Chapter 7
Sunlight creeping across the floor of my room stirs me awake. Late, I muse as I eye the clock. We are usually up before the sun, but I’ve been permitted to sleep in. Hooray.
At the edge of my bed sits an unfamiliar, thicker outfit.
It is not a gift, but a warning. Our next liaison is an official one—to Detroit, the heart of the MidCountry and the den of the MidCountry Region Leader, Thorne.
Michigan definitely feels the chill, what with Thanksgiving in the rearview.
At my house, Thanksgiving involved a big feast and the mansion’s halls would be festooned with autumnal decorations.
Cider flowing, the scent of pumpkin pie wafting through the halls.
It seems silly, but part of me yearns for it.
I remind myself as much as possible that the life I lived no longer exists.
Not to depress myself into a stupor, but to force myself to be more present.
I’ll never survive into the future if I’m living in the past.
Taylor’s eyelids droop as she sips a massive protein shake in our quiet dining room.
Claire insisted she drink it when Taylor refused a real breakfast, too bashful to admit she’s still inebriated from early this morning.
In fact, she was so drunk she fell asleep on my shoulder in the helicopter on the way back and didn’t make it to her room in the cabin.
She passed out face-first on her couch, fully clothed.
Mason chews in silence, as he does most things, so naturally it’s up to me to point out how hungover my captor is. “How’s that whiskey treating you?” I inquire in bright tones, taking an exaggeratedly large bite of my pancake.
Her eyes burn into mine with as much heat as the poor thing can muster. “I am fine. I still ran.” I tilt my head and she relents. “I threw up halfway.”
“Now who’s the lightweight?”
Without a saucy comeback, she grumbles and resumes slurping her shake with a grimace. Her watch beeps in the specific rhythm I’ve come to associate with a Lady Leather meeting. Taylor groans and forces down the rest of her shake. “Instructions. Everyone.”
“I hope Lady Leather doesn’t sniff out you’ve been out drinking on the job,” I tease as we exit the room. “I don’t think she’d be too pleased.”
Instead of this jab instigating like I think it will, Taylor huffs out something vaguely laugh-like. “To say the least. She is not very fun.”
Mason opens the door to the outside and ushers us ahead of him.
Chuckling at her frankness, I nod my head.
“Fair and decisive, but not very fun. Are you sure you’re not related?
” Taylor glares at me but lacks the energy to back it up as we plod across the frosted grass of early morning, Mason lagging behind.
“Don’t worry, hero, I won’t tell on you.
I can’t risk it, since my wicked charm isn’t working on her yet. ”
Taylor manages a smirk. “No, not yet. But she didn’t kill you.”
“There’s always that.”
Upon reaching Theia’s office, Mason approaches the severe older woman with a friendly handshake. “Helios.” Theia’s voice rises several degrees warmer than I’ve heard thus far. “Are the ladies giving you any trouble?”
“Not any more than usual, ma’am,” he replies, and makes himself comfortable on a leather bonded couch propped near the bookcases.
Theia strides behind her desk and sits as Taylor and I take our seats in tandem.
She notices this with half-hidden amusement.
“Eos says your training went well, Miss Piccolo. She is not prone to hyperbole, so I hope for your sake it is true.” The heavily scrutinizing look on her face leads me to believe she isn’t convinced.
“Now, current intelligence suggests Cornelius Thorne is home for the holidays.”
With a few flicks of her wrist, she summons a keypad from her desk.
After pressing a deliberate series of buttons, a holographic, three-dimensional map materializes in the air between us.
“His compound is a high-security, converted apartment building. He has both COs and local police, Dusters, on staff.”
Theia drones on about Dusters and assault rifles.
I keep my eyes on hers, using a tried-and-true technique I honed with tutors—looking like you’re paying attention while you daydream.
Instead of trying to understand the blueprint suspended in air in front of me, I try to imagine who this woman was twenty years ago.
Younger, hungrier. Did she run the Order then?
I imagine her scouring the woods on a routine patrol, rifle in hand, dressed in thick, olive-green sweaters and wind-deflecting black pants.
Was winter in full bloom? Were the trees glistening with snow and frozen dew?
Did she hear the insistent cry of a newborn?
The primordial scream of the newly entered into this realm?
