Authors: Richard Parry
More noises from above, and the sound of splintering wood.
Spencer broke into a jog, double-timing up the steps.
No telling how long those behind him would be held up at the door, and he hated having the enemy at his back.
He came across another scene — three men, stacked in a small pile, with the broken haft of the José Canseco bat pinning all three together like some macabre shish kebab.
He hadn’t heard gunshots this time — Volk was moving to the top of the building, and killing everyone he came across.
Spencer leaned down, checking a personal communicator on the chest of one man.
The radio was set to Spencer’s band.
Damn Volk all to hell.
Their target was going to be on the eighth floor, assuming Morgan had been straight with him about that.
It didn’t much matter either way; everyone in this facility was fair collateral damage.
All he needed was Everard dead, and then he could claim the gift.
He passed the fifth floor marker, and more dead soldiers —
The door to the stair well slammed open, and Spencer was pushed back violently.
Everard!
The man was fast, grabbing Spencer’s rifle and tossing it away.
Spencer dropped into a fighting crouch, pulling a combat knife from his belt.
Everard’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t back off.
“You know what this is, don’t you.”
Spencer waved the knife between them.
“Silver blade.
I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what that feels like.”
Everard didn’t say anything, watching the edge of the knife, his hands clenched.
Spencer would need to be careful here — Everard was strong, and fast, but lacked experience.
No IT programmer in the world could stand up to battlefield experience, no matter what roids they were taking.
Spencer feinted with the blade, and Everard flinched back.
Spencer caught the other man in the groin with the tip of his boot, felt the steel toe go into something soft, and brought his fist around into a teeth-crunching blow to the jaw.
His knife whipped in to cut his throat, finishing the job —
But Everard wasn’t there.
He’d danced back, grabbing the fire extinguisher bolted to the wall.
Everard held the red cylinder in front of him like a shield.
“You’re right.”
Everard spat out a bloody tooth.
“You don’t have to tell me what it feels like.
There’s no words.
But I don’t think you understand.”
“Understand what?”
Spencer moved the knife back and forth, light from the window catching the blade.
He’d had the silver etched into it by a man who did all his work for him — the man hadn’t asked questions, doing what he was asked.
Spencer could see the lines of silver on the blade, almost like writing.
Beautiful, in a way.
Everard swung the cylinder, hard and fast.
It caught Spencer in the shin, and the pain was blinding.
He went down on one knee, but brought the knife in an overhand strike to —
A hand closed around his wrist as Everard caught the swing.
He let the extinguisher fall beside them, then lifted up Spencer with the one hand around his wrist.
Such strength!
They were face to face now, Spencer breathing heavily, Everard not at all.
“You don’t understand — that first hit was free.
We’re not in the same game, you and I.
I’m done playing.”
Everard’s fist caught him in the stomach, and the air rushed out of him.
Spencer felt himself tossed against the stair well wall, bouncing off like a Raggedy Andy doll.
He tried to block, hands in the way as Everard’s kick caught him in the stomach.
He went down on all fours, and felt a hand grab the back of his jacket.
Everard hauled him up again.
“You hurt my friends.
By God, if you’ve hurt that little girl — but no more.”
The man spat out more blood.
“I can’t change what I am, but I can stop you.”
Everard tossed him over the side of the railing, watching as he fell into the darkness at the bottom.
Spencer thought hitting the ground would be the worst, but he was wrong.
Hitting the ground didn’t hurt at all.
But the fall — that lasted a lifetime.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Elsie hurried.
It wasn’t something she was used to; that’s what staff were for.
People like Sam existed to make sure she didn’t have to hurry.
But Sam wasn’t here — God only knew where he was; he hadn’t responded to her call.
She reached the door leading to where the girl was.
She needed to grab Adalia and —
again
— rush.
If Elsie was a judge of character — and that was something she prided herself on — Valentine Everard would be on his way.
That was all part of the plan.
What wasn’t part of the plan was Sam dropping out of contact; he was supposed deal with Adalia while she gathered up Birkita.
Putting on a hazmat suit took precious time, and time was something she didn’t have right now.
Her card opened the locked door, and she opened it to see Adalia on the bed, speaking through the mirror to Birkita.
Her daughter saw her come through the door, and waved.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hello.”
Elsie smiled, but felt it tight and stretched on her face.
“I’m here to get Adalia.
We’re going to come meet you.”
The girl — Adalia — was looking up at her.
“We’re going to meet Scarlett?”
“That’s right.”
Elsie walked shut the door behind her, then walked over to Adalia.
“You haven’t been too worried, have you?”
“At the noises?”
Birkita looked paler than usual.
“I can’t make the cameras outside show me what’s going on.”
“There’s been a bit of a complication.
Some of the staff have…
Well, they’ve resigned.”
“So what’s with the explosions?”
Birkita pulled her wig off, scratching her scalp.
“That’s what they are, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
Elsie never lied to her daughter.
Or rather, she tried not to.
Some things were not worth concerning her with.
