Authors: Michelle Gagnon
T
he first downed guard lay on the ground a few feet inside the building. His eyes were bugged out, and he was clawing at his throat.
Mason made a tsking sound and said, “Bad reaction. That’s unfortunate.”
Peter hurriedly checked to make sure the straps of his mask were tight. Swallowing hard, he carefully stepped over the guy and followed Mason down a long, dark hallway that looked like something out of a horror film. Wisps of gas hung heavy in the air; snaky tendrils of it wrapped around Peter’s arms and legs as they moved slowly through the building.
Mason walked with purpose, as if he knew precisely where he was going. Peter had to trot to keep pace. The interior of the building was in even worse shape than the outside; the walls were cracked, and tufts of insulation poked through enormous gashes in the drywall. Between the damp, mold, and level of dust in the air, Peter couldn’t imagine a worse environment for sensitive computer servers. Was this seriously the best place Charles Pike could come up with to hide his data?
Mason hooked right down the next hallway and led Peter up a flight of stairs. The top was blocked by a fire door. Mason flicked open a keypad on the side and punched in an eight-digit code, then pushed the door open with both hands.
Peter left the door open, in case they needed to beat a fast retreat. He followed closely, working it out in his head. Obviously, Mason had some sort of arrangement with the guard who had handed them the masks. Peter wondered how much money he’d been promised to betray the people he worked with. And if Mason would let him live long enough to spend it.
The second story was a dramatic departure from downstairs. Solid white walls extended the length of the hall on both sides. The floor was bare concrete, meticulously clean.
The air was still wreathed in tendrils of white gas, however. It poured from the vents above.
Halfway down the hall, a guard lay on the ground. Mason stepped adroitly over him as if he wasn’t there. This guard’s eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling as if he was simply deeply asleep.
Peter nearly stumbled over him. He knew it was psychosomatic, but he was having a hard time breathing. He wondered if the mask was really working; he felt dizzy, sick.
They turned right down another hallway, toward the center of the building. Mason stopped in front of a massive door that would have been right at home in a bank vault. He punched in another code, then swung the lever and wrenched it open.
Peter stepped inside. This room was strikingly similar to the one at Pike & Dolan’s corporate headquarters, except it held only a quarter as many servers. They hummed along in the background. There was no gas, aside from what had followed them in; there must be a separate ventilation system.
Mason was watching him; the goggles accentuated the extraordinary blackness of his eyes.
“I didn’t bring a data sniffer,” Peter said, realizing that it would have been pointless, anyway. It wasn’t as if their infiltration had been discreet; Charles Pike was going to know that someone had broken into his servers, since obviously the rest of these guards weren’t on Mason’s payroll. So what was he doing here?
“No need,” Mason said, his voice muffled. “We’ll be taking the hard drives. All of them.”
He started along the aisle. Peter followed warily, watching Mason extract hard drives from the server banks. He looked around the room—there were over fifty servers in here. How long before the effects of the gas wore off, and the room was flooded with ticked-off guards?
Mason was carefully stacking hard drives in the open backpack. He glanced at Peter. “Care to help? We are in a bit of a hurry.”
Peter hesitated, then went to the far end of the room. As he disconnected the cords on a hard drive, his mind raced. Mason could have brought anyone with him—this job didn’t exactly require incredible hacking skills. So was he supposed to get the information off these drives afterward? Maybe they were encrypted, and that’s why Mason needed him.
He was working on the third server when he felt a tug on the back of his head. Spinning quickly, he dropped the hard drives he’d collected—they clattered to the ground. Mason was standing right behind him. With another violent yank, he tore the gas mask off Peter’s head.
“What the hell are you doing?” Peter demanded.
“I’m leaving you behind,” Mason said matter-of-factly as he stooped to gather the hard drives off the floor. “Sorry for the confusion, but as it turns out, I won’t be requiring your skills after all. Charles will be so delighted to have finally caught the ringmaster behind Persefone’s Army. Sadly, your compatriots escaped with the hard drives. But one must accept losses in any business endeavor.” He dropped the drives into the bag.
