Flip (The Slip Trilogy Book 3) (11 page)

He stuffs a clump of the minty sticky stuff into the barrel of the first weapon, sure to leave a clear trail from the tip into the gun. He
wants
it to be noticed. He
wants
the weapon techs to realize their weapons cache has been tampered with. That way they’ll be forced to check and clean each and every weapon before using them, a monumental task that he hopes will buy Benson that one extra day he needs.

And then life will go on as normal for the Lifers. No harm, no foul, right?

Gonzo replaces the first rifle and grabs the second, wondering how he’s gone from poor Mexican, to Jumper, to Picker, to Gummer over the course of his short life.

Destino.
Fate.

Perhaps it’s fate, or perhaps the world is just a weird place, one where predicting the next day is as difficult as predicting the weather. Either way, he’s determined to suck as much enjoyment out of life as he can, for he knows tomorrow isn’t guaranteed for anyone. Especially for an illegal on the RUSA Most Wanted List like him.

Contemplating life’s little mysteries is slowing him down, so he grits his teeth and tries not to think of anything but his work as he picks up the third weapon, the barrel and stock cool against his hands, which are beginning to sweat. One at a time, he pats his palms dry on his pants before reaching in his pocket for more ABC gum.

He jumps half out of his skin when the lights flash on, blazing with stark white illumination. He loses his grip on the gun, which clatters to the floor. When he turns, he’s staring at the blue tip of a stun gun, which is crackling with electric energy.

“
Mierda
,” Gonzo says.

“Yes,” Jarrod agrees. “You’re in plenty of
mierda
.”

Blue lightning streaks from the gun and Gonzo feels his entire body convulse before he falls to the ground and everything goes black.

T
he voices fade in and out, like a malfunctioning speaker. Sometimes the words are so loud it’s like they’re being shoved into the Destroyer’s ears—“WE NEED TO SEDATE HIM!”—while other times it’s as if they’re whispered from a great distance, muffled and barely audible—“
He’s pretty banged up, is there really anything we can do?
”

Periods of numbness, where he can’t seem to feel his arms or legs or anything, trade off with moments of excruciating pain, where he’s acutely aware of every single human cell left in his body, each of which feel as if they’re on fire.

“His robotics systems are half-fried,” one of the voices says. He’s numb now, and his hearing is relatively normal, save for a strange echo in his ears.

“I think I can repair most of the damage to his brain, although I might have to replace portions with polymer tubing. Are the latent systems repairable?”

“I won’t be sure until I try. Why are we doing this again?”

“As a favor to our mutual friend.”

“I’m assuming you use ‘friend’ sarcastically?”

“You assume right. For me, it’s better just to cooperate. He’s the most powerful man in the country.”

“But you saw the video, right? This cyborg has more than a few screws loose, and I’m not just talking about physically. Who knows how much blood he’ll spill next? That will be on our hands.”

“And yet, it’s better than the alternative, don’t you think?”

“I guess.”

The words fade again and the Destroyer feels himself slipping away. The blackness turns to fuzz, like an interrupted signal on a holo-screen. He doesn’t feel like he’s anything anymore, almost as if he doesn’t exist. Not dead. Not alive. Not human. Not robot. None of the labels apply to him.

The words come a moment before the pain: “Making initial incision.”

ShockShockPainPainStabStabStabStab!

