Tuesday Afternoon: Present
Getting into position around the rental almost takes longer than planning our attack. We split up and have to cut a wide swath through the woods surrounding the house so we remain unseen. In person, the house is larger than I expected, a modern, log-cabin style with lots of expensive cars parked in the driveway. Several camp vehicles are present, mostly trucks for transporting Malone’s brain-destroying equipment as well as his prisoners.
Smoke rises from a chimney, and when the wind blows in my direction, the scent is wonderful. Taking up my position on a snow-covered hill on the north side, I decide that when this is all over, I’m going to try skiing. If for no other reason than because I want to hole up in a ski lodge, drinking hot chocolate and snuggling with Kyle.
It’s a relentlessly optimistic thought given the task ahead of me.
I adjust the rifle’s scope, trying to see into the building through it, but the drapes are closed. I imagine it’s warm, dry and comfortable inside. Meanwhile, the cold, wet ground seeps through my clothes.
I hate the cold. I hate Malone. I hate what he’s making me do. Then I push the thoughts aside, shut off my awareness of the temperature and bury the emotions. HY1-Seven has no use for any of those things.
“I’m in position,” I tell Summer.
“Copy. I’m switching over the data feed to our cameras.”
The woods are beautifully peaceful as we wait for confirmation from Summer that the transfer was successful. When the wind dies down, everything is serene, and a rich scent of decaying leaves and scattered evergreen needles mingles with the smoke. I strain my ears for the telltale hum of an approaching AAD, but I hear only a gentle rustle in the trees. There’s a good chance I’m too far away to detect it, and I remind myself that if that’s true, I should also be far enough away that it’s unlikely to spot me.
“We’re good to go,” Summer tells us at last, and I smile. “Ladies, they are heading your way.”
Summer keeps us posted on the AADs’ approach. I hold my breathing steady, my senses on alert.
“Confirmed,” Jordan says in my ear. “I have visual on mine.”
“Soph, it looks like you should be getting the same soon,” Summer tells me. “It’s approaching from ten o’clock.”
I bite my lip, staring through the scope in that direction. There, I see it, a sliver of metal weaving through the barren branches. It’s about a hundred meters away—a simple shot for me if it weren’t for the tree trunks blocking my path or the fact that it’s a moving target.
In the distance, I hear a slight pop, and a moment later, Jordan’s voice. “Got it.”
I clench my jaw. It’s up to me now to do the same, but the damn AAD isn’t giving me a clear shot, and the wind is picking up again. In my head I recalculate and adjust for the new conditions, silently goading the thing into moving a couple more feet to the west. That’s my best opening if it points its camera in my direction.
Come on, damn it. As though it hears me, the AAD flies around the next tree, but its eye stubbornly faces away. Frustration claws up my throat. Apparently, impatience is the emotion that’s hardest for me to suppress.
Then, just as I fear I’m going to lose my chance, the AAD spins in place. It moves slowly, but compensating for the motion makes the shot extra tricky. I cringe as my finger presses on the trigger. The time it takes the bullet to strike feels like an eternity.
My shot is so perfect I can’t believe I made it, and I grin. If only Fitzpatrick could have seen that. The eye shatters, and the AAD drops to the ground, internal circuitry fried. Letting out a breath, I lower the rifle. “I got it.”
“Nice shooting,” Gabe says. “Now onto the hard part.”
Funny. I thought that was the hard part.
I don’t bother breaking down the rifle, which has become useless to me. From my pocket, I pull out a data pad. A third the size of a standard e-sheet, the screen fits comfortably in my hand but doesn’t show much. It’s only helpful in conjunction with the information Summer relays into my ear.
Our approach is slow, with Jordan, Gabe, Octavia and me each coming in from a different angle. The barren trees don’t provide much cover, and with the CYs on patrol and lookouts within the house, I have to dart side to side to stay hidden almost as much as I move forward. At one point, I hear a scuffle on the transmitter, and Gabe confirms he’s taken down a security guard who got too curious.
And still we creep in, seemingly unnoticed.
Octavia and Gabe are supposed to be entering from the second floor. Jordan and I take the first, but the ground is sloped, making the first floor raised in the back. On Summer’s all-clear, I hoist myself onto an enormous deck and dash to the glass doors that lead into the house.
The data pad shows me a single heat signature in the room on the other side. Gingerly, I pick the lock and slide the door open an inch. The guard has his back to me, so I slip inside and quietly take him down before he notices what’s happening. I confiscate his gun and radio, then check in.
The others are confirming entry as well, and Summer keeps us posted on guard movements. Like shadows, we slither through the rooms, taking out the security one by one in silence and planting several of Gabe’s IEDs as just-in-case measures. The remainder have been planted around the outside or will be used on the vehicles to prevent anyone’s escape.
But though we have a few close calls, my tension only heightens with each new room I clear. No one has reported finding Kyle or Cole yet.
Finally, Octavia speaks the words I’m dreading. “We have a problem.”
I charge up the back stairs and join her in one of the spacious guestrooms. She and Gabe have tied up and gagged three techs, and Gabe is in the process of dismantling and destroying their equipment.
