The Chemist

by Stephenie Meyer

  She still felt guilty, his vulnerable presence in the darkness worrying at the edges of her mind like sandpaper against cotton, pulling threads of concentration away from her.

  Too late for second thoughts.

  She heard the faint sound of movement outside. The barn was surrounded by bushes with stiff, rustling leaves. Someone was in them now, looking into the windows. What if he just let loose with an Uzi through the side of the barn? He obviously wasn't worried about noise.

  Should she lower the table, get Daniel down in case the tent was sprayed with bullets? She had oiled the accordion base well, but she wasn't positive it wouldn't squeak.

  She scuttled over to the table and cranked it lower as fast as she could. It did make some low, bass groans, but she didn't think they would carry outside the barn, especially through the foam barrier. She scooted back to her corner and listened again.

  More rustling. He was at another window, on the other side of the barn. Her booby trap's wires were inconspicuous, but not invisible. Hopefully he was only looking for a target inside. Had he gone to the house first? Why hadn't he gone in?

  Sounds outside another window.

  Just open it, she thought to herself. Just crawl inside.

  A sound she didn't understand--a hissing, followed by a heavy clank from above. Then a thump, thump, thump so loud that the barn seemed to shake. Her first thought was small explosives, and she hunkered down into a protective position automatically, but in the next second she realized it wasn't that loud, it was just the contrast with the silence before. There was no sound of anything breaking--no glass shattering or metal tearing. Was the reverberation enough to break the connections around the windows or door? She didn't think so.

  Then she realized the thumps against the wall were moving up, just as they stopped. Above her.

  Major hitch--he was coming through the roof.

  She was on her feet in a second, one eye to the seam in the tent. It was still too dark to see anything. Above her, the sound of a welding torch. Her intruder had one, too.

  All her preparation was falling apart. She glanced back once at Daniel. His gas mask was on. He would be fine. Then she darted out into the larger space of the barn, bent low with her hands stretched out in front of her to find the objects in her way, and moved as quickly as she could toward the faint moonlight filtering through the closest window. There were milking stalls to maneuver around, but she thought she remembered the clearest route. She broke into the open space between the tent and the stalls, half running, and one hand found the milking apparatus. She dodged that and reached out for the window--

  Something tremendously hard and heavy threw her to the ground face-first, knocking the wind out of her and pinning her to the floor. The gun flew away into the darkness. Her head thudded resoundingly against the concrete. Bright pops of light skittered across her eyes.

  Someone grabbed her wrists and pulled her arms behind her, then wrenched them higher until she guessed her shoulders were close to dislocating. A grunt escaped her lungs as the new position forced the air out. Her thumbs quickly twisted the rings on her left and right hands, exposing the barbs.

  "What's this?" a man's voice said directly above her--generic American accent. He changed his grip so he was holding both her wrists in one hand. With the other, he yanked off her gas mask. "So maybe not a suicide bomber after all," he mused. "Let me guess, those hot wires aren't connected to charges, are they?"

  She squirmed under him, twisting her wrists, trying to get her rings in contact with his skin.

  "Stop that," he ordered. He clocked the back of her head with something hard--probably the gas mask--and her face smacked the floor. She felt her lip split, and tasted blood.

  She braced for it. In such close quarters, it would probably be a blade across her carotid artery. Or a wire around her throat. She hoped for the blade. She wouldn't feel the slice as pain--not with the specially designed dextroamphetamine she had racing through her veins right now--but she'd probably feel the strangulation.

  "Get up."

  The weight lifted off her back and she was drawn up by her wrists. She got her feet under her as quickly as possible to take the pressure off her shoulder joints. She needed to keep her arms usable.

  He stood behind her, but she could tell by where his breathing came from that he was tall. He pulled her wrists until she was on her tiptoes, struggling to maintain contact with the floor.

  "Okay, shorty, now you're going to do something for me."

  She didn't have the training to beat him in a fight, and she didn't have the strength to wrest herself free. She could only try to make use of the options she'd prepared.

  She let her weight sag precariously against her stressed shoulders for one second as she kicked the toe of her left shoe down with enough pressure to pop the stiletto blade out of the heel (the front-facing blade was in her right shoe). Then she slashed awkwardly back toward where his legs had to be. He jumped out of the way, loosening his grip enough for her to rip free and spin around, her left hand flying out for an open-handed slap. He was too tall; she missed his face, and her barb scraped against something hard on his chest--body armor. She danced backward, away from the blow she could hear coming but could not see, her hands extended, trying to make contact with unprotected skin.

  Something cut her legs out from under her. She hit the ground and rolled away, but he was on top of her at once. He grabbed her hair and bounced her face against the concrete again. Her nose popped and blood flooded her lips and chin.

  He bent down to speak directly in her ear. "Playtime is over, honey."

  She tried to head-butt him. The back of her head connected with something, but not a face--uneven spires, metallic...

  Night-vision goggles. No wonder he'd been able to control the fight so well.

  He slapped the back of her head.

  If only she'd put her earrings on.

  "Seriously, stop it. Look, I'm going to get off you. I can see you, and you can't see me. I've got a gun, and I will shoot you in the kneecap if you try one more stupid trick, okay?"