Did she follow it to the source, only to come upon a blond baby with golden eyes, blue hands reaching upward, toothless gums chattering? Did it hurt her heart? It hurts mine.
“Luciana?” I blink back to attention, for real this time, and Theia raises both eyebrows. “You look distressed.”
On the screen is a projected tally of citizens slaughtered by Cornelius Thorne over the past forty years.
“Papa said Thorne was the biggest bastard in the smallest suit, but I always figured he said that to make himself feel better. Either about being fat or being ruthless, I don’t know, but I guess he wasn’t lying. ”
“Dusters execute their own people for minor infractions. Considering the steep drop in population in the regions following the Great Sickness, you can imagine how ruthless someone would have to be to voluntarily make that number fewer. They answer to no one but Cornelius Thorne, and he cares less about the people in his region than any of the other leaders.” She smirks. “Your father is a saint in comparison.”
Taylor clears her throat. “The compound?”
Theia pauses and bobs her head. “Yes, the compound.” Dusters dissipate and the three-dimensional map pops back up.
“Converted apartment buildings made into one sprawling estate. The outskirts are mostly ruins, an occasional functional warehouse every other block. It should not be too difficult to get near the compound without detection, contingent upon securing an official Duster unit van. Eos uncovered one rather glaring flaw in Thorne’s security.
” Twisting midair, the map zooms in to the side of the building, near an alleyway.
“This alley is not routinely monitored, and the fire escape here leads to a bedroom. The late Mrs. Thorne’s.
Untouched since her death, it is not outfitted with security alarms. The window is your access point. ”
“No Trojan horse? No masked assassin waltzing into a ball? Just climbing in a window. It’s rather pedestrian.”
Theia raises an eyebrow. “Is this not glamorous enough for you, Miss Piccolo?”
“I am accustomed to more panache,” I reply. “Dashing woman in a suit crashing through my expensive skylights, scaring a few years off the lives of a bunch of obsequious drunkards.”
Theia laughs, gently and genuinely, and shoves her hands in her pockets.
I try to smother my surprise with a returning smile.
“I’m afraid the logistics of rebellion are not quite as exciting as that.
Now, once you infiltrate the mansion and eliminate the target, exit the same way you entered.
Helios will be waiting in the alleyway for you with transport.
If you go over the allotted time, he will wait for you at rendezvous point B.
Should that happen, you will have around eight to ten blocks of combatants to fight through. Any questions?”
Taylor sucks in a deep breath and nods her head. “Is he anticipating me?”
“De La Rosa and her operatives have planted information about the next target being Reed, so I imagine security will be thorough, but not more than we accounted for.” A knock on the door interrupts the room. Theia grumbles in disapproval and the map disappears. “Come in.”
A young man walks in and nods deferentially. “Ma’am, there is a messenger here for you from the Southeast. He passed security clearance but we did not want to bring him inside.”
“Quite right. We have had enough strangers in here.” Theia brushes the front of her skirt.
“Very well. Eos, I’ll give you a few minutes to study the plans.
You are to leave tonight at twenty sharp.
Good luck, everyone. I look forward to seeing you all again soon.
” She squeezes Taylor’s shoulder before striding out of the room with the soldier and closing the door behind her.
In my typical busybody fashion, I shuffle to the desk and give it an inspection.
Like Taylor’s place, there’s no personal touch in here.
No photos of a spouse, no family, not even a fish.
Nothing to give it personality. There’s a cup containing pens, a stack of papers neatly filed to the side, a mini laptop, and a carafe of scotch with two tumblers.
I try one of the desk drawers, but they’re locked. Typical.
“Is this what you did before you got to my place?” I ask, peering over at Taylor.
“Yes. The guest list of the party, the names of everyone working for him. How many COs to expect, how many Force members. Drinking habits.”
The lingering homesickness I’ve been nursing has waned, but I find myself asking her, “Can you show me?”
“The file on Leader Piccolo?”
“Yes.”
What aspects of someone’s life are important in planning their death?
Reducing a life of color to black and white, to ones and zeros, to impersonal data.
Also, if there’s information on me, I deserve to see the breadth of it.
In this game of survival, I’m playing at a distinct disadvantage, and that’s no way to win.