“Where are Kyle and Cole?” I ask.
Octavia lowers the gun she had pointed at the door. “They said security took them downstairs about twenty minutes ago.”
“To do what? The equipment is up here.”
“Some of it. Allegedly, more is set up for the demonstration in the meeting room. But they claim they don’t know what’s going on. Malone’s moved up the timetable.”
I curse. “Summer, can you tell us more about where they’re congregating on the first floor?” So far we’ve avoided the biggest room, the goal being to remove as much of security as feasible before taking on Malone and the others.
“I can tell you I’m reading a dozen heat signatures in that room. Two of them are likely CYs. And FYI, you’ve got company moving in on the house. The outdoor CY patrols are closing ranks. One of them might have found a rifle.”
I swallow. “We’re going in.”
“I’ve got your back,” Jordan says in my ear. “Soph, I’ll meet you downstairs. Gabe, Oct, why don’t you try doing something with those CYs outside? We don’t need any surprises getting the jump on us from behind.”
I nod my agreement with Jordan’s suggestion, and the three of us split up. I return downstairs, working my way to the meeting room. The house has a large, open foyer in the center featuring a plush rug and a faux-rustic chandelier. Jordan and I meet in an unused room on the far side.
Across the way, two guards stand outside the dining room door. No stealth will get us to them. They have a clear view of every approaching angle, which means there will be no bursting in on Malone and the others.
Jordan holds up her fingers, and we count down together. On one, we rush the guards. They aren’t expecting us, but their training kicks in immediately. I take the right-hand guard, and Jordan the left. Though they’re RedZone-trained like us and taller, even without surprise on our side, they’re no match.
Unfortunately, not being able to surprise them makes for more noise. As if the sounds of a scuffle weren’t enough to alert Malone to what’s happening, one of the guard’s weapons goes off, and the gunfire punctuates the end of the fight. Glass shatters on the chandelier and rains down on the foyer.
The doors fly open, and the two CYs storm into the foyer. I lunge for the downed guard’s weapon, but whereas a human guard is no match for me physically, I’m no match for a CY. Inhumanly strong hands wrench me from the floor, and the gun goes flying.
Jordan hollers—part war cry, part in distress from the sound of it. The other CY has her. From inside the meeting room, I hear our names being called in painfully familiar voices that are abruptly cut off.
I continue to struggle against the CY’s grip, but it’s futile and I know it. Emotionless HY1-Seven has fled my brain. I’m pure Sophia again, a volatile mix of wrath, horror and disbelief that I’ve come so close only to lose in the end.
The CY rips the transmitter from my ear, carries me into the meeting room and sets me down by the foot of the table. Its grip never loosens. Its control never slackens. Its human face is every bit as much of a lie as I’ve ever been, and in this situation the CY has all the advantage.
Resigned to the inevitable, I quit fighting the CY as Jordan is shoved next to me. Although I can’t get free, I can observe and hope to find a weakness I can exploit.
Six people sit around the long, polished table in the center of the room. I recognize all of them, though some I’ve never met.
Kyle and Cole are the first I home in on. Gags have been stuffed in their mouths, and they sit stiffly, no doubt tied up in ways I can’t see. Kyle appears unharmed, which is obviously no guarantee that he hasn’t been repeatedly stabbed, shot or otherwise tortured already today. But if he has been, someone’s been cleaning up his dried blood each time. Cole, on the other hand, is a mess. His cheeks are scratched, and his left eye is red and swollen. I sincerely hope he did as much damage to whoever hit him. Both of the guys eye Jordan and me with the same expressions of furious despair, ones that reflect exactly what I’m feeling.
The other four people seated at the table display none of the alarm I think they should. They might have gotten the upper hand for the moment, but their cool composure suggests things I don’t like.
Malone sits at the head of the table, a politely disappointed smile on his mousey face. There is nothing new or remarkable in his demeanor, his expensive suit or the cup of tea in front of him.
The other three people, however, are those I’ve only seen in photographs until this point. They are the missing three-quarters of The Four, and I have their aliases and crimes committed to memory along with their faces.
Next to Malone sits Charles Smith, as he’s usually known. His background is hazy. Some intelligence reports place him as a former warlord out of Sierra Leone who made a fortune in arms dealing. Others place him farther south on the continent with ties to the blood-diamond trade. Whichever, he’s come a long way, and he has his hands in both businesses on behalf of The Four. He’s their man in Africa and parts of the Middle East.
Closest to me is Zang Dongsun, frequently known as Donald Chang and a myriad of similar variations. He’s The Four’s primary leader in Asia, and he fulfills a role similar to Malone’s—a lot of research and development in high-tech, illegal weapons. His personal education includes advanced degrees in chemical engineering though, so while Malone’s side focuses on biotech, Zang’s is more often centered on the chemical-weapon side.
Between the two men is Catherine Goulard. The only woman in the quartet, she’s believed to be the financial brains of the entire operation, working out of Paris. According to the CIA’s reports, neither dollar nor euro nor any other currency makes it through The Four’s organization without at some point being touched by her and the vast financial network she oversees.