  While he was talking, he reached back with one hand and ripped her shoes off, one after the other. He didn't check her pockets, so she still had the scalpel blades and the needles in her belt. He jumped off her. She heard him move away and click the safety off his gun.

  "What do you... want me to do?" she asked in her best frightened-little-girl voice. The split lip helped. She imagined her face was a sight. It was going to hurt like hell when the drugs wore off.

  "Disarm your booby traps and open the door."

  "I'll need"--sniff, sniff--"the light on."

  "No problem. I'm switching my night-vision goggles for your gas mask anyway."

  She dropped her head, hoping to hide her expression. Once he had the mask on, 90 percent of her defenses were rendered obsolete.

  She limped--too theatrical?--to the panel by the door and turned the light on. She couldn't think of any other option right now. He hadn't killed her immediately; that meant he wasn't under direct orders from the department. He must have an agenda here. She had to figure out what it was he wanted and then keep it from him long enough to gain the advantage.

  The bad news was that if he needed the door open, it was probably not just to have an easy escape route. It meant he had backup, which didn't help her odds. Or Daniel's, a voice in her head added. Like she needed more pressure. But Daniel was here because of her. She felt responsible for him. She owed him.

  When she turned, blinking against the brilliance of the overhead lights, the man was twenty feet from where she stood. He had to be six foot three or four, and the skin on his neck and jaw was definitely white, but that was all she could be sure about. His body was covered with a black one-piece suit--almost like a wet suit, but rough, with jutting plates of Kevlar. Torso, arms, and legs all armored. He looked pretty muscular, but some of that could be the Kevlar. He wore heavy all-terrain boots, also black, and a black watch cap on his hea
d. His face was hidden by her gas mask. Over one shoulder was slung an assault rifle--a McMillan .50-caliber sniper. She'd done her homework; it wasn't hard to become an expert on just about anything when you spent all your free time studying. Knowing gun makes and models could tell her a lot about an assailant, or any suspicious man on the street who might be planning to become an assailant. This assailant had more than one gun; a high-standard HDS was holstered on his hip, and a SIG Sauer P220 was in his right hand, pointed at her knee. Right-handed, she noted. She had no doubt he could hit her kneecap from this distance. Given that particular rifle, she figured, he could probably hit her wherever he wanted from however far away he wanted to.

  He reminded her of Batman, but without the cape. Also, she thought she remembered something about Batman not ever using guns. Though if he did, assuming taste and skill, he would probably choose these.

  If she couldn't get this assassin out of the gas mask, it wouldn't matter how many super-soldier friends were waiting for him outside. He would have no trouble killing her once he had what he wanted.

  "Disarm your leads."

  She feigned a brief dizzy spell as she limped over to the barn door, trying to get as much time for thinking as possible. Who would want her alive? Was he a kind of bounty hunter? Did he think he could sell her back to the department? If they'd put out a contract on her, she was sure that all they would have asked for was her head. So a blackmailer-slash-bounty hunter? I have what you want, but I'll release it alive, back into the wild, unless you double the reward. Smart. The department would definitely pay.

  That was the best guess she could come up with by the time she was to the back edge of the door.

  The system wasn't complicated. There were three sets of leads for each area of ingress. The first was outside in the bushes to the left of the barn door, hidden under a thin layer of dirt. Then there was the trigger line that ran across the seam where the door opened, connected loosely enough to pull apart with the slightest breach. The third was the safety, tucked under the wood paneling beside the door; its exposed wires were separated by an inch of space. The current was only stable if at least two of the connections were linked. She wondered if she should make the process look more convoluted than it actually was, but then decided there was no point. All he'd have to do was examine the setup for a few seconds to understand it.

  She wrapped the ends of the third lead tightly together and then stood back.

  "It's... off." She made her voice crack in the middle of the words. Hopefully he would buy that he'd knocked the fight out of her.

  "If you would do the honors?" he suggested.

  She gimped her way to the other side of the door and then pulled it back, her eyes already on the spot in the darkness where she assumed the dark heads of his companions would be. There was nothing but the farmhouse in the distance. And then her eyes dropped, and she froze.

  "What is that?" she whispered.

  It wasn't actually a question for him, it was just shock breaking through her facade.

  "That," he answered in a tone that could only be described as obnoxiously smug, "is one hundred and twenty pounds of muscles, claws, and teeth."

  He must have made some kind of signal--she didn't see it, her eyes were locked on his "backup"--because the animal darted forward to his side. It looked like a German shepherd, a very big one, but it didn't have the coloring she associated with Alsatians. This one was pure black. Could it be a wolf?

  "Einstein," he said to the animal. It looked up, alert. He pointed to her, and his next word was obviously a command. "Control!"

  The dog--wolf?--rushed her with its hackles rising. She backed up until the barn door was against her spine, her hands in the air. The dog braced itself, snout just inches from her stomach, its muzzle pulled back to expose long, sharp white fangs. A low, rumbling growl began deep in its throat.

  Intimidate would have been a better name for the command.