The Destroyer feels his teeth chattering against each other so violently he’s afraid they might break to pieces. The voices are shouting now, something about the sedative being ineffective and strapping him down, but they are nothing but meaningless words compared to the intensity of the daggers in his head, radiating through him in agonizing waves.

~~~

When Destiny startles awake, she’s covered in a thin layer of snow that’s managed to leach through the strips of cardboard she used to shelter herself. She hadn’t planned to doze off, and in doing so greatly increased the chances of her being caught by a Crow or Hunter. Waking up on this particular white morning, she’s literally lucky to be alive.

She knows she can’t make that mistake again, not if she’s going to carry out her mission to kill the Destroyer.

Peeking out from her makeshift shelter, she realizes what caused her to awaken. The manhole cover clanks back into place, muscled by one of the men she saw entering the Destroyer’s lair last night. What was he doing in there? And where is the other dude? Did he already leave, while she was sleeping?

For her, the weirdest thing is that he looks like a normal guy. Mid-fifties, thinning gray hair, a thick mustache, glasses. Even his mannerisms and the way he walks and moves screams “intellectual!” Not a criminal. Not someone who would be in league with a bloodthirsty cyborg whose system has clearly been stuck on “MURDER” for far too long.

An aut-car races past and pulls up to the curb, and the guy gets in, leaving no trace of him behind.

Destiny knows she has another choice to make. Go in now or continue her surveillance. If she goes in now, her element of surprise might be lost due to the fact that she faces two foes rather than one. But if she waits, she might miss her best opportunity. She’s already proven that maintaining surveillance is at least a two-person job—she needs to sleep, after all.

As cold and hunger gnaws at her, she realizes there is a third choice: leave. Although she knows she could leave and get food and warm up and still
come back
, she’s afraid her nerve will be gone. She can’t let that happen, not when the lives of those she cares about might depend on the choices she makes here and now.

For now, she decides to suffer the elements, relocating to a more secure position behind a Dumpster, piling trash around her to mask her presence. While she watches the manhole cover from a distance, she nibbles on a cold, hard piece of bread and slurps down slushy snow that she melts in her mouth.

The day is long and fruitless, the street deserted. The only vehicles that pass are Crow cars, their blue lights flashing. Something has happened, she realizes. This isn’t normal. The streets should be bustling with activity. A few times she catches eyes peeking from windows, the accompanying faces shrouded in shadow from curtains drawn tight.

The city has been locked down. No one is going to work. No one is out shopping. Everyone is holed up and waiting. For what?

Just when the day begins to darken and her eyes start to burn with exhaustion and boredom, a man passes her Dumpster on foot. She immediately recognizes him—the man who left through the manhole cover earlier. He’s carrying two heavy-looking bags, one in each arm. His eyes dart to and fro suspiciously as he paces swiftly to the entrance to the Destroyer’s lair.

Although he’s reluctant to do so, he’s forced to place the bags on the ground in order to gain entrance to the underground prison. Once the cover is removed, Destiny hears a voice echo up from the depths, and the guy drops the bags into the hole. He follows after them, replacing the manhole cover behind him.

Destiny is more puzzled than ever. Are they just homeless people who stumbled upon a relatively warm and protected space to squat in? That, of course, would mean that the Destroyer, after making the video of him defiling Corrigan Mars’s body, moved on, leaving his lair. However, based on the two guys’ clothing, she wouldn’t peg them as homeless, or even poor.

Another possibility hits her, zinging excited energy through her cold, aching bones. The Destroyer is injured, maybe badly. The more and more she considers the facts, the more it makes sense. Although he seemed battered in the holo-news video, he didn’t seem terribly injured. He even had the strength to saw through flesh, muscle, and bone to decapitate his old boss. But maybe he was just acting tough for the sake of his video, not wanting to look weak.