Peter took a step toward him, enraged. “You assho—”
Suddenly, the room cartwheeled. He staggered back, knocking his head against a hard metal server frame. His knees gave out, and he slowly slid to the ground.
Blearily, he watched Mason move away from him, sliding hard drives out and disconnecting them with practiced ease. This had been a setup all along. His eyelids felt heavy; there was less gas in here, thanks to the recycled air, but apparently it was still potent enough to knock him out. Peter remembered the first guard they’d encountered, the one having a “bad reaction.” Was the same thing happening to him? His throat constricted, and his lungs battled for air. He felt like he was suffocating to death.
But he had no intention of dying alone.
Determined, Peter fought back the waves of darkness washing over his vision. Unsteadily, he lurched to his feet.
Mason paused and looked up. His eyes creased in a smile as he said, “You should just relax, Peter. Fighting will only make it worse.”
“Amanda,” Peter croaked out past the blockage in his throat. “Where?”
Mason shrugged. Though his mouth was hidden, Peter could swear he was smirking. “I have no idea where Ms. Berns is now, Peter.” He slid out a final drive, tossed it into the pack, and tucked Peter’s mask on top of it. Slinging the bag over one shoulder, he said, “I do hope Charles isn’t too hard on you. He has a terrible temper, you know. Shame that all of this will be falling on your shoulders, but it worked out quite well for me.”
Amanda backed away from the nurse, stopping when she felt the double doors at her back. “Stay away from me!” she said, her voice low and threatening. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Of course you don’t, dear,” the nurse said soothingly, although her eyes were concerned. “Now, why don’t you just calm down. You’re feeling a little confused, that’s all.”
“I’m not confused!” Amanda nearly shouted—it took effort to keep her voice low, but the last thing she wanted was to bring someone else running. This nurse she could handle, but who knew how many armed guards roamed the halls. “You’re kidnapping kids and operating on them!”
“What?” The nurse’s brow furrowed. Amanda was disgusted that she actually had the nerve to look perplexed, like she had no idea what Amanda was talking about. “Now, dear, you must’ve just had a bad dream. That can happen, you know.”
“So, what, the kids in there were just a nightmare?” Amanda retorted, jerking her thumb back over her shoulder.
The nurse shook her head slowly. “We’ve already explained this to you, Amanda. Those children are ill, too—you all are. We’re keeping you together because it’s the best way for us to care for you.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Amanda snorted.
The nurse sighed. Her crocs squeaked against the floor as she took a small step forward, reaching out with her hand. “Listen, sweetheart—”
Amanda evaded her grip, dodging right and darting down the hall before the nurse could react. A startled noise behind her, then the nurse’s voice rose to a high pitch as she yelled, “Security!”
Amanda sprinted for the exit. No way to save anyone but herself now. But she’d send help, make so much noise that it couldn’t simply be swept under the carpet. She’d show Peter and Noa how it was done, she thought, her jaw hardening.
But first, she had to get out of here.
Without breaking stride, she burst through the exit door onto a concrete landing. A blocky
5
was painted in red on the wall.
Amanda took the stairs two at a time. Her legs felt shaky, and a few times she nearly fell. She was terrified that they’d simply give out and she’d pitch forward, tumbling the rest of the way down.
But adrenaline buoyed her up. She flashed past the third floor, then the second. And suddenly, the stairs ended in front of a door that was gloriously labeled
EXIT
.
Amanda shoved it open and skidded to a dead halt.
She was in a bustling hallway, filled with people. And most of them were wearing scrubs and lab coats. A nurse and doctor passed, conferring in low voices. A guy in his thirties was pushing a wheelchair down the hall. He glanced curiously at her as he passed.
But that wasn’t what stopped her dead. It was the sight of the patient he was pushing. The guy was draped over, bent nearly double. And he was old. Really, really old.
Amanda turned in a slow circle. The wall behind her was covered in translucent tiles, each labeled with a name. Above it, a sign announced
Boston Medical Benefactors
.
