire, and both Devin and I had a hard time keeping up.

  “Mr. Pincher—” Devin called as she narrowly sidestepped a woman carrying a large stack of papers. The woman glared at us, mumbling something abrasive under her breath as she continued on her way.

  “Pincher? In his dreams,” the guy snickered, coming to an abrupt stop beside the desk of a brown-haired woman with more cat figurines on her desk than mental stability should allow. He cleared his throat and tapped one of the glass statues on the head as if petting it. “Donna, this is the new part time secretary, Devin. You’re both D’s, so you should get along famously.”

  Devin smiled at Donna and extended her hand as the man started moving again. I hesitated, not sure if I was supposed to stay with Devin, or follow him. In the end, I tipped an imaginary hat at the girls, and zoomed off after our tour guide. He zipped in and out of the busy room, heading for a large set of doors on the other end. I knocked into two people and almost downed a guy with a tray of expensive looking frou-frou coffees in an attempt to catch up.

  Once through the doors, he crossed the room, settled down behind a large mahogany desk, and proceeded to stare at me. I counted to twenty, waiting for him to speak. When he didn’t, I asked, “Um, is there, like, paperwork or something that I still need to fill out?”

  More staring.

  I was just about borderline creeped out—the dude wasn’t even blinking—when he sighed and kicked his feet onto the desk. “No paperwork. I’ll let the double D’s take care of that.” He froze, lips twisting downward. “Hmm. That sounds kinda scandalous, doesn’t it? Forget I said that, Doug. Wipe it from your memory.”

  I nodded, trying to hide a smile. “Consider it wiped.”

  The man jumped up and clapped his hands together, hopping up and down twice. “Good deal! What do you say we order breakfast? I had a late night and I’m starved. I could do with some serious scarfage. You?”

  “Um, okay?” I stepped farther into the room and listened while he called some place named LaRue Devoe Pastries. He ordered enough to keep a small army going for a week. When he finally hung up, I sank into the chair across from him. “Will I be meeting Mr. Wentz?”

  He smacked his forehead and jumped from the chair again. “Dude—my bad. I spend a lot of time alone in the lab. Sometimes I forget how to interact with the Homo sapiens.” Hand extended, he wiggled his fingers and said, “I’m Wentz.”

  I took his hand and tried hard not to stare. This was Franklin Wentz? The super genius I was betting on to save Dez’s life? “You’re Mr. Wentz?”

  “Not what you were expecting, right? I get that a lot.” He moved around to my side of the desk. “And for the love of all things holy, none of that Mr. Wentz crap. Franklin is off the table, too. Frank is fine. Or maybe Fwentz. Kind of exotic, right? Chicks dig that kinda thing—and let’s face it. With a name like Franklin, I need all the help I can get… I swear Mama had it in for me right from the start.”

  I nodded, smiling. A little on the weird side, but Wentz seemed like a cool guy. “So they weren’t really clear in the interview. What will I—” The rest of the sentence was lost to shattering glass. Something small zoomed past us, bounced against the far wall, then landed a few feet in front of me with a clatter.

  Wentz made an irritated clucking sound and leaned closer. “Oh, man… Is that a grenade?”

  Chapter Five

  I kicked the small round object, which was in fact a grenade, then turned and threw myself across the desk. Catching Wentz in the gut, I dragged us both to the floor as a thunderous sound filled the room. Everything shook for a moment, then went silent, and for a second, I was sure I was dead. There was nothing. No sound or pain. No sense of here or there. Just an odd floating sensation a lot like the feeling you get when your board leaves the ground and you’ve got nothing but air between you and the world. Other than Sheltie, Cain was the only other person I’d jumped to—and they were both Sixes. I didn’t know if it worked with Nixes, and I said a silent prayer that this wasn’t the moment I’d have to find out.