Maybe he’s actually far worse off from the injuries inflicted by her and Harrison. If so, the two guys could be trying to patch him back together. The bags the guy was carrying could be medical supplies. Even if the two guys didn’t have the look of criminals, that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t be willing to help out a psychopath in order to add a few thousand bucks to their LifeCards.

If that’s the case, now is the time for her to act, before the Destroyer is back on his feet. But if she’s wrong…

She doesn’t think about the alternative, or she knows she’ll walk away. And she can’t walk away because then she’ll have no purpose left, and the darkness will pour in and surround her, taking her breath and squeezing her heart and…

The smoke is in her mouth, choking her. The sightless eyes stare at her from their lifeless corpses. The coppery tang of blood is nauseating. She did this, she did this, her fault her fault her—

Destiny gulps at the air, trying to breathe even though it feels as if a heavy weight is pressing down on her chest. She blinks furiously, willing the images away, pushing the horrible memories back into an impenetrable safe, which she locks with a key and a numerical code and a retinal scanner.

Her jaw locked, she fights off the tears that threaten to drown her, and she stands up, letting the brittle cardboard fall away around her feet. She ignores her stiff joints and her pounding heart and the blood rushing in her head.

And she focuses on her target: the manhole cover, her eyes lasering into it with every ounce of intensity she can muster. She walks straight for it, drawing her knife from her waistband with trembling fingers.

T
he new “safe” house is the polar opposite of the last one. Benson sits on a dusty old couch in a dusty old room in a dusty old residential neighborhood.

Somewhere above him, Simon stomps around letting loose a string of imaginative curses. Of course, with each stomp, dust cascades from cracks in the ceiling, making Benson cough.

The news Minda told them when they arrived at the hideout has cast an awful pallor on Harrison’s heroic actions leading to their stunning victory and escape.

“The other cars didn’t make it to their destinations,” she’d told them, and at first the words didn’t make sense. Until they did, in an awful moment of realization and horror. They were dead. They were all dead.

Simon took it the hardest—is still taking it the hardest—because some of those people were the very ones who had saved his life, bringing him back from the brink and miraculously healing his grievous injuries.

Benson doesn’t feel much better about the whole thing. As he closes his eyes against the dust onslaught, he wonders how many more will have to die in order for them to carry out their mission. “How much sacrifice is too much to make a cause not worth the trouble?” he asks aloud, tasting dry dust on his lips.

Harrison looks up from where his stare was previously locked on the floor. His arm is still around Janice, comforting her. She liked everyone in the Lab, and had quickly become a favorite amongst the rebels. She’s been crying for a while now, although it seems she may have fallen asleep, for which Benson is glad. “Are you really asking?” Harrison says.

Benson shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to say it aloud.”

“Do you want an answer?”

“I already know the answer.”

“Good, because I don’t.”

Benson knows his brother is either lying or in denial, because more than anyone, Harrison seems to realize the value of sacrifice. So he doesn’t tell him what he already knows: There is
NO
sacrifice too great when you’re fighting for equality and human rights.

Finally, thankfully, Simon’s stomping ceases, and Benson can just make out a hushed conversation between him and Minda. She’s a good leader, smart enough to know that Simon will be crucial to their mission. If she can help him get his head straight, it could mean the difference between success and failure.

Janice jerks awake with a small cry. “They killed him, they killed my boy!” she shouts, her eyes wide and white.

Harrison squeezes her tighter and says, “Shhh. It’s okay. It was just a dream.” He’s so calm considering what they’ve been through, and Benson can’t help but admire him for it. Benson, on the other hand, feels wired awake, like he might never sleep again, like he could run a hundred laps around the block and not feel tired.

Janice says, “My son,” her eyes drifting closed. But then they flash open again, her gaze skirting the room until they find Benson. “I thought my dream was real and you were my dream.”

“It wasn’t,” Benson says. “I’m not.”

“Then you promise you won’t leave me again?”

“Mom, I won’t,” Benson says.

“You always were a good boy. Both of you.”