She knew where she was. She’d been here once before, when her great-aunt fell and broke her hip.
This was a real hospital.
“There you are!”
Amanda turned. The elderly nurse was standing in the doorway to the stairwell, one hand over her chest. “Dear God, you nearly gave me a coronary, running like that!”
“Sorry,” Amanda said reflexively.
The nurse squinted at her. “You won’t be giving me any more trouble now, will you?”
“Where am I?” Amanda interjected.
The nurse sighed. “I told you, dear. You’re in the hospital.”
“That was a PEMA ward,” Amanda said, realization dawning.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” the nurse said more gently. “Now should I call for someone, or will you take the elevator back up with me?”
She tentatively reached out her arm again. This time, Amanda took it.
“I’ll come with you,” she said dully.
“That’s a good girl.” The nurse patted her arm soothingly. “Your parents said they’d be back tonight to visit. That’ll be nice, won’t it?”
Amanda tuned her out as she chirped on, choosing instead to stare up at the elevator panel as the lights descended. Five, four, three, two . . . the countdown echoed in her mind.
PEMA.
She’d suspected it, in the back of her mind, but had blithely refused to acknowledge what was happening to her. The lost time. The lack of appetite, and difficulty sleeping. The way her mind felt oddly lumpy and mushy, like a marshmallow left out in the sun.
“What stage am I in?” Amanda asked as the doors pinged open and they stepped inside.
The nurse hesitated, then said, “Stage Two. Don’t you remember? You and the doctor discussed it this morning.”
Amanda searched her mind, but there was nothing there. “I don’t remember,” she admitted. “I didn’t even know my parents had been to visit.”
“That can happen, dear.” The elevator doors slid open again, and the nurse led her into the hallway. “Perfectly normal, nothing to worry about.” They passed a nurses’ station and turned a corner; there was the staircase door on the right, and the double doors farther along.
Amanda felt completely numb. She was pretty sure that once you entered Stage Two, you had less than a year to live. She tried to process that, and couldn’t. It was too surreal.
“I can give you something to help you rest,” the nurse offered. “Would you like that?”
“Yes, please,” Amanda said vaguely. Rest would be good. Maybe when she woke up, she’d discover that this had all been a terrible dream.
Peter’s face flashed through her mind, his concerned expression in the diner the other day. And her roommate Diem, eyeing her from across the dorm room. All those covert glances that she’d brushed off or ignored; they’d been right. There had been something wrong with her, and she just hadn’t wanted to admit it.
Amanda let herself be helped back to bed. She held out her arm, barely wincing as the nurse eased in a fresh IV needle. As soon as the drapes were pulled shut, she turned on her side and curled into herself. Somewhere, Mouse was probably wondering where she was. Mrs. Latimar was waiting anxiously for her to come up with a plan. And her parents . . . God, her parents were trying to wrap their minds around the fact that their only surviving child had just been handed a death sentence.
As she drifted off to sleep, tears slipped out of Amanda’s eyes and soaked her pillow.
B
efore Noa could react, the commando threw Roy off. The older man went flying, rolling until he smacked against the base of a tree. The commando growled and lunged for him, bent double. As Roy got shakily to his feet, the guy drove his head into his stomach, slamming him into the tree trunk. Roy grunted with pain. He raised both hands to try to ward the guy off, but he was no match for a trained soldier.
“Hey!” Noa shouted, suddenly realizing that she was still holding a gun, and the soldier’s remained on the ground where he’d fallen.
He didn’t acknowledge her, intent on drawing back his fist. There was a loud crunch, and Roy’s head jerked back; his nose erupted with blood.
That did it for Noa. She strode forward and pressed the barrel of the gun to the commando’s ear. He froze.
“Step away from him,” Noa said, her voice low and menacing. “Now.”
The guy’s whole body tensed, probably in preparation for pulling some fancy maneuver. She stepped back to put some distance between them, and his shoulders slumped. “Hands up nice and slow,” she continued. “And maybe I won’t shoot you.”
