Chapter 15
Eames gapes at me.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Did you call Hannah Vale just to piss her off?”
“No,” I reply. “I called a terrorist to piss her off, make sure she knows her radios aren’t secure, and lure at least one of them down to the pool in ten minutes.” My grin widens. “I’m a multitasker.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why are you trying to lure Vale down to the pool?”
“Are we going to push her in?” asks Edgar.
“Edgar, you’re like the robot equivalent of a cat,” I say.
“I don’t always have to push stuff off of other stuff.
” I take a breath and look at Eames, who is frowning.
Hearing one half of my conversations with Edgar is probably confusing.
“I’m trying to keep them separated. Now that they no longer have a secure line of communication, they’re either going to have to meet up in person, or… ”
Comprehension flashes across Eames’s face. “Take down the jammers.”
I nod. “Yup. So either they are massively slowed down and unable to coordinate or we get a link back to the outside world. Either way, it’s a win for us.” I shrug. “It’s like speed chess. You keep your enemy off-balance so they don’t have time to form their strategy.”
So long as Vale is scrambling to keep up, she can’t find Project Persephone.
Eames shakes his head. “I always sucked at chess. My dad taught me poker.”
“Well, you better hope this works,” I say, “because honestly this is one big bluff.”
“So what are we going to do once one of them goes down to the pool?” asks Eames. His skepticism has melted into curiosity.
I take a deep breath. “How do you feel about traps?”
To my surprise, Eames smiles.
The apartment lobby is still and silent.
The sun’s angle shifts westward, casting long shadows across the marble floor.
Only the lapping of the pool and the reflection of sunlight on water betray any sign of movement.
A faint thumping comes from the security office—the sound of a tied-up computer hacker trying to free himself and failing.
All in all, the lobby is creepy as hell.
Exactly how I want it.
For a few minutes, everything is quiet. And then, a shadow detaches itself from the stairwell. The figure is dressed in dark colors, moving swiftly from the stairs to beside one of the potted plants. Then they dart to the next plant.
They’re acting like prey.
That casts me in the role of hunter.
As a shaft of sunlight hits the figure, I recognize her.
It’s Carla, Our Lady of the Jammers. Her monocle visor glitters as she scans the lobby.
She pauses by one of the large potted succulents, kneeling in a way that makes me think she’s carrying a gun.
Her arms are straight, holding something pointed at the floor.
Let her look. She’ll never find me.
I’m watching her through Edgar’s eyes—and he is perched on the back of a pool chair.
A crackle of radio static makes her jerk in surprise.
“Carla.” My voice filters through the radio’s speaker. The sound echoes oddly against the marble and the pool water.
“Carla,” I say again. And then, because it’s the creepiest thing I can think of, “I see you.”
Carla stiffens. Her head moves back and forth, scanning the lobby.
“Over here,” I say helpfully, and her gaze zeroes in on the place where I put Anasova’s radio. Where my voice is coming from.
On Matthew’s dead body.
I can tell she doesn’t want to look at it. Her jaw tightens. “Come out where I can see you, coward,” she says.
“Nope. Not negotiating unless it’s on the dead guy’s radio.” I need to lure her closer.
Carla winces. Her lips press into a line as she gazes at the corpse of the security guard.
“Why?” she says.
I let the silence answer for me.
Carla takes a deep breath, then another. She lifts her radio and says, “Hannah?”
Ah—she wants orders. Or backup. Or both.
“Do it,” says Vale. “If something goes wrong, I’ll send Corey.”
A flash of irritation crosses Carla’s face. “Why not send him now?”
“He’s looking for Persephone,” says Vale.
I see how it is.
Vale is testing me. She needs to know what tools her opponent is wielding, how far I will go. If I kill Carla, then Vale will learn what kind of person I am. And if I don’t … she’ll also learn.
Carla’s gaze tracks upward. I can see the thoughts playing out behind her eyes. It would be so easy for a sniper to be sitting on one of those upper floors, rifle perched on the railing.
Her hand goes to her belt. She unclips something small, presses her thumb to a button, and tosses it into the lobby. It looks like a small mechanical ball—and for one heart-stopping moment, I think she just tossed a grenade.
Then smoke begins to pour from it, gushing into the lobby.
A smoke bomb.