Harrison seems uncomfortable by the compliment, his toe tapping rapidly on the wooden floorboards.

Janice turns to Harrison and says, “You know, what that Simon fellow said isn’t true. You know that right?”

Although Benson isn’t sure what she means, Harrison seems to get it immediately, letting out a throaty chuckle. “Are you sure about that, Mom?”

She nods vehemently. “You’re not insane, Son. You’re as normal as they come.” With that, she rests her head back on his shoulder and closes her eyes. Barely a few seconds later she’s breathing deeply, fast asleep.

Benson and Harrison look at each other, a thousand feelings passing between them in that single glance. “She’s right,” Benson says. “Although you do seem to analyze risks versus rewards a little differently than I do.”

“I don’t know,” Harrison says, offering a sly smile. “When a crazy person calls you normal, perhaps it’s time to start questioning your sanity.”

“Deep,” Benson says, chuckling. “But I thought no one was allowed to call Mom crazy.”

“No one but us.”

“Why are we different?”

“Because Mom is ours. Because we don’t mean it.”

“We don’t? You wouldn’t say she’s got a few marbles missing?”

Harrison grins. “Missing, but not lost,” he says.

Benson laughs, although as he does, something seems to break inside him. He can’t be laughing. Not when, not when…

Thankfully, Minda chooses that moment to return, gracefully descending the stairs and silencing Benson’s mind.

“Is the big guy going to be okay?” Harrison asks.

Minda nods. “He’ll be fine, although I worry for a few of the walls up there.” The flat, sad expression on her face doesn’t match the humor of her words. “What about you guys? I know it’s been a rough day.”

“The roughest on a sandpaper life,” Benson agrees.

“Poetic,” Harrison comments.

“And it’s exactly why we can’t give up now,” Minda says. There’s a strain in her voice he’s never heard before, reaching her eyes, forming creases in her forehead. She almost sounds desperate. “No one else can do what we can. We’re all that’s left, we have to stay strong, we have to push forward and do everything possible to—”

“Whoa, whoa, hold up there,” Harrison says. “Do you think we’re going to back out
now
?”

Her eyebrows go up and her eyes flick between the two brothers. “Aren’t you?”

“Uhh, no,” Harrison says. Benson shakes his head.

“Oh. I guess I’m used to rebellion being a hard message to sell.”

“Not with us,” Harrison says. “Not anymore. Right, bro?”

Benson’s eyes meet Harrison’s and he’s somewhat surprised at how comfortable it feels. Before, he could barely look at his brother’s face, much less look him in the eyes. “Right,” he says, feeling more confident in the affirmation than he expected to.

“Okay,” Minda says. “Good. We’ll lay low for a few days and then continue as planned.”

“I can’t believe there’s not even a holo-screen in this dump,” Harrison says. “What are we supposed to do for three days? I mean, we could take turns arm wrestling the ape upstairs, but even that will get old after a while.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Minda says. “In the meantime, we can share my holo to keep up to date on what’s going on.”

She flops down onto a beanbag chair, a cloud of dust filling the air. She waves it away with a hand.

Benson stares at a grimy window, wondering how they got to this place. Something feels off about the random inspection and the fact that every single aut-car was pursued, all of them destroyed except for theirs, which also would’ve been if not for Harrison’s actions. “Someone tipped off Pop Con,” Benson says.

In his peripheral vision, he sees Minda’s eyes narrow. “That doesn’t make sense. The assault on the Lab was too weak.”

“Benson was shot. We were all nearly killed. That’s your definition of weak?” Harrison says.

“Actually, yeah,” Minda says. “If they’d truly known we were there and the defenses we had, they’d have come in with a lot more firepower.”

Benson shakes his head. “Although that makes sense, you’re wrong. That’s exactly why someone really smart, really tactical, would come in with only a small portion of their strength. A full-on assault might have failed in the Lab. And then where would Pop Con be? They’d be weakened, unable to mount an effective follow up attack.”

Minda’s eyes grow big as realization hits her. “They wanted to flush us out,” she says.

“Exactly.”

“And we drove right into their trap,” Harrison says.

“Yeah,” Benson says. “They even knew our evacuation plan, that we’d take a number of aut-cars and scatter. They were ready for it. They had multiple units prepared to follow each and every one of us.”

“And hunt us down like stray dogs in the street,” Harrison adds.

