Chapter 49
FORTY-NINE
They put a black hood over her head, but she could still hear—and smell—just fine. Washed-out scents unlike Reese and Cal’s, but male all the same. Metal, pepper, waxy sweat.
Soldiers, she thought, and a chain of memory detonated inside her head. Her father’s uniform, spray starch, nylon webbing, the odor of guns hanging on him when he came back from the range. His aftershave, always with the faint tang of sweat. Engine oil and grease on his callused fingers.
Her father on the hospice bed, and the thin line of the EEG. Brain death. He’d fought the cancer hard, but in the end, it hadn’t been enough.
Nothing in her father’s life had ever been enough. Not even his daughter.
Oh, Daddy.
There were at least a dozen of them. She stayed limp, not giving them any reason to manhandle her. They weren’t brutal, simply businesslike, and her arms ached from when she’d struggled, trying to avoid the handcuffs.
At least she wasn’t cuffed behind her back—that would have been worse.
It had taken more than three of them to overpower her. Even if she wasn’t as strong as Reese, there was something to be said for pure desperation.
Metal grating echoed against their boots; she was being carried like a sack of potatoes. They were all nervous, a high rasping edge scraping against her own tenuous calm.
Stairs. Her head lolled, slung between two of them. Maybe nobody wanted to fireman-carry her.
Think, Holly. Come on.
The helicopter, hearing military jargon yelled back and forth over the thrum of rotors. Thin copper thread of blood—she’d scratched and kicked, so one of them had hit her with something that felt suspiciously like a rifle butt.
It could have broken her neck, she supposed. She was lucky.
Turns, as they moved along a corridor that now echoed like bare cement. Left, right, two rights, a left. She counted them, wishing her head wasn’t spinning so badly. Lost track, restarted. If she got a chance...
What would Dad do? Her father didn’t talk about active duty, so she had to guess. He would have known some trick for when you were captured by the enemy. Be smart, Holl, he would always say. There’s my smart girl.
How proud he’d been when she graduated from community college, cradling her diploma in his worn-down hands. My smart, smart girl.
It was the only time she’d seen him smile in hospice, despite the readily available morphine. He’d probably been just as scared as she was, and tried not to show it. Maybe he hadn’t been cold or uncaring at all.
Just terrified.
Finally a pause, as someone jangled little bits of metal. Soft electronic tones—a keypad, and there was the chuk of a heavy lock thrown.
“Rendition?” One of the soldiers, a light tenor, very young.
“No fun with this one.” Older, with the snap of command. “Just set her down.”
“What is this place?”
“Best not to ask, soldier. Come on, we have to chemwash. Could be biologicals.”
A low, collective groan. She was dropped unceremoniously into what felt like a chair, and the jolt made her teeth click painfully together. The soldiers trooped out, the door closed, and she bent forward, trying to lift her hands high enough to yank the hood free.
It took a little work, since the cuffs at her wrists were connected by a length of chain to the ones at her ankles, but she managed.
Just as she did, there was a soft whoosh—another door opening.
Light stung her eyes—fluorescents, buzzing and hideous.
Tiled walls, a table, and two heavy metal chairs, one occupied by her own sweet self.
A man strode in—no uniform, just a dark suit and maroon tie, sharp-shining shoes and combed-over strings of hair trying to hide a glistening bald patch.
Her hair was full of static, so Holly was shaking her head and trying to blow the strands free when the man laid a by now depressingly familiar manila file folder on the long, polished table.
A reek of cigarette smoke and English Leather cologne, a greasy layer of fried food.
Smelled like a French dip and fries, with ketchup instead of au jus.
Lots of fat, grease, and an acrid note that said he didn’t wash as thoroughly as he could.
Eww. She was hard put to restrain a shudder.
Behind him, a woman. Black turtleneck, black skirt, black blazer, a pair of sensible black flats with grippy soles. Blonde hair scraped back in a tight ponytail, her hazel eyes flat and dead, she moved very economically, gracefully efficient.
She didn’t smell washed-out, though—her scent was blue, like those smelly markers you got in elementary school. The blueberry ones, nothing like real blueberries at all but instantly recognizable.
Huh. The woman smelled, oddly, like Cal.
The real shock came when the man settled himself in the other chair.
The woman stood by the door, arms folded.
She might have been pretty except for her complete lack of expression, a doll’s set stare.
The small gold hoops in her ears, the ruthlessly short but buffed nails and the hair all shouted businesswoman—one who would leave a precisely calculated tip just short of insultingly small.
Nothing would be wrong with the service provided, but a slight lift of a manicured eyebrow would tell you that she had judged your effort and found it wanting.
You would have to look a little closer to catch a flash behind that flat gaze, the subtle tension that shouted hurt.
She’s like Reese. Like me. What did they do to her?
“Ms. Candless.” The man with the fried-food aftershave had obviously decided it was time to pontificate. “You’ve had an exciting week.”
Holly’s stomach lurched. I know that voice.
The last time she’d heard it, she’d been drugged out of her mind.
* * *
It probably wasn’t the best idea to start talking, but she couldn’t help herself. “It was you.” I sound like I’ve been punched. “You told them to kill me in my own house.”
His pitted face—if he ate French dip enough to reek like he did, no wonder he had bad skin—pursed up like she’d made an embarrassing bodily noise. “The situation was... complex.”
Don’t give me that shit. “You told them to murder me.”
“Well, they died for it. Did Agent Six kill them, or did you?”
Holly opened her mouth to tell him she’d been too busy trying to stay conscious enough to breathe, but recognized the trap just in time. Agent Six. That must be Reese. She pursed her lips instead, just like his prissy little frown, and simply glared.
That made him even more sour, if that were possible. Really, he smelled awful. “You also gave our seizure team quite a bit of trouble.”
They shot Reese with something. Neither of us smelled them—they were covered in something weird. Was Reese even still alive? Even if he was, Holly was on her own.
Could the other woman smell her, too? Would being infected make Holly more valuable? Should she tell them?
“Let’s move on,” the man said. “You’ve become very much a liability, Ms. Candless. You are now property of the United States government, and we expect your full cooperation.”
Is that the royal we? Holly glanced at the woman by the door, who hadn’t moved. The blonde was barely even breathing; her forehead glimmered a little under the assault of fluorescents. Her skin looked polished, it was so flawless. Not a divot, nary an old zit or a rough patch.
Bitch. Holly sagged in the metal chair. She couldn’t even pretend this was a bad dream. It was too real, right down to the scrapes and a splatter of dried blood on the back of the man’s hairy hand as he picked up the file, tapping it against the table as if to straighten the contents.
Holly found her voice again. “Whose blood is that?” If it’s Reese’s... no, it can’t be. It just can’t.
He frowned a little, muddy-brown eyes narrowing. It was the woman who spoke, instead. Contralto, very flat, somewhat breathy... and terribly, horribly familiar as well.
“Sloppy, sir.” She didn’t move, and the glowing sheen on her forehead had to be sweat.
It was the woman who had called Holly collateral.
Everything in the room slowed down, nightmare-style. Even the air thickened, and a spike of pain went through Holly’s temples, adding to the growling in her stomach and the nipping, irritating muscle aches.
Something was about to happen.
The man didn’t notice. He merely looked at the back of his hand with that same small frown, like there was a tiny, interesting insect crawling there. Then he sighed and tapped the file one more time. “Three, I think this loose end needs to be tied up.”
“It does, sir.” The woman’s tone was just as flat, and she moved so fast she almost blurred. The spike inside Holly’s head gave one last twist.
Fresh blood spattered across the tabletop and the manila file.