Thirty-Seven #3
of bitterness. But Chane hardly seemed able to recognize the difference between falsity and sincerity.
“Oh, yeah?” Chane turned to Deckard and raised both brows. “Not cool. Was it the KGB lab like last time, do you think?”
Last time? Nadiya was befuddled.
“Difficult to say,” Deckard replied. “But if we get the server back online, we’ll find out.”
“Yeah, right. Of course.” Chane’s gaze was faraway. He put his hand under his chin, in an exaggerated pose of contemplation,
and then said, “I like the team you’ve got. And the mission! It’s cool. You guys are cool. Tell you what—come to the gala
tomorrow, meet the other awesome people there, enjoy the food and drink, and you’ve got a deal. A celebratory send-off for
your mission, yeah? It’s going to be the best night ever.”
“We gave my dog the best night ever right before we put him down,” said Julian.
“Enough,” Deckard cut in.
“Very generous of you,” said Nadiya. “I’m sure such a public display won’t compromise the security of the mission at all.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Chane said. “The guests have all been vetted. It’s just donors, some tech people, politicians. . . .
It’ll be awesome.”
“Wow,” Julian said. “Sounds like a great networking opportunity.”
“Exactly!” Chane grinned.
Given his impeachment and ensuing public disgrace, Nadiya guessed that Julian was not especially looking forward to meeting
politicians. Any attempt on his part to make a good impression was probably doomed before it started. She wondered if Deckard
had given any thought to that.
Chane’s frenetic effusiveness was distracting. Nadiya hadn’t been able to focus on much else, but while he and Deckard conferred
more quietly now between themselves, she took the opportunity to glance around the room. She noticed several men posted in
unobtrusive places, half-concealed behind the potted palms or the marble columns.
Security guards. Half a dozen of them, at least. It seemed to diminish Chane’s efforts to appear breezy and laid-back, including
the obvious attempt at relatability he had made by wearing a wrinkled hoodie and slip-on sandals with socks.
“We’ll be there tomorrow night, then,” said Deckard. “Give some more thought to the offer. We’re eager to solidify the partnership.”
Before Nadiya could wonder who was included in the royal we, Chane said, “Well, the Kid has my number.”
The Kid was America’s sobriquet for the president, a former film actor whose most famous role had been the titular character in a nostalgic, Western-style biopic about Billy the Kid.
Among his supporters, it was a nickname of folksy endearment.
Among his detractors, it was a way to deride his inexperience, to poke fun at the obvious absurdity of a B-list movie star having inexplicably become the most powerful man in the world.
Nadiya couldn’t be sure how Chane had meant it.
“Right,” said Deckard. “I’ll let him know to give you a call. For now, we won’t take up any more of your time.”
Chane gave Deckard a mock salute, which angled a bit too far upward for Nadiya’s comfort. “You four are going to be heroes—real,
actual heroes! Tell me if Satow begs for his life. Can’t wait for tomorrow! Great stuff!” Then he turned and loped out of
the room, sandals clopping, security guards trailing after him.
Deckard took them back to their rooms. The elevator ride passed in total silence. Nadiya stared once again at their reflections:
Klaudia looking rattled and anxious, Julian’s shoulders hunched in defeat. And Giselle—her gaze was fixed pointedly on the
ground. Nadiya’s own face seemed even paler. She needed to check herself for cuts and bruises, but even the thought of it
felt insurmountable.
“Feel free to call for room service,” Deckard said when they stepped out into the corridor. “You’ll need to keep your strength
up.” Evidently he had noticed their exhaustion, though Nadiya doubted that he felt any sincere concern. He cared only that
they were well enough to perform: for Chane, and during their mission. Right now they were damaged goods, faulty weapons.
“What’s the point?” Giselle murmured.
Deckard didn’t acknowledge her. Instead, with a nod, he left them there in the hall, retreating to the room at the end with
the biometric lock. Nadiya watched until he vanished through the threshold and the door shut behind him.
When she turned back, Klaudia had drawn herself up, shoulders back.
“We can’t do this,” she said. “And we can’t go back to Valeran. It’s wrong. All of it has been wrong.”
Her voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking its resolve.
Julian and Giselle exchanged glances. Behind his glasses, Julian’s eyes flickered with skepticism. Giselle just looked distraught.
Their obvious hopelessness made Nadiya’s chest tighten—though she didn’t feel an answering despair of her own. Instead she
felt a surge of anger. When Dr. Iver’s face, aloof and cold on the television screen, flashed through her mind, the anger
mounted. Her heart raced.
“We’re not doing this,” Nadiya said, lifting her head. “We’re getting the hell out of here.”