Like the late stage of the cancer.
Or how you’re going to make her well again and what the cost will be
.
“There’s some people trying to stop you getting better.”
That much was true, at least.
“Why would they do that?”
Adalia’s forehead was wrinkled in confusion.
“If anyone met Scarlett, they’d want her to get better.”
“Of course they would.
And on that — would you like to go see Birkita?
You must be dying to meet her in person.”
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to have visitors.”
Birkita watched them both through the glass.
“Won’t I get sick?”
Elsie smiled, this time some genuine warmth seeping through.
“Well, that’s why we’re coming to see you.
That very special man I told you about is here.”
“Valentine!”
squealed Adalia.
“He’s here?”
“Mr. Everard is on his way up as we speak.”
Elsie saw Adalia snatch up a damaged toy of some kind.
It might have been a dog or a pony at one stage.
She held it up to the glass.
“See?
I told you it was magic.”
She was grinning with the naive enthusiasm of youth.
Birkita was grinning back.
“You did.
It looks like your wish worked.”
“Wish?”
Elsie looked back and forth between the two of them, Adalia here and Birkita’s image on the screen.
“What did you wish for?”
“Don’t say!”
say Birkita.
“If you say, it won’t come true.”
“It’s ok.”
Adalia was still grinning, happy and ignorant of her future.
“My wish came true.
I wished for Valentine to come and save you, Scarlett.
Birkita, I mean.”
How curious
, thought Elsie.
“You wished for Valentine to save…
To save Birkita?”
“Yes.”
Adalia stroked the toy’s mane.
So — it
was
a horse.
“Because she’s sick.”
“You didn’t wish for someone to come get you?”
Elsie looked down at the girl, so small and fragile on the bed.
“No.”
Adalia got off the bed.
“They’ll come and get me whether I use a wish or not.”
And with that, she headed towards the door.
“Can we go?
I want to see Scarlett!
Maybe she can make a wish on Prancer.”
“Maybe she can.”
Elsie took Adalia’s hand, swiping her card across the door lock.
It clicked green and opened.
They stepped out into the plain corridor.
When she’d had the hospital designed, she wanted no confusion —
no distractions
— from the primary purpose of the facility, which was her daughter’s life.
All things here focussed on that one outcome, and the small staff on premise knew their way around.
It helped that most of the facility was just empty rooms — when her daughter was better, Elsie would repurpose it into something finer, perhaps a school.
“How far is it?”
Adalia didn’t pull away from her hand.
The child was so trusting.
Elsie was sure she’d never been that trusting — it was a mistake you could never recover from.
“Not far.
We’ll go to a room up here, where we’re going to get ready to make Birkita better.
You can wait there as I go get her.”
“Ok.”
Adalia skipped along, her pony in one hand.
Something small and lost inside Elsie tugged at her.
This is wrong, and you know it
.
She crushed the thought, before it could grow into a worm of doubt.
Doubt was worthless — second-guessing yourself made you fall before your weakest enemy.
There was no time for these sorts of concerns, not now and not here, of all times and places.
In a few minutes her daughter would be fighting off the cancer, the virus in her body making her strong, and in a few weeks she would be well.
Elsie would look back on this and know it was all worthwhile.
“It’s just here.”
Elsie tapped her card against the lock of another featureless door, and it swung open to show a stark medical theatre.
A metal chair sat near the door, away from the tall floor to ceiling windows, and a surgical table took up the middle of a room.
The metal chair had a set of drips and bags hooked up to it.
One of her staff was already here; he’d obviously prepared the room.
“You’re alone?”
The man looked up, surgical mask covering his mouth.
It didn’t matter — all the worthy expressions were in the eyes.
“My assistant left with the, ah —”
“Explosions, yes.”
Elsie looked down at Adalia.
“This girl isn’t afraid of those explosions.
I need more like her on staff.”
“Ah hah.
Yes.”
The man’s laugh was forced, and he took a cautious step back.
“Is she..?”
“No.”
Elsie pushed Adalia towards the metal chair.
The girl trotted over and sat down.
“She’s insurance.”
The man looked between Elsie and Adalia.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
Elsie walked to the door, opening it.
She looked back over her shoulder at the man.
“You don’t need to understand.
Prep the chair.”
“Prep…
She’s a little girl!”
The man’s eyes were open wide.
“Oh come now doctor.
You’re on my staff because you’re willing to go to exceptional lengths for science.”
“She’ll die!”
“She’ll do no such thing,” said Elsie.
“That wouldn’t be useful.
But there’s someone coming who may need… extra encouragement.
It must look authentic, Doctor.”
She shut the door without looking back.
The man would do as he was asked — she’d seen it in his eyes.
He’d had the opportunity to sign on to cutting edge research and knew the stakes.
A man like that wouldn’t back away now; he needed to know the answer.
That kind of enthusiasm was a resource to be tapped; such men were largely ignorant of how easily they could be played, of how their moral compass spun, unable to find North, when presented with any kind of academic accolade.