The guy slowly lifted his hands, but spat, “Kid, you don’t have it in you.”
Noa didn’t respond. Her hands were steady, even though she felt weak from rage. He was wrong. Right now, she wanted to pull the trigger more than anything.
“What happened to Zeke?” Roy said weakly as he pushed off the tree.
“He got shot,” she said. “It’s bad.”
Roy swore under his breath and hurried to where Zeke lay on the ground. Out of the corner of her eye, Noa saw him stoop to examine Zeke’s wounds. “Through and through,” he said. “That’s a blessing, at least.”
“Will he be all right?”
“If we get him out of here, maybe,” Roy said. “But we really need to get moving, Noa.”
“Moving where?” she asked, the hopelessness of the situation suddenly overwhelming her. Zeke was shot. Roy was hurt. She had no idea where any of the others were. And from the sound of it, they were surrounded.
Roy stepped closer, lowering his voice to a murmur so only she could hear. “I stashed kayaks on the beach. They’re half-buried at the south end, covered by driftwood. If we can get to them, it’s not too long to Steamer Lane. You remember that beach? We drove there together one time, when you wanted to watch the surfers.”
“I remember,” Noa said. It had been a beautiful day. In truth, she hadn’t asked to see the surfers, but Roy had insisted on showing them to her. Then he and Monica pretty much forced her and Zeke onto the carnival rides at the Santa Cruz Pier. She’d grumbled about what a waste of time it was, when they could be planning a raid. But now the memory of throwing up her arms and screaming as the rickety old roller coaster flung them around forced her to blink back tears.
“There’s a truck stashed in the parking lot there,” Roy continued, speaking quickly but quietly. “An old Ford F-150. Keys in the wheel well. The owner of the lot is a buddy of mine, he knows all about it.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Noa said. The commando was watching them closely, clearly waiting for her grip to waver. She forced her hands to remain steady.
“Zeke knew. I always figured if something went wrong here, the two of you . . . Anyway, you have to go, Noa,” Roy said urgently “Now. There are more of them coming.”
“But Zeke—”
“I’ll take care of Zeke,” Roy insisted. “I won’t let them hurt him. You have to trust me.”
“What about Monica, and the others?”
“Monica didn’t make it out of the house,” Roy said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll send along anyone else I come across. Now move!” He gave her a small push, then stepped forward and swung the rifle off the ground and up to his shoulder, aiming at the guy.
Noa hesitated, then turned and started running. She’d only gotten ten feet when the sound of a gunshot stopped her in her tracks.
She whipped around, just in time to see Roy crumple to the ground.
Standing behind him, holding Daisy by the hair with one hand and a gun in the other, was Cole.
“Hello again, sweetheart!” Cole called out, shifting the gun barrel toward her. “Miss me?”
Noa staggered back a step. She still had nightmares about Cole; he’d been the head of Project Persephone’s team of goons back in Boston, a ruthless mercenary who’d pursued her through the city for days. He’d nearly recaptured her at the secret lab in Rhode Island, but Peter had saved her, nearly getting beaten to death in the process. Thankfully, at the last minute the FBI had shown up and intervened. She and Zeke had escaped in a boat, and Peter had been returned to his parents relatively unharmed.
She’d hoped that in the aftermath, Cole had been locked up. Was it too much to expect the FBI to arrest a guy who’d just murdered one of his own guards, while surrounded by teens stuffed in coolers?
Apparently so, because here he was, taunting her again. He looked exactly the same: blond hair shorn in a crew cut, a long scar running like a seam down the right side of his face. And he’d just shot Roy. Now two of the people she’d relied on for months were bleeding to death on the ground. Noa still had the gun; she’d tucked it in the back of her jeans as she started running, but she got the feeling that threatening to kill herself wouldn’t work so well with him.
Cole yanked on Daisy’s hair, and she yelped. The girl’s eyes were wide and frantic; she looked terrified. Noa’s heart sank. Had anyone gotten away?
“Come on over here and join us, Noa,” Cole sneered.
