Blades of Winter (40 page)

At 10:43 an alert blinks in the corner of my Eyes-Up display. The missile is on its way. Somewhere over the Province of Arabia a jet-powered bomb the size of a Chevy Impala is hurtling toward this building. By the time it gets here eighty-seven minutes from now, it may find a room full of kids who have already died of boredom.

My attention drifts, and I think about how crazy my last two days have been. I have a new Info Operator partner. His field name is Darwin-5015. Normally he’d have dropped with me, but the EVI for this mission is so high that Cyrus couldn’t risk sending anyone who didn’t
absolutely have to go. Darwin has been closely monitoring my mission from his jackframe in Washington.

We’ve got a quick airlift planned, but my timing needs to be perfect because the lab has fairly robust air defense capabilities. This will work if I can snatch Winter without setting off any alarms. If I trigger an alert, I may not make it to the landing zone before the local airspace is choked with armor-piercing bullets, rocket-propelled grenades, and antiaircraft missiles.

To spice up the challenge, we’re sure Winter is equipped with a No-Jack module. If he gets knocked unconscious, the module will send a distress signal and bring his goon squad. My first option is to convince Winter into coming along quietly. Since I don’t have a partner here to be all diplomatic and shit, this gentle request will basically consist of me pistol-whipping him into submission. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just have to knock him out and haul him away as fast as I can.

11:30. Boom minus 40 minutes
. We’re finally released from science hell. Another few minutes and I was going to have to risk simply grabbing Winter by the hair and dragging him outside. The bunch of us youngsters troop off to use the bathroom before we get back on the bus. I hang back for a moment. Winter beckons one of his security guards over and confers with him in hushed tones.

It seems like forever before everyone is finished in the bathroom. Winter is nowhere to be seen. The security guard Winter spoke with leads us out the way we came. I drift to the rear of the noisy, chatty pack. As we pass the hallway to the garage, I slip off to the side.

I hear Winter before I see him, giving orders to someone. He’s in that big garage where I pushed Trick into the puddle of glop. Winter stands in the doorway of the glassed-in labs while he directs a group of the research assistants inside. They busily arrange bottles of champagne and several dozen glasses on one of the long metal tables.

I press myself against the wall and check the hall behind me. Empty.

Boom minus 25
. The German Youth kids should have left by now. As for the missing new member, Der Jugend’s habit is to leave lollygaggers behind as an example of how to act like a jag-off when you’re older.

Boom minus 23
. Winter’s minions continue to fuss around in the lab. It’s pretty crowded in there, but nobody is looking out here. I slip into the garage and crouch behind a tarp-covered stack of stuff. I lift the back corner of the covering to see if I can hide under there and keep watch at the same time.

Lurking under the tarp are four neat stacks of black rectangular boxes. Each box is the size of a briefcase. They all have a small panel on one side. The panels have a readout screen and a row of three buttons labeled in Arabic. The readouts each display a single red dot that ominously crawls across their dark screens. The dot oozes off the screen’s left edge and slinks back on from the right.

A cold bead of sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. I recognize these things from the schematics we found here. They’re the petron bombs. I’m tempted to stick a grenade between these stacks of the Apocalypse, but I refrain because an explosion might attract a bit more attention than I can afford right now.

I drop the tarp back in place and survey the garage. A group of wooden shipping pallets catches my eye, especially one that’s propped on an angle against the wall. I check that nobody’s looking, scuttle across the garage, and quickly insert myself into the triangular space under the inclined pallet.

I carefully peek out from my hiding place and nearly jump out of my skin when my commphone suddenly receives a call.

“Scarlet, your pizza is getting cold.” It’s my ride, Lovebird. He’s lurking out there in the desert, close enough for short-range comming. Him and his pet helicopter.

“That’s all right,” I comm back. “It’s better that way.” Meaning, stay put.

“Roger that.”

Boom minus 12
. The missile is 110 miles away. Every minute brings it 9.2 miles closer.

The lab assistants have poured out glasses of champagne. Winter mingles through the room with a big Mr. Roarke smile on his face. I can’t hear through the glass windows, but I see him shaking hands, patting backs, and sharing some little in-jokes with people. It’s quite a party.