  She thought about trying to get one of her barbs into the dog's skin but doubted they were long enough to make it past its thick fur. And it wasn't like the thing was going to sit there and let her pet it.

  The Batman wannabe relaxed a bit, or she thought he did. It was hard to be positive about what his muscles were doing under the armor.

  "All right, now that we've broken the ice, let's talk."

  She waited.

  "Where is Daniel Beach?"

  She could feel the shock on her face even as she tried to suppress it. All her theories whirled around again and turned upside down.

  "Answer me!"

  She didn't know what to say. Did the department want Daniel dead first? Make sure the loose ends were all tied up neatly? She thought of Daniel, exposed and unconscious in the center of the tent--not exactly a strong hiding place--and felt sick.

  Batman stalked angrily toward her. The dog reacted, moving to the side to allow the man through even as its snarl grew in volume. The man shoved the barrel of his SIG Sauer under her jaw roughly, knocking her head against the barn door.

  "If he's dead," the man hissed, "you're going to wish you were, too. I'll make you beg me to kill you."

  She almost snorted. This thug would probably hit her a few times--maybe, if he had any creativity, he would cut her up a bit--and then he'd shoot her. He had no idea how to generate and maintain real pain.

  But his threats did tell her something--he apparently wanted Daniel alive. So they had that one thing in common.

  Resistance was counterproductive at this point anyway. She needed him to think she was out of the game. She needed him to relax his guard. And she needed to get back to her computer.

  "Daniel is in the tent." She pointed with her chin, keeping her hands raised. "He's fine."

  Batman seemed to consider this for a moment.

  "Okay, ladies first. Einstein," he barked. "Herd." He pointed to the tent.

  The dog barked in response, and moved around to her side. It poked her thigh with its nose, then nipped her.

  "Ow!" she complained, jumping away. The dog got behind her and poked her again.

  "Just walk, slow and steady, to your tent thing, and he won't hurt you."

  She really didn't like the dog behind her, but she kept her pace to the injured hobble she'd been faking. She glanced back at the animal to see what it was doing.

  "Don't worry," Batman said, amused. "People don't taste very good. He doesn't want to eat you. He'll only do that if I tell him to."

  She ignored the taunt and moved slowly to the curtained access point.

  "Hold that open so I can see in," he instructed.

  The tarp was stiff with the layers of egg foam. She rolled it back as far as she could. It was mostly black inside. Her computer screen glowed white in the darkness, the monitors dull green. Because she knew the shapes, she could make out Daniel under the blanket, just a foot off the ground, his chest rising and falling evenly.

  There was a long moment of silence.

  "Do you want... me to turn on... the lights?" she asked.

  "Hold it there."

  She felt him come up behind her and then the cold circle of the gun barrel pressing into the nape of her neck, just at her hairline.

  "What's this?" he murmured.

  She held perfectly still while his gloved fingers touched the skin next to the gun. At first she was confused, but then she realized he had noticed the scar there.

  "Huh," he grunted, and his hand dropped. "Okay, where is the switch?"

  "On the desk."

  "Where is the desk?"

  "About ten feet in, on the right side. Where you can see the computer screen."

  Would he take off the gas mask and put on the goggles again?

  The pressure of the gun disappeared. She felt him move back from her, though the dog's nose was still pressed against her butt.

  A slithering noise hissed across the floor. She looked down and watched the thick black cord for the closest work light whip past her foot. She heard the bang when it fell ov
er but no crunch of glass.

  He dragged the light past her, then flipped the switch. For a fraction of a second she allowed herself to hope that he'd broken the light, but then it flickered to life.

  "Control," he commanded the dog. The snarling started again, and she held herself very still.

  Aiming the light in front of him, he stepped into the tent. She watched the wide beam sweep the walls, then settle on the form in the middle.

  He moved into the room, sliding into a sinuous gait that was totally silent. Obviously a man of many skills. He walked around the body on the floor, checking the corners and probably looking for weapons before he focused on Daniel. He crouched, removed the blanket, examined the bloody restraints and the IV, followed the sensors to the monitors, and then watched those for a moment. He put the light down, angling it at the ceiling to get the widest spread of illumination. Finally, he reached down, carefully removed the gas mask from Daniel's face, and set it on the floor.

  "Danny," she heard him whisper.

  CHAPTER 8

  Batman ripped the black glove off his right hand and pressed two fingers to Daniel's carotid. He bent down to listen to Daniel's breathing. She examined her attacker's hand--pale skin, fingers so long they almost looked like they had an extra joint. They looked... familiar.

  Batman shook Daniel's shoulder lightly and asked, louder, "Danny?"

  "He's sedated," she volunteered.

  His face jerked up toward her, and though she couldn't see it, she could feel his glare. Suddenly he was on his feet, launching himself at her. He grabbed her arms and yanked them over her head again as he shoved his masked face into hers.

  "What did you do to him?" he shouted.

  Her concern for Daniel's safety evaporated. Danny was going to be just fine. The one she needed to worry about was herself.

  "There is nothing wrong with him," she said calmly, dropping the injured-damsel routine. "He'll wake up from the sedation in about two hours, feeling fine. I can bring him around sooner if you want."

  "Not likely," he growled.