Noa swallowed hard and took a small step forward. In the distance, she could hear shouting. Superseding it was the snarl and crackle of the fire. A resounding crash as part of the house buckled and caved in. She jumped at the sound, but Cole’s aim never wavered.
The wind had shifted, blowing embers and waves of smoke toward the ocean, away from them. She glanced down at the ground. Zeke was still out cold, but she could see his chest rising and falling. Roy was on his side, staring straight at her, his eyes filled with pain. A hole dotted the front of his shirt, right through the center of the Grateful Dead skull.
“It’ll be okay, Daisy,” Noa said, trying to sound reassuring.
Cole barked a laugh. “Yeah, it’ll be swell. Long as you don’t mind a little slice and dice.” He tugged Daisy close, until her back was pressed to his chest. His eyes roved over her tiny tank top and boy shorts.
Daisy started sobbing harder.
“Leave her alone!” Noa snapped.
Cole trailed a finger down Daisy’s side while he leered at Noa. “Not much you can do about it, sweetheart.”
Daisy mewled pitiably. Noa’s jaw tensed. For the first time, she wished that she was more comfortable with guns. But she couldn’t risk drawing and firing it, not when he had Daisy.
Glancing down, she saw Roy groping for the rifle that had fallen a few feet away. She jerked her eyes back up, but too late—Cole had noticed. He clucked his tongue and said, “Sorry, old man. Can’t let you play with that,” then kicked it away.
Roy’s hand dropped back down and his eyes squeezed shut. His whole body sagged. Seeing him reduced to this made Noa want to scream.
Cole squinted down at him, then barked a laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned. If it ain’t Ray Forbes. How the hell are you, Ray? This your place?”
“His name’s Roy, not Ray,” Noa snapped, the words popping out before she could stop herself.
Cole was shaking his head. “Nope, it’s definitely Ray. We go way back, don’t we, Ray?”
“You’re lying,” Noa snarled, but a small seed of doubt had sprouted in her mind.
“What, you think PEMA came out of nowhere? Hell, Ray and his old lady invented it. Made a killing off it, too.”
Noa shifted her gaze back to Roy, hoping he’d deny it. Tears streamed down his face as he gazed back at her, looking stricken. He silently mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
“Gotta say, though, they were pretty clever.” Cole shook his head with admiration. “Cashed out when the stock was at its peak, and left before things got ugly. Nice little place they retired to here.”
“It’s not true,” Noa protested weakly. “Roy and Monica wouldn’t have done that.”
“No?” Cole grinned at her. “Tell me something, sweetheart. They do any tests, maybe draw some blood while they were ‘helping’ you?”
Her face must have betrayed her, because Cole laughed unpleasantly again. “Right. Bet they promised to cure you. Meanwhile, they were just cutting out the middle man, so they could keep the profits for themselves next time. Smart.”
“Not . . . true,” Roy gasped from the ground.
Cole tapped him with his boot. “Still lying to the girl, Ray? That’s cold, man. Even I wouldn’t do that.”
“Noa . . .” Roy wheezed. His mouth was working hard as he choked out, “Don’t . . . believe . . .”
“Good chat, Ray,” Cole said. “Nice seeing you again. Oh, and by the way: This time, your termination is permanent.”
Another shot, and Roy went limp. Daisy started screaming uncontrollably. Noa froze, unable to tear her eyes away. A tumult of emotions coursed through her. Roy—
Ray
, she corrected herself—had been more than just a friend, he’d become a father figure. But Cole’s claims had shaken her to the core. Had Roy and Monica really just been using her all along?
And where did Zeke fit in? Her gaze shifted back to him. He was lying still, not even reacting to the gunshot. Noa couldn’t tell if he was still breathing. He might be gone, too.
Which left her and Daisy.
“Enough of this crap,” Cole said, sounding bored. He pointed the gun back at Noa. “You’re going to walk ahead of us and do exactly what I say, when I say it. Any messing around, I put a bullet in this one’s skull” —he jerked his head toward Daisy—“and shoot you in the foot, so you can hop the rest of the way there. They said I had to bring you in alive, they didn’t say anything about walking.”