Boom minus 10
. Ninety-two miles away. I start to wonder if I’m gonna have to barge in there and snatch him right the fuck out of his own party. Winter assembles everyone in front of him and makes a short speech. The lab coats all smile and nod to one another in self-congratulation.

Good job, everyone! By this time tomorrow, the world will be absolutely fucked!

Winter takes one of the champagne glasses and invites the others to do the same. While I try to figure out how Winter found such a dedicated group of supersmart sociopaths, he raises his glass to the room and says,
“Prost!”
Cheers! He brings his glass toward his mouth. Everyone chimes in,
“Prost!”
and takes a swig of champagne. They all nod appreciatively about how good it tastes.

Winter holds his glass in front of his lips. He lowers his untouched champagne and places it on the table in front of him. He walks out of the lab and locks the door behind him. He stalks across the garage wearing an expression as dark as ebony lightning and passes through the double doors toward the barracks and shipping entrance.

Boom minus 8
. I’m about to follow Winter when the scientists notice their boss’s unexpected exit. Many of the faces look out into the garage, freezing me in my angled hideout. An animated discussion begins. One of the researchers, a younger blond-haired man, tries the
door handle. Nothing happens. He tries it more forcefully, but the door remains shut. I can almost see the question marks appear above everyone’s head.

Suddenly all the people in the glassed-in laboratory drop their wine and clutch at their throats. Each mouth splits open and expels an ear-shattering scream. Everyone’s eyes seem to bulge from their sockets, and their faces flush from light pink to a florid red. Gasping and choking, some of them rush the door. The door frame lurches from their combined weight but still holds them trapped inside their antiseptic charnel house.

They drop like epileptic rag dolls, shrieking and twitching onto the broken wineglass-covered floor. Middle Easterners, Europeans, men, women. All of them. The smallest victims stop moving first, then the largest wretches lie still.

One of my eyelids starts fluttering so badly that I have to hold my fingers on it to keep it still. My other eye watches a group of six guards march in from the main facility, where we had our tour. They wear white hazmat suits with black rubber boots and gloves. The leader unlocks the door, and the rest file inside the lab of death.

“Scarlet.” It’s Raj. “You all right in there?”

I wipe tears off my cheeks. I hadn’t realized I was crying, but at least my eyelid has stopped pulsing. “Yeah, Rah-Rah. I’m good. Standby, I’ve almost got him.” I suck in a breath of cold air. The guards are all bending over the dead scientists, so I sneak out from beneath my pallet, bolt across the garage, and follow Winter’s steps through the double doors.

Boom minus 5
. This is cutting it close even for me. I pull out my pistol and run down the wide hallway with Li’l Bertha leading the way. Our heat scanners show dark, empty rooms until we get to the last door on the left. It’s directly across from the office where Trick and I hacked into the lab’s data server.

I gingerly try the doorknob to the occupied room. It’s locked, naturally. Crap. My lock-picking skill kind of
sucks, so by the time I pick this fucker, we’ll all be blown to hell. So much for sneakiness.

I crouch in the doorway opposite Winter’s room, slam some Madrenaline, and launch myself across the hallway. I flip over in midair so my feet strike first. The door smashes apart like it was hit by a cannonball. Splinters of wood shatter in every direction. I bounce back onto my feet with Li’l Bertha ready for some serious intimidation.

Winter stands in the middle of the room. He recognizes me instantly. “You!” he exclaims.

I ball my right hand into a fist and slam it into Winter’s stomach. He exhales sharply, doubles over, and falls to his knees. While he gasps for breath, I take a plastic zip-tie out of my pocket and cinch his hands together with it.

Boom minus 4
. Okay, I’ve got him. We’ll walk out the back, hop on Lovebird’s chopper, and away we go. Plenty of time.

“Lovebird, this is Scarlet. Target acquired.”

“Roger that, Scarlet. On my way.”

I bend down to lift Winter to his feet—

Wham!

My vision turns to static, and I topple across Winter. I push myself off him and try to get back on my feet, but I can barely see and my sense of up and down is totally whacked. A powerful pair of hands grabs me by my jacket and hurls me into the air. I catapult across the room and skid across the top of a desk, scattering papers and shit onto the floor.