She darts out from beside the potted plant, using the smoke as cover. Edgar takes to the air, following her movements. She hurries toward the body. The smoke is thick and dark, and even Edgar’s mechanically enhanced vision struggles to pierce it.
Carla skids to a halt. He lies on his back, hoodie covering his face. She reaches down for the radio I placed on his chest.
And then the dead man sits up and seizes her by the wrists.
Carla’s scream rips through the air.
But it isn’t Matthew that appears when the hoodie falls away—it’s Eames.
This plan is a little deranged, I will admit. Hastily dragging Matthew’s body into the mail room, then using his bloodstained hoodie to cover Eames with, and luring Carla over to the “body.” It sounds kind of sociopathic when you frame it like that. It was a risk—but desperate times and all.
That scream slices through the lobby, echoing from the walls and warbling back in a ghostly wail.
I flick my fingers, switching my view away from Edgar’s. Then I tear open the door to the mail room and run into the lobby, pepper spray in hand.
Through the thick smoke, I can just make out the struggle.
Carla is startled for only a heartbeat. Eames grips her right arm—the one holding the gun—and brings her down over his own knee, slamming joint against joint.
I recognize the maneuver as a disarming technique. Prefect never let me take combat classes, saying he would train me once I turned eighteen. But he did enroll me in basic self-defense. The gun skitters across the marble.
I’ve really had enough of guns today.
I lunge for the weapon. My fingers almost close around the metal, but then Carla’s booted foot catches me in the shoulder. Agony flares through my left side. My bad side. Rebuilt bones and resewn muscles scream in pain and my vision whites out for a moment.
The gun is still an arm’s length away. Eames grabs Carla by the jacket, but the woman ducks out of her garment and rolls away. She’s agile and quick, and a far better fighter than myself or Eames.
Two teenagers versus one cyberterrorist.
It’s an unfair fight.
Carla glances around, peering through the smoke until her gaze falls on the gun. She dives for it, finger closing around the trigger.
The world slows.
I see the gun barrel come up. Her finger tightens, her arm tensing as she prepares to fire.
I can’t stop her—I’m barely three feet away. She won’t miss me.
And then Eames is between us.
It’s stupid, it’s so stupid. I open my mouth to yell at him to move, to let the inevitable happen. I’m living on borrowed time, but he has his whole life ahead of him.
I won’t let another innocent boy die because of me.
But then something like panic flashes across Carla’s face. She swings the gun upward, even as her finger squeezes the trigger.
A bullet cuts through the thick smoke.
“Will you—” Carla begins to say, but then Eames crashes into her.
He hits her at the waist, and there is a loud crack as one of her knees crashes into the marble floor. She goes down hard, gun falling from her hand. I snatch it up and lob the gun as hard as I can in the direction of the pool. I hear a distant splash.
When I turn back, I see Eames has wrestled Carla to the floor, half pinning and half sitting on her. “Help me,” he snaps.
I fumble for one of the zip ties in my pocket. The smoke stings my eyes but I manage to tie her wrists and ankles. I really should be thanking Anasova for carrying so many zip ties—they’re quite useful. I make a mental note to buy some next time I’m at a hardware store.
If I survive this.
Eames retreats. He has the look of a spooked horse—breaths heaving and skittish steps. Carla is coughing on the smoke, eyes red-rimmed. “No,” she begins to say, her voice hoarse, but Eames snarls at her.
“Shut up,” he says. “You endangered everyone in this building. You don’t get to talk to me.” He looks at me. “What do we do with her?”
“We’ll put her in the mail room,” I answer. “She can keep Matthew company.”
And maybe being locked in a small room with a corpse will make Carla rethink her career choices.
“Come on,” I say. We have to move quickly. Vale will be sending reinforcements, I’m sure.
Carla tries to speak a third time, her voice still smoke-rough, but Eames says, “So help me I will dump you in the pool if you say another word. Got it?”
Her jaw snaps shut so quickly that I hear her back molars click. I look sharply at Eames, surprised by his vehemence.
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the mail room. “We should—”
But I never get the chance to finish that sentence.
There is a hiss of air and then a stinging pain in my back.
At first I think I’ve been stung by a wasp or a hornet—or maybe even Edgar accidentally jabbed me.
And then I touch something hard and cold.