He gestured with the gun for Noa to move toward the driveway.
Noa took a deep breath. Her hands felt tingly; she kept them loose at her sides. All she needed was a single distraction to give her a chance to go for the gun. And for Daisy to not be in the way when she fired it. All her earlier qualms about firearms seemed silly now that she was possessed by murderous rage. She wanted to wipe that smirk off Cole’s face, to stand over him and empty the magazine, channeling all her frustration into the bullets that would rip him apart.
One chance
. Noa repeated it in her mind, her whole body tensed and ready. She didn’t care anymore what happened to her. As long as she killed Cole, the rest of it seemed superfluous.
She walked through the trees, heading in the direction of the highway and whatever waited for her there.
Twenty feet into the trees, as if guessing what she was thinking, Cole called out, “Nice and easy, now. No more games.”
Noa didn’t respond. The hem of her shirt covered the gun, and between the mist and shadows Cole hadn’t noticed it. She wondered how long it would take to draw it, and where she should aim. She was pretty sure you were supposed to try to hit the chest, since that was the biggest target. But Cole was probably wearing a bulletproof vest, so maybe she should aim for his head instead. . . .
She was interrupted by Cole spewing a tirade of curses.
Swiveling, Noa saw that Daisy had somehow escaped and was running back the way they’d come, toward the burning house. Unfortunately, that meant she was framed perfectly, silhouetted against the wall of flame. Cole raised his rifle and stabilized it with both hands.
“No!” Noa shouted, fumbling to free her own gun.
But she was too late. The
crack
of a shot split the air. “Daisy!” Noa shrieked, struggling to dig the gun from her waistband.
But Daisy was still running. And Cole had been flung back, as if he’d been punched in the chest. He landed on his back, hard.
Teo emerged from the trees, halfway between them and Daisy. Holding one of the commando’s rifles, he walked tentatively toward Cole.
“Teo, stop!” Noa called out. “He’s wearing a vest!”
Too late, Teo started backpedaling. With mounting horror, Noa watched Cole snatch his gun off the ground and stagger to his feet.
He was too good a shot, and they weren’t far enough away. He was going to kill them. And she couldn’t let any more of her people die tonight. She just couldn’t.
Without allowing herself time to think about it, Noa lifted the gun, gripped it hard in both hands, and fired.
Cole dropped again, falling forward this time. Cautiously, she approached him.
He wasn’t moving. Drawing a deep breath, she pushed hard on his side until he rolled all the way over.
His eyes gazed blankly at the sky. Cole was dead.
Everything went still for a moment, and Noa started shaking. She’d never killed anyone before. Horrified, her fingers trembled so badly she nearly dropped the gun.
A shout to her left got her attention—someone else was coming. She could see Teo and Daisy at the edge of the woods, near the house. They’d stopped, and were waving at her frantically.
Noa drew a deep, shuddery breath. She was the only one who knew the way out. She had to get the two of them to safety.
Breaking into a run, she tore after them.
Peter crawled up the side of the server, willing his legs to function. They felt floppy and helpless, like he’d suddenly turned into a scarecrow. Mason had nearly reached the door. Wisps of gas were still seeping in, wrapping around him in an embrace.
Peter’s vision had narrowed to pinpoints, and with every movement bile rose up his throat. The closer he got to the door, the worse it grew. But he focused on moving forward, setting one foot in front of the other. Everything Mason had just said spun through his mind. Mason had to be lying—he had to know where Amanda was. A flare of rage powered Peter’s limbs forward, and he lunged into the corridor.
Mason was rounding the bend in the hall.
The gas appeared to have dissipated, although Peter felt increasingly dizzy and disoriented. It was difficult to focus, and even harder to move. He gritted his teeth and lurched along the hall, rebounding off the walls on either side as he staggered along. He made it to the corner, feeling like he’d run a marathon. He leaned heavily against the wall, on the verge of collapse.