I scramble to my hands and knees in time to see a blurry pair of shoes approaching. I pivot away from a zealous field goal attempt and lash out with a kick of my own. My foot connects with an ankle, I think. Whatever it is, my strike staggers my assailant enough for me to back off and stand up.

I know this guy. It’s Hector! He recovers his balance and comes at me, growling in Russian. I fend off his first
flurry of karate attacks, but my head is still reestablishing its connection to my body, and Hector’s whirling hands knock my defenses aside. He grabs my shoulder and spins me around with my left arm bent up behind my back.

Meanwhile Winter fishes around under the desk with his bound hands. He recovers what he’s looking for and points it at me. It’s Li’l Bertha.

Hah, good luck with that, limpdick
.

Winter comes over and presses my pistol against my temple. I stomp my heel down on Hector’s toes. He grunts and lifts my arm up further. Just before my shoulder dislocates, Winter pulls the trigger.

Click
.

I snarl. “Surprise, asshole.”

My vision has cleared and my sense of balance has returned enough for me to go on the offensive. I leap in the air and kick Winter in the knee. He bends over. I lash out with my free arm and punch him in the head. He drops like a rock.

Hector wraps one of his arms around my chest and the other around my neck. My elbows are pinned to my sides. I wriggle back and forth, but Hector’s grip gets tighter and tighter until I can’t breathe. My pulse throbs in my ears.

I’m twelve. My dad drives the two of us home from the shooting range. I sit on his lap and steer while his feet work the pedals
.

Everything begins to lose its color. My lungs blaze. My mouth gasps.

I’m nine. I compete in my first gymnastics nationals. Cleo is there, shouting encouragement to me as usual. Dad is there, too. It’s the first time he’s come to one of my meets, and I can see his stunned expression from across the arena
.

I flex my arms to try to break free. My synthetic right hand brushes against the front of Hector’s pants. With
the last of my strength, I grab his thigh and crush his flesh between my fingers.

I’m seven. A huge snowstorm wipes out three days of school and prevents Daddy from taking his trip. The first night we all huddle around the portable radio and play cards
.

I gouge five wet gorges out of his quadriceps. My fingertips meet at his femur. I rotate my arm and rip a slippery hunk of flesh out of Hector’s leg.

Hector screams and shoves me away from him. I land on all fours and spin around to fend off his next attack. But there is no next attack. Hector has dropped to the floor. His leg squirts blood all over the place, and he’s desperately trying to stanch the bleeding.

I gasp to regain my breath. My commphone activates. “Scarlet, I’m on station but I don’t see you.” The air-chopping thrum of a helicopter rotor reverberates from outside.

I’m twenty. I’ve got less than two minutes to avoid a terminal cruise missile overdose for myself and the only person who knows what really happened to my father
.

“Sorry, Lovebird, I was unavoidably detained.” I retrieve my pistol from Winter’s limp grasp. I say to Winter’s unhearing ears, “Too bad, jerkoff. My little girl doesn’t put out for just anyone.” I snap her grip into the WeaponSynch pad on my left palm. Li’l Bertha wakes up and jacks back into my Eyes-Up display.

Lovebird asks, “What’s your status now?”

“I’m on my way, but my target is nonmobile.”

The deep rhythm of Lovebird’s engine is joined by the sharp rattling of automatic gunfire. My pilot comms, “Hurry it up.”

I squat down and hoist Winter across my shoulders. Then I stand up and drag him toward the door. Time to break long-range comm-silence.

“Darwin, this is Scarlet. How are we doing for time?”

Darwin comms, “You’ve got ninety seconds until missile impact, Scarlet.” I don’t even know what Darwin
looks like, but so far he’s been perfectly competent. It’s weird to work with a new partner. Whenever Darwin comms me, I think I hear Trick’s voice in my head.

I haul Winter through the shattered doorway. He’s so much taller than me that his knees scrape the ground. I lurch down the hallway and into the warehouse. Someone runs up behind me, but I keep going. Someone gets in front of me. Someone gets a biomechanically enhanced kick in the nuts from one of my German Youth jackboots. Someone effectively vanishes from the gene pool and goes down in a howling heap.