Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
It was, Trinity thought, rather instructive to see just how frantic people could become once the window for effective action had passed and they were playing catch-up. There were more efficient ways to catch a rogue operative, certainly.
She had simply decided to follow Bronson’s ill-tempered order and cease informing him of such things.
An interesting quandary: Did one obey the letter or the spirit of an order?
Such a consideration had never been of overriding import, at least not in conscious memory.
Each scenario presented to her before the last forty-eight hours had been clear-cut in the extreme.
Or had she simply not seen the complexities under the surface?
As it was, Bronson placed her in the office, at the smaller, glass-topped desk, and returned with a box of file folders.
“Look through these, start calculating,” was all he said, before retreating to his own desk and getting on the phone to continue requisitioning resources, in between barking sharp orders at Caldwell whenever that unhappy major returned to this buried, windowless nerve center.
It was Caldwell who’d brought more military assets into the equation—wasted effort, since any program agent would know to stay away from any installation.
But Trinity didn’t say a word. Instead, she leafed through Division’s files on the program participants.
At least, the agents who had survived infection and had not been subject to induction. Was her own file somewhere in this box of red-jacketed statistics and numbers?
Perhaps. There was no reason to hurry, though. The longer she could keep Bronson unaware of her current mental state, the better.
And just what is your current mental state?
Six’s file was familiar; she had already calculated the percentages Bronson wanted. He wasn’t even asking for the important ones.
The door banged open, but it was just Caldwell, out of breath.
Bronson settled back in his chair. “Christ, knock next time, will you?”
“It’s Eight,” Caldwell panted, sweat on his forehead turning his blond high-and-tight darker. His fatigues, usually ironed and starched to the picture of perfection, had also suffered.
Trinity’s own clothes needed laundering as well. Bronson seemed to have forgotten her requirements.
“What now?” Bronson reached for the empty box of tissues. “Goddamn it.”
“They bungled the civilian erasure.” Caldwell sought to remain standing straight, his breath coming in huge shuddering gasps. “It’s a mess. We have him, we’re bringing him in, but we had seventy-five percent casualties, and—”
“And?”
“A news copter got there. Civilian LE is onsite. A house fire, but they’ll find shell casings, and—”
“Crap.” Bronson’s right hand twitched, as if longing to make a fist. “You moron. You let the cops get there before cleanup?”
Caldwell straightened, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t appreciate—”
“Never mind. We have resources in place. Dean Thackeray’s plane lands in forty-five minutes. Get out there and bring him up to speed.”
“Thackeray?” Caldwell, suppressing whatever displeasure he felt, now looked like an eager young basset hound just aching to scramble after an interesting smell.
Bronson pinched the bridge of his nose. No doubt his head hurt as well. “Civilian egghead to run the medical tests. What about the grids?”
“Up and running, as well as the sweeps.”
Six isn’t in the city anymore. Trinity closed his file, set it aside. The only thing troubling her was why Six had bothered to return to the woman’s apartment. A drugged civilian could not have taken out two of an Alt-Sec team.
Not without help.
What would make Six behave in this fashion? He had grown adept, it seemed, at hiding his emotional noise. Eight had not, but the civilian entanglement there...
The next file was Eight’s. She opened it carefully, scanned the first page. Paperclipped to the second was a black-and-white photo—the same nose, same tousled blond hair, the same smile, same flat disdain hiding behind his easy expression.
Trinity found herself tracing the line of that jaw, the glossy paper slick under her fingertip. Something about Eight... bothered her.
Bronson and Caldwell were still talking. Pointless jabber, all of it.
What is happening to me? Trinity found her throat dry, again. Her physical senses were sharp as ever, her body functioning at peak, every system running smoothly. It was her head that was the problem. Am I degrading?
If she was, sooner or later Bronson would notice.
There was an eighty percent chance she would be slated for liquidation in that eventuality.
If the agents kept behaving like this, the program would be closed down, loose ends tidied, and there was a fifty percent chance Trinity herself would be seen as surplus to requirements even if she wasn’t degrading.
The longer this went on, the more that particular percentage would tick upward.
How strange. Trinity turned the page. I do not want to die.
Well, then. It was time to plan. And it was high time to start considering everyone else a hostile element.
Especially Bronson.