Chapter 11
I have to get to the roof.
“Edgar,” I whisper. He bobs alongside me as I hurry up the stairs. “Go to Nonna’s apartment. I need you to keep watch. If you see anyone coming to search that floor, come find me. I’m going to the roof.”
“Why?”
“Vale sent Anasova there.” I grimace. “I think I know what’s in that golf bag. And if I’m right, then I have to stop her.”
Edgar’s voice seems to perk up. “Are you going to throw her off the roof?”
I open my mouth to reply no, then hesitate. “I’m leaving my options open.”
“Understood.” Edgar circles my head once and then buzzes away.
Ten flights of stairs later, I am debating whether or not to just let the cyberterrorists have the building.
Finally, I stumble toward a door marked “Roof Access.” There’s another digital lock and I pause for a moment to catch my breath.
I don’t want to explain to Prefect that the terrorists caught me because I was wheezing too loudly.
Then I touch Matthew’s ring to the scanner.
The lock clicks open and a shaft of sunlight pierces the darkness.
I shake out my hands, then slip through the door.
It isn’t a pretty roof: all white gravel, HVAC vents, and solar panels. Rocks crunch as I duck under a panel. It won’t block a bullet, but it helps hide me while my eyes adjust to the brilliant sunlight. At first I see nothing: just several large vents and more panels.
Then I catch sight of someone beside the edge of the roof.
It’s the woman with the brilliant orange hair and the zip ties for bracelets. Anasova. Her golf bag lies beside her, as empty as a deflated balloon.
Anasova is on her stomach, her fingers gently resting on the scope of a sniper rifle. It’s angled downward, the bipod mount balancing in the gravel.
She’s an assassin. Sometimes I hate being right about things.
I should leave. It’s the smart thing to do. I can use Matthew’s ring to lock the door from the inside and block the mainframe’s access to it. Anasova will be trapped on the roof, unable to help her fellow terrorists.
But she’ll still have her rifle. And a clear shot at anyone on the ground.
Like Prefect.
Prefect stands at the intersection of mentor and warden, jailor and teacher, friend and watcher.
Half the time, I can’t even tell if he really likes me.
But he has sat with me on countless stakeouts.
He buys me tea whenever he goes out for coffee.
When I get sick, he makes sure I have time off.
He forces me to do homework programs, insisting that I continue my education. I’m not going to let him get shot.
Taking on Bud was one thing, but Anasova is a different kind of criminal. Looking at her, I feel that apex predator tingle along the back of my neck. She will kill me if given the chance.
I have to be smart about this. I reach down to activate my ringware, then type a command into my visor.
Finally, when I’m sure of my plan, I pick up a small piece of gravel and throw it toward Anasova.
She jerks away from her rifle, one hand unholstering the pistol at her belt. Her gaze sweeps across the rooftop and her mouth tightens with suspicion. Silently, she edges toward the rows of solar panels.
There are only so many places to hide.
She moves with careful, measured steps. Her orange hair—smart-dye, like mine—shines in the sunlight. Any other criminal would have dyed it a more nondescript color. Particularly a sniper. But maybe Anasova is just that cocky.
She approaches, her footsteps nearly silent despite the gravel. Her gaze flicks from panel to panel.
And then she sees me.
Her pupils dilate and her lips part. It’s like watching a cat sight a mouse—all predatory instinct as she brings up the gun and falls to a firing crouch.
The gun goes off four times.
Then she lowers the weapon, clearly expecting to see her target on the ground.
But I have not moved. I kneel there, frozen.
Anasova stares at me in confusion.
Or, rather, the holographic projection of me.
My visor sits beneath the solar panel, dutifully projecting the full-body selfie I took. It’s not a particularly high-tech projection, but it keeps her attention for a few seconds.
Which is why she never sees me coming.
I crash into her with the force of a wrecking ball. I take her down at the waist, one hand scrabbling at her wrists. The gun has to stay pointed away from me. That’s the only thing that matters.
My hand closes around hers, jamming her finger into the trigger. This is why you’re supposed to keep your finger along the barrel until you fire. It prevents misfires like this.
The gun goes off—once, twice, three times. The rounds kick up gravel and dust and everything is a jumble of movement. Luckily, there is a suppressor attached to the barrel to muffle the shots. Otherwise I might have just lost an eardrum.
Anasova’s elbow jabs into my ribs. She’s stronger than I am, but I’m desperate. Adrenaline sets fire to my muscles. I snarl soundlessly at her, slamming her hand into the roof again and again. Her finger hits the trigger. Another misfire. That’s eight shots.
Her 9mm Glock should have ten.
Only two left.
But two is plenty enough to kill a person.
She rears back, her skull cracking into mine. I flinch just in time to save myself from a concussion … but not a broken nose.
I feel the sickening crunch. The pain will come later, but for now, adrenaline and endorphins keep the agony at bay.
Anasova shoves me off her, jerking the gun around. The barrel is a black hole—all-encompassing, growing larger with every fraction of a second. I frantically kick at her. It’s clumsy, but my foot slams into her elbow.
It bends. And not the way an elbow is supposed to bend.
Her scream rips through the air.
The gun falls from her hand, skitters across the roof. I lunge for it, fingers closing around the grip, and then I scramble backward. Anasova crouches a few strides away. She cradles her broken arm, her face blanched with pain.
We’re both injured, but the difference between us is that I know what true agony feels like. I can block out a broken nose, no problem.
Anasova curses as she tries to crawl out from under the panels with her one good arm. I can’t let her escape.
I aim the gun at her. “Don’t move,” I say. The words come out a little wet and mangled.
Anasova freezes. Her gaze flicks from the weapon to my face. She’s weighing me, gauging my reactions. She doesn’t know if I’ll shoot.
I swallow a mouthful of coppery saliva. I desperately wish Prefect was here; he has the kind of quiet authority that can bend a person to his will. Me? I mostly annoy people into submission.
“You’re not going to kill me,” says Anasova. Her gaze is on mine, and she seems utterly certain of herself again.
I’ve been measured and found wanting, it seems.
“I am not going to kill you intentionally,” I agree.
“But considering what a bad shot I am, I could try to take out one of your knees and hit your kidney.” I swallow another mouthful of blood.
It’s disgusting and I choke back the urge to vomit.
That won’t be intimidating. “Now, you’re going to do exactly as I say. ”
“Am I?” she asks.
I nod. “You are. Because it’ll be pretty hard to earn a living as a hired gun if you’re stuck in a hospital with bullet wounds. And I bet your health insurance is pretty bad.”
She bares her teeth. “Either kill me or shut up.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “Now, those zip ties? Time to put them to use.” I hesitate, then dig into the pocket where I stashed a pen. “Wait, before you do that—throw me one of your boots.”