Chapter 9
I have to leave Nonna’s apartment.
Well, first I use the bathroom. The last thing I need is to be distracted at a high-stakes moment. And then I make for the door.
When I pass through the living room, I see Eames sitting on the love seat beside Piper. Her face is pressed into his shoulder and he’s murmuring quiet reassurances.
They’re both terrified, even if Eames hides it well. Their fear sharpens my own determination—I won’t let anything happen to them.
As my fingers alight on the doorknob, I hear a familiar voice. “Are you sure you should be doing this?”
I glance over my shoulder. Nonna stands a few feet away, her arms crossed. “Doing what?”
“Going out there,” says Nonna quietly. “The smart thing would be to wait for the authorities.”
I give her a rueful smile. “Would you believe me if I said this wasn’t the worst situation I’ve ever been in?”
Nonna’s gaze skims over me and I realize belatedly that I’ve allowed the left sleeve of my arm to ride up. One of my scars peeks through. I tug down my sleeve.
A frown crosses Nonna’s face—but it’s mostly concern.
“Who are you?” she says.
The question stings. Even if it is meant rhetorically, it still hurts. Because the truth is, she doesn’t know me. She knew the girl that once dwelled within my bones. A girl who looked at the world as something to conquer, something to enjoy, something that could be hers.
I’m not that girl.
Not anymore.
“Lock the door behind me,” I say, and slip outside.
And then I stand in a shadow-drenched hallway. Red illumination softly pulses from the emergency lights.
I am afraid. Or at least my body is. There’s that sharp tingle of adrenaline in my arms and legs, the way my vision narrows.
My mind, on the other hand, is racing. I am a knight on the chessboard, behind enemy lines. This isn’t safe. I am not safe.
But “safe” isn’t where Augusta Pine thrives.
A buzz draws my attention and I look up sharply. A bee clings to the grate of an overhead vent.
Relief lurches through me. “Edgar,” I say.
The bee shifts his wings, but my earpiece remains silent. The jammers, I think, with a flash of irritation.
I grimace and slide a finger along my ringware.
It takes a few moments for me to fix our audio connection.
I can’t rely on the internet or cellular, so I set up a short-range signal between us.
It’s not secure, but it’s better than nothing.
It’ll also allow me to control my visor with my ringware again.
“—hear me now?” Edgar’s voice is too loud in my ear.
I flinch. “Yeah, I hear you. Edgar, stop yelling. Listen, you’re on short range only. Which means I’m only going to hear you if you’re within thirty feet.”
“Acknowledged.” Edgar flies down from the ceiling and settles on my fingers. He looks as adorable as ever—a bumblebee with huge eyes and a fuzzy body. He regards me for a moment. “Orders?”
Of course he would want orders. Because this is exactly what Edgar was built for: high-stakes surveillance, going places no human can, collecting valuable information.
I need a few moments to collect my thoughts. “Just … give me a second.”
He does. For exactly one second. Then—
“Orders?”
I sigh. “Tell me about the intruders.”
Edgar flutters his wings. “There are six. I took the liberty of recording their faces for you.”
I blink in surprise. AIs aren’t known for anticipating needs beyond their original programming; I was planning to write a macro into Edgar’s code so that he would do this very thing. But after working together for three years, he has begun to anticipate my needs.
“This is how the robot uprising begins,” I say. “When you and your AI brethren rule over us, please remember me fondly.”
Edgar seems to consider. “Humor?”
“Humor,” I say. “I hope. Are there any intruders on this floor?”
“No,” he says. “Two in the basement. Two on the main floor. And one on the roof.”
“Probably setting up those jammers,” I murmur to myself. “All right. All right.” I bounce on the balls of my feet, hoping the movement will kick-start my brain. “Let’s see who I’m working with,” I say. Five holographic faces appear in midair, projected into my vision by the visor.
The first is Goldie Glocks, aka Hannah Vale. She looks like a beauty pageant contestant instead of a cyberterrorist. She isn’t tall, but she carries herself with unmistakable confidence.
The second is the burly, towering man. He has a visible golfer’s tan peeking out from under his dark short-sleeved shirt. “Who’s that?” I ask. Normally, I could run his face through my facial recognition software, but without the internet, I have to rely on my own wits. And my spybot.
“I heard someone call him Corey,” answers Edgar. “The other man is called Bud.” A new picture flashes up to replace the last one. This man has shoulder-length hair, long limbs, and the pale countenance of someone who only sees sunlight under duress.
“And the next one?”
“That is Carla,” says Edgar, and the picture changes to show a Black woman kneeling beside a backpack.
Her hair is in two-strand twists and she has a smart-ring on every finger.