I yank it free, ignoring the fresh wave of pain as I do so.
In my palm rests a tiny hypodermic needle.
I gape at it for a moment, uncomprehending. Then I remember Carla looking up. As though checking for something.
“Shit,” I breathe.
“What,” Eames begins to say, looking down at the tiny dart. Confusion, alarm, and realization cross his face in quick succession.
I thought myself so clever for setting this little trap. But all the while, Vale set up her own.
There is a second whisper of air. Eames throws himself behind one of the succulents. I follow him, putting the plants between myself and the shooter.
My hands curl into fists. Anger pulses through me, but it’s directed inward. I was so stupid. Always, always assume the enemy is as smart as you are. I underestimated Vale and her crew.
“Shit,” says Eames. His eyes are red from the smoke, his voice hoarse. “Augusta—”
I shake my head. “Don’t worry about me. You weren’t hit?”
He runs his hands over his chest, his arms, his stomach. “I don’t think so.”
“Good.” I lean my head back against the potted plant. I reach down, digging Bud’s radio out of my pocket. I hand it to him. “You take this. Use it to eavesdrop on them, if you can. I’m going to run. Lead the sniper away. You get back to 309.”
I see the moment he understands that I’m not going to be with him. His lips press tight. “No.”
“Don’t argue,” I whisper. “There’s no time.”
“I want to help you,” he says.
I nod. “You did.” The world is fragmenting all around me. I feel wrong: heartbeat slowing, breath sluggish, lips going numb.
“Eames,” I say. “You—you’re a good person. You were brave enough to step between me and a gun. Now you need to be brave enough to leave me here. Think about Piper. You take care of Piper—and the old lady, okay? Promise me you’ll keep them safe.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but I shake my head. There is no time to debate this, and he knows it.
His jaw clenches in frustration but he gives me a nod. “I promise.”
“Thank you.”
I push myself to my feet, putting my silhouette in full view of anyone on the upper floors. Let them chase me. Then I turn and run for the stairs. I have to lead the sniper away from Eames. Even if it kills me. “Edgar, you’re with me.”
This time, I don’t go up. I sprint downward, looping around the corner and heading deeper into the earth.
The basement.
“Augusta?” Edgar’s voice sounds in my ear. “Where are you going?”
“Mainframe,” I pant. I remember Vale saying she would be in the building’s mainframe.
Knight to queen.
The sniper has to follow me. There’s no other choice. He has to assume I’m a deadly threat to his boss.
“You don’t look well,” says Edgar. He flies alongside me, tiny wings buzzing.
“Thanks.” My brain is spinning through everything it knows about dart guns—they can deliver anything from tranquilizers to poisons. I don’t know how long I have, but the harder my heart beats, the faster the drug will spread through my body.
The air cools as I descend into the basement. Dampness clings to the concrete walls. I keep to the shadows, slowing my pace. Emergency lighting glows in lines along the floor. The rumble of the backup generators hums through my bones. I put out a hand to the wall, steadying myself.
The floor wavers beneath me, and at once I’m reminded of the time my family chartered a boat to take us out to sea for fishing. I feel like that now: unsteady and sick to my stomach.
The drug. Whatever it is, it’s taking hold.
“Augusta?” says Edgar. He sounds almost worried.
I swallow. The taste of metal floods my mouth and I have to blink several times to clear my vision.
“Keep my family safe,” I say. “Please.”
It’s a stupid command to give an AI. It’s too open-ended, too widely interpreted. It could mean anything. I expect Edgar to protest or ask for clarification.
“Acknowledged,” he says. And then he zooms into an overhead vent.
And now I am truly alone.
I stagger down the corridor. Everything is swaying, lurching. The floor rises and falls, ocean waves made of concrete and metal.
Steps behind me—the sound of someone running.
Oh, good. I did manage to draw the sniper’s attention.
The mainframe door is only a few steps away. My fingers reach for the doorknob. Cool metal—and then hardness against my knees. Why are my knees on the floor? When did I fall?
My vision goes gray at the edges. I’m at the door but I can’t stand, can’t move, can’t speak.
There is no pain, at least. If this is how I die, then it will be a kinder end than my first.
Nonna. Nonna, Nonna—
A hand on my shoulder. Concrete against my cheek.
Then—
Empty darkness.