Witnessing the four of them together is downright mind-boggling. It’s not as though I truly doubted Cole’s intel, but the opportunity presented by their combined presence hits me all over again as I stand in the same room as them. This is the chance to bring down some of the world’s most notorious murderers, arms dealers and all around terrible people at once.
Correction: was the chance. Because we blew it, and soon enough, I expect I’ll simply be another of their casualties.
Along the back wall stand four additional people, each high ranking in The Four’s operations, including Malone’s number two. Like their bosses at the table, they don’t appear especially concerned by our presence.
The only people missing are the clients who Cole thought might have been invited to witness the demonstration, and I should probably be grateful for it. We have enough problems as it is.
Malone folds his hands. “Seven, I was wondering when you’d show up.”
I frown, and my gaze darts to Cole. I don’t believe he’d willingly tell Malone about our plan, but who knows what Malone might do to get the information out of him. It’s the only explanation I can think of unless Malone is playing with my head.
But apparently, I’m not thinking clearly. Malone senses my confusion. “Did you believe that by being here I’ve been cut off from what was happening at the camp? As soon as I received word that the Es had gotten free, I suspected who was behind it. You are as resourceful and clever an operative as we could ever hope to train. That’s a sincere compliment. You continue to impress me with what you’ve done, and conversely, what you haven’t done. Such as lose your memories, I can only assume.”
“I wish I could take credit for it.”
“Oh, I have no doubt you can take credit for much of it.”
I try to shrug, but the CY holds me firm. “If you’re so impressed, does that mean you’re not going to kill me?”
The Four exchange glances, and it’s Malone who answers. “That is the question of the hour. We’ve had some disagreements. I believe it would be a waste of your abilities and the many resources we’ve put into your training. On the other hand, some people have suggested that your training has failed, given that our best attempts to keep you in line are continuously being thwarted.” He cocks his head to the side, still with false good nature. “What do you think? Do you think taking more drastic measures would reduce your rebellious impulses? Same question for you, HY1-Nine.”
“No,” Jordan says before I can respond. “The only way you’ll ever get me to stop fighting you is if you put a bullet in my brain.”
Cole groans through his gag.
“That one is too honest to be a good spy,” Catherine Goulard says with a tinkling laugh.
“Seven?” Malone raises an eyebrow at me, but I simply glare at him.
Charles Smith waves a ring-bedecked hand in dismissal. “Enough with this farce, Malone. Too many of your first hybrid unit have shown themselves to be failures. You claim you can fix them, but this girl does not make your case for you. I say it’s time to cut our losses on them. We can never trust them in the field.”
Malone sighs. “Patience is a virtue.”
“It has been nineteen years, my friend.”
“Which is a lot of R&D time to let go to waste.” Malone’s getting testy.
Dissension in the ranks is good if I can figure out how to use it, but I can’t even figure out how to free myself from the CY. I cast a glance toward the front-facing windows and see only the snow-dusted, manicured evergreens and the stonework path from the driveway. Cut off from Summer, Gabe and Octavia, I feel my chances slipping away.
“Searching for your friends?” Malone asks, and my stomach sinks. “They’re being pursued currently. Don’t expect them to come crashing through the windows and save you. The three CYs on their tail have orders not to kill them, but it’s hardly a fair fight. They could get quite damaged.”
Jordan curses, which makes one of the men in the back laugh.
Malone stands, an effort to regain control of the conversation. “I’m going to let you decide what we do, Seven. I know Six is somewhere nearby feeding you information, and we’ll find her. But if the five of you choose to surrender, we’ll go ahead with the demonstration I had planned right here and now. And you’ll live.”
I want to spit on him, but Malone’s too far away, so I ask the obvious question, which is what he’s waiting for. “And if we don’t surrender?”
“That would be unfortunate. If you choose not to, well, we’re going to go ahead with the plan using you and Nine. The others will suffer the same fate when we track them down, which we will do. And your punishment for not cooperating is going to be Mr. Chen here. See, we’ve gotten everything we need from him at this point. He’s only alive for demonstration purposes. But even he, I don’t believe, can withstand a direct blast to the torso.”
Malone gestures at his number two, and the man forces Kyle out of his seat. My heart freezes. Malone has strapped a small explosive to Kyle’s chest.
“Don’t cooperate,” Malone says, “and the first test of whether the emotion-blunting procedure works will be whether you’re willing to be the person who pushes the detonator on Chen.”
I’m going to be ill. Kyle is shaking his head at me, but I can’t think straight. I have no clue what he’s trying to tell me, and even if I did, does it matter? Malone’s toying with me in the most twisted way I could imagine. Red-hot but helpless rage once more floods my veins.
“Of course, even if you do decide to cooperate,” Malone continues, “it’s obvious to me that we need to make an example out of one of you. And who better to serve that purpose than the person I mistakenly trusted to set the example for you all these years?”
Now Cole is dragged from his chair, wired with the same type of device as Kyle is.
“Your choice, Seven. Which one of them gets to live?”