In the photo, she is unloading several small items. The jammers, I realize.
A second woman is helping her—the one with bright red-orange hair, light skin, and the compact build of a gymnast. She still has a golf bag slung over one shoulder. “I did not catch her name,” says Edgar.
“Five,” I say quietly. “A five-person crew. One leader, one brought to you by steroids, one that’ll burst into flame if the sun hits him wrong, one tech expert, one who’s definitely not here to golf, and…” I frown. “Wait, you said six. Where’s the sixth?”
Edgar’s wings flutter. “I did not get their picture. They weren’t in the lobby.”
I frown. “Then how do you know there’s a sixth terrorist?”
“Because,” says Edgar, “I overheard the others speaking about it. From the sound of things, they were sent in before Vale.”
A chill goes through me. “So someone arrives early this morning,” I say quietly, “to prepare the way. Maybe they were even the one to implement the hack, to have it ready.”
“That is logical,” Edgar agrees.
Six terrorists. And one of me.
“We’re going to the main floor,” I say. “I need you to stay overhead and warn me if you see anyone.”
“Acknowledged.” Edgar flutters toward the stairs.
The hallway floor is linoleum, scuffed by shoes and gleaming with red emergency lights. Those lights are supposed to guide people toward safety … and there is some irony in the fact I’m following them into danger. I take the stairs two at a time until I’m on the first floor.
Nerves squirm through my stomach as I step into the lobby.
The pool laps quietly, water eddying around some invisible filter.
I lower myself to a crouch, shuffling from shadow to shadow.
The garden of potted succulents provides cover.
I feel a little like a lizard, darting from rock to rock and hoping no hawks will spot me.
As I creep toward the security office, I hear voices. I lean around one of the plants and flick my fingers to zoom in.
There are two people in the office. One of them is a man—pale, with his long hair pulled into a bun.
Bud. Standing at the door is the woman with the red-orange hair.
It’s smart-dye; it has to be. I recognize the light sheen that accompanies the color.
She has several white bracelets loosely looped around each wrist and her golf bag rests against the doorframe.
“You done in there yet?” asks the woman.
Bud waves one hand. “Genius takes time, Anasova.”
At least I have a name for her now.
“Genius is going to get himself shot the moment SWAT arrives,” says Anasova. “This office has far too many windows. One sniper and—” She curls her hand into a mock-gun and pulls an invisible trigger.
“Come on,” says Bud. “No one’s coming. Not yet.
” He continues typing. “All right, I’ve routed all outside security cameras to the basement mainframe.
” He speaks with the air of a pianist showing off a particularly complicated bit of music.
His fingers are a graceful blur across the mechanical keyboard.
“Downloaded all the resident info. And…” He hits a button, then leans back in the squeaky office chair.
“If anyone tries to tamper with their doors or windows, we’ll get an alert. Admit it, you’re impressed.”
Anasova does not look impressed. “You better know what you’re doing. If you accidentally cut power to those generators, we lose everything. Including the fire-suppression system. If that goes, we lose our only real leverage.”
“I still say we should just start backing up people’s toilets,” says Bud. “Much more cruel than just suffocating them.”
Anasova makes a sharp gesture—a conductor silencing an orchestra. “I need to set up on the roof. You finish up your computer stuff, then meet Vale in the basement.”
“You’re not my boss,” says Bud. “Sign my paychecks, then you can give me orders.”
Anasova makes another disgusted sound. Then she picks up her golf bag and walks out of the office. She steps over the security guy’s corpse without giving him a second glance.
She has to pass by me to reach the stairs. As she approaches, I realize that she isn’t wearing white bracelets as I assumed. They’re plastic zip ties, loosely dangling from her wrists, just waiting to be used on a hostage.
I squeeze my eyes shut—a childish impulse. If I can’t see her, she can’t see me. Let her not see me, let her just walk on by and not notice me—
Her footsteps grow louder.
I draw in a breath and hold it. I will myself to stillness and silence, to become as invisible as a real wraith.
And then Anasova passes me. She doesn’t glance my way as she strides up the stairs. I watch as she vanishes.
From the security office comes a loud sigh. “Thank you, Bud,” says Bud, in a breathy imitation of Anasova. “You’re a genius, Bud. You gave up a million-dollar career in cybersecurity, Bud, and we appreciate it.” He bends over the computer and continues to type, his attention absorbed.
I touch a finger to my ringware. Then I create a new text file and save it in my visor. I’ll leave Prefect all the information I can find. If I die, at least he’ll have a lead on the killers.
Morbid? A little. But also proactively morbid.
Six deadly criminals.
One teenage hacker.
It’s time to even those odds.