  Like a rubber band, everything snapped hard into focus. One second, nothing—then boom. The next, hurt city. There was screaming—lots of it—and a persistent buzzing that matched the painful twinge in every one of my limbs. It was like the time I’d wiped out doing an ollie down the hill in Memorial Park trying to show off for Gina Thim, my ninth grade crush.

  I was alive—which meant Wentz was too. I hoped.

  When I managed to pry open my eyes, all I could see was smoke and dust. “Wentz?” I tried.

  “Mr. Wentz!” a baritone voice bellowed through the din. “Mr. Wentz, can you hear me?”

  In response, someone beside me groaned, then coughed. A shuffling sound—fabric rubbing together—but no actual words.

  “Over here,” I yelled between coughs. The air was full of dust, making it impossible to get a lungful of clean oxygen. It coated the inside of my mouth and throat, tiny, gravely particles sparking another round of furious coughing. “We’re behind—” I coughed and waved away some of the smoke, then shoved a piece of the desk off my leg “—what’s left of the desk.”

  The sound of rushing footsteps and a jumble of voices filled the air. A moment later, someone gingerly hefted me to my feet. Something solid slid under me and I was urged to sit. “You okay, kid?” a man asked. “Can you hear me? What happened?”

  Everything was still a little blurry, but when he came into focus, I saw a broad shouldered man with a neck like a tree trunk and arms to match. “I’m Nader Dean, head of security. What happened?”

  What happened? Obviously an explosion happened. He needed a diagram?

  “Stop drilling the guy and give him some room to breathe, Nader,” Wentz wheezed. He climbed to his feet with the help of two men in matching suits as Nader frowned. “Someone threw a grenade through my office window—a really crappy thing to do, by the way. Doug here saved my life.”

  “Damn it, Frank,” Nader cursed. He flicked a piece of something—it looked like a chunk of the ceiling—from Wentz’s shoulder. “I warned you to get out of this office. The ground floor isn’t safe.”

  “I like this office,” Wentz countered, dusting off the front of his jacket. He flashed Nader a huge smile. “It’s got a great view.”

  Nader’s eyes bulged. Something told me the guy was wound tighter than fishing line. “A great view? Are you insane? It overlooks the employee parking lot!”

  Wentz shrugged. “I like the parking lot.” He turned to me, expression slipping momentarily into the serious zone. “You all right?”

  “For someone who almost
had his head blown off? I’m killer.”

  Wentz clasped both hands together, seriousness lasting no more than three point five seconds—probably some kind of record for the guy. “Great. Let’s go see what’s taking our breakfast order so long, shall we?”

  Unable to speak, I watched him head for the door like nothing happened. Nader, though, had no problem forming a sentence. “I’d think twice about coming back tomorrow, kid. Frank’s personal assistants don’t usually last long.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  Nader shrugged. He surveyed the room, lips tilting downward as he bent to retrieve the remnants of a slightly singed notebook. Tossing it to me, he said, “Short life spans.”

  …

  I caught up to Wentz in the hall where he was talking to Donna. I couldn’t help noticing how close she stood to him, every once in awhile resting a hand on his shoulder and leaning in almost as if she wanted to kiss him. He didn’t seem to notice, chattering on and on about misplaced files. I caught a word here and there—something about the private server—but that was it. The guy was totally oblivious and I could tell it drove Donna crazy. She kept batting her eyes and angling her shoulder forward, attempting—and failing—to get his attention.

  Devin stood to the left of them, pale as paper and eyes wide as she watched the chaos from a safe distance. Security moved fast, having already roped off the area, and it made me wonder exactly how often things like this happened. It was almost like they had a system in place, which led to the other question—exactly what had happened? It couldn’t be Denazen. There’s no way they’d risk harming Wentz. At least not before they got what they were after.

  Wentz started on his way again and I hurried after him. The guy didn’t stand still for very long and it was starting to make me a little dizzy. “Keep up,” he said, rounding corners and pushing through doors without slowing. He led me up a set of narrow stairs and through one last hallway before stopping in front of a metal door guarded by two men with guns.