“They executed the strategy perfectly,” Benson goes on. “Except for the fact that the one car they most wanted to destroy managed to get lucky and get away.”

“Lucky?” Harrison says, smirking. “Check the video replay—there was no luck involved in what I did.”

For some reason, his brother’s cocky attitude gives Benson comfort right when he needs it. If anyone can help Janice, it will be him.

Minda has already moved on to the next logical question: “Who the hell tipped them off? Only the inner consortium members knew exactly how an evacuation would work.”

Harrison gives her a hard stare. “I guess you have your answer.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head weakly.

“Just saying,” Harrison says.

Her holo-screen is out in an instant. For their benefit, she unlocks the privacy setting so the holo is visible from all sides. She enters the Agriculturist’s Forum:

Private Forum for Agriculturists, by invite only:

Password required: **********

Password accepted, access granted.

ShirleyTemple: Ping.

ShirleyTemple: Ping. Is anyone there?

SamAdams: Sorry, it was hard to find somewhere private to talk. Pop Con is a mad house. Charles Boggs wants heads to roll for whoever made their own Hawk drones shoot each other down.

ShirleyTemple: You have to get out. You’re compromised.

SamAdams: I know that. I’m trying.

ShirleyTemple: No. You don’t understand. It’s worse than that. One of us is a traitor.

SamAdams: ? You mean one of
us
us?

ShirleyTemple: Yes. It’s the only answer that makes sense.

SamAdams: That’s a major accusation. We’ve been working together for years.

ShirleyTemple: I know. But I can’t ignore the evidence.

JoseCuervo: Just catching up. What the HELL are you saying, ShirleyTemple?

ShirleyTemple: ….

JoseCuervo: You think it’s me? I’m the one who started this!

ShirleyTemple: I don’t know what to think. I only know that the key would’ve been destroyed if not for SamAdams, so it can’t be him.

JoseCuervo: Well it’s not me. In fact, I don’t think it’s any of us. I have to believe it’s not.

SamAdams: Hey, where’s BloodyMary?

ShirleyTemple: ….

JoseCuervo: She’s sometimes late…

SamAdams: Not lately. And not this late.

JoseCuervo: Oh no.

“What is BloodyMary’s role?” Benson asks, squinting to try to remember everything Minda’s told him about the inner consortium leadership.

Minda’s eyes are glued to JoseCuervo’s last post, her face ashen. Her response comes out in monotone, almost like a computer, with no human emotion attached to it. “She holds a mid-range government position, gaining her access to both the Saint Louis Mayor and the president’s offices.”

“Do you trust her?” The question comes from Harrison.

“Yes, of course. I mean, why wouldn’t I? She’s been with us from the beginning. We wouldn’t have made it this far without the top-secret information she’s been able to provide. She could’ve shut us down any time along the way. If it was her, why would she betray us now?”

“Maybe she had a change of heart, or got cold feet?” Harrison suggests. Benson’s mind is sifting through the information, trying to make sense of it. Minda’s right that the facts don’t add up to the conclusion they seem to be reaching. His attention goes back to the holo as more words fill the air:

JoseCuervo: I’m going to give her the benefit of the doubt. I’m not saying it wasn’t her, but we don’t know the circumstances. They could have tortured it out of her.

SamAdams: Regardless, we have to abandon this forum. We don’t know who might be watching it now.

JoseCuervo: YOU have to get out NOW.

SamAdams: I know. I’ll try.

JoseCuervo: Good luck.

SamAdams: Thanks. Hope to see you on the other side.

JoseCuervo: Wait. Before we sign off, I have an update on the JD video situation.

SamAdams: You know why it still hasn’t gone out?

ShirleyTemple has logged off.

“Why’d you do that?” Harrison demands. Janice stirs under his arm, and he manages to pull himself free of her to stand up.

“It’s too risky to stay in that forum any longer. If someone’s watching, they might be able to determine our location.” Although her reasoning is hard to argue with, Benson agrees that it’s strange that she’d log off without even telling the other two why she was doing it. And the acronym used—JD—seems so familiar.

“What were they talking about when you left?” Benson asks. “What’s the JD video?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” Minda says quickly.

Which, of course, only concerns Benson more. “You don’t trust
us
? I know you feel betrayed by someone, maybe this BloodyMary woman, but we’re on the Most Wanted List. I’d think you’d trust us enough not to keep any secrets.”