Agent Gemini

  What she did think was that this was going to blow sky-high, and she wanted to be on a comfortable beach somewhere without an extradition treaty when it did. Which would require some careful planning and all those brains Gran was always half deploring in her darling only grandchild.

  “Time to move,” he announced. “Chances of capture are rising into the unacceptable zone.”

  Fray glanced at the screen again, a blinking red light flashing in the upper right corner. Huh. That’s weird. “Huh.” A few moments of tapping at the big clunky keyboard elicited some astonishing results. “Hey. What’s Site 3B?”

  He crossed the room with swift strides, with that eerie economy of motion. When he leaned over her shoulder, it wasn’t like that blond douchebag trying to peer down her cleavage. Instead, a warm draft of whatever cologne he wore washed over her. Really, it was kind of pleasant.

  “Pocula Flats. Part of a military installation,” he said, peering past her at the screen. “Records, mostly, but a full medical suite for renditions and...other things. Some of the Gibraltar testing was done there.”

  “Building a better soldier, right?” She tapped at the keyboard again. “Look. It’s active again, look at all this chatter. They have someone held there. This signal’s heavily encrypted, it’s been flashing to get through all the time, but your boss isn’t picking up.”

  “Caldwell is not my boss.” Was that a faint hint of annoyance in his tone?

  If it was, it cheered her up immensely. “You were taking orders from him the last time I saw you, chickie-babe. Anyway, you think he’s in trouble, your boss, or just not answering?”

  “He has plans of his own. Control might not account for that.”

  “Control?”

  He pointed at the flashing-red signal trying to stream through. “Him.”

  “Who your boss takes his orders from.”

  “He is not my boss. He was a superior officer, but then...”

  “Then what?”

  The big lug straightened. Fray bit her lower lip, staring at the screen. Something was happening, the traffic there had a weird pattern, and she longed to dive in and figure out exactly what—

  “Three,” the big guy said. “They’ve caught her.”

  “The woman you were looking for?”

  “I was looking for you.”

  When she glanced up, he looked strange, his gaze distant and a faint sweat-sheen on his forehead. It probably would be best to get the hell away from him before he figured out he wasn’t supposed to be helping her, right?

  Except, for a moment, he looked a little lost.

  “Well, you found me. They have her. What does that mean? Wait. Wait just a second. Three. The... Oh my. The Omega file, right? The woman who survived. That’s why they were after her.” Her head spun for a moment. “Oh, man. Man oh man, this is weird.”

  “We have to go.” He’d actually turned pale. “Caldwell isn’t coming back to this locale, but we have to go.”

  Fray’s bottom lip ached, she was chewing on it so hard. It would be smartest to get the hell out of here, shake the big black-haired guy loose and get out of the country while the getting was good.

  The picture from the screen in the police station flashed through her head. The thin woman, staring directly at the camera, working at a crappy grocery store. Maybe she just wanted to be left alone. The files held all sorts of gruesome details about the “induction” process and what it did.

  They’d called her a terrorist. It was looking to Fray like the woman was a victim. These guys were nothing more than bullies.

  Alexandra Frasier hated bullies, and had since the second grade. 3B was really close—it was the base near Felicitas, and what she was thinking was idiotic. Stupid. It wasn’t worth a brain of Fray’s caliber to even come up with the notion.

  Brains aren’t everything, honey, Gran had informed her more than once, wearily.

  “Oh, damn it,” Fray said and tapped out two swift commands.

  “What?” The guy stepped back as if she’d bitten him.

  “Nothing.” I’m about to do something really stupid. “Listen, mister—”

  “Bay. My name’s Bay.”

  Bay and Fray. We rhyme. “Cool. Listen, Bay, you think we could get on that base?”

  “Standard penetration. Relatively simple. The trouble is—”

  Don’t tell me about trouble. “Great! Give me two shakes, and we’ll get going.”

  “What are we going to do?” He sounded like a little kid. If she hadn’t seen his spooky speed and unreal strength, she would have believed he was maybe a little slow. “Tell me what to do.”

  “You’re going to get me on that base. We’re going to rescue Agent Three.” Another few taps, and her back doors were securely inserted. She even took the time to deploy a nifty little program that would begin collating the databases and files she’d been roaming through and forwarding them to a few email addresses—one or two were hers, and the others were journalists for some pretty major publications. The Fourth Estate was going to have a field day with this one. “Did you think, when you woke up this morning, you were gonna be a hero?”

  “No.” He took the papers she piled in his arms, staring at her as if she was a lunatic. “Is that what I am?”

  Don’t know. “You bet. Let’s get out of here.”

  * * *

  The electrodes, well greased, clamped to her temples. Trinity strained against the restraints, trying to whip her head back and forth. Caldwell coughed into his palm, a wet juicy smacking sound. The smell exhaling out of him intensified, rolling in waves. Trinity strained, but he flipped the switch again, and the pain rode through her on the back of a lightning bolt.

  Very dimly, she heard someone screaming. A familiar voice, hoarse-raw, her throat burning. The fire ripped through her, body and mind both fraying under the lash.

  Pain can be controlled.

  And Cal’s quiet answer. Some of it.

  Cal. She clung to the thought. At least he wasn’t suffering this. He was as safe as possible, over the border, and she had even unburdened herself of that terrible weight. There was still guilt, and shame aplenty, but she had told him what she did and could leave with a clear conscience.

  I want to survive.

  It wasn’t an option. The jolts came again, electricity pulsing and crackling while the needles jabbed into flesh and the drugs flooded her body, overwhelming the viral responses. She knew the specifics of the process—electric shocks to break certain psychological bonds, the chemicals to override others. After the preparation came the sensory-deprivation tank, then the shocks and drugs again. She had survived.

  The males had not.

  One did. A new type of agent. Cal, in the darkness, driving himself forward to keep the other agent away from her. Cal on guard, watching out the windows. Cal’s face when the trailer doors opened. I am here to help.

  Trinity clung to the memories, already fading under electrical assault. Harsh grinding bile bubbled in her throat as the virus struggled to keep her functioning and to eat the substances assaulting her tenuous sanity. Strobe-flickers of light, things crawling under her skin, the screams turned to harsh, broken, guttural whimpers.

  Taste of frozen strawberries and sugar. Who am I? I have to know. Now that she was almost gone, the matrix that made identity fragmenting, she could see again how he folded the paper crane, deftly and quickly. It was easy once you knew how.

  I never did, she thought desperately, readying herself for another wave of pain, rage, fear, electricity, chemicals.

  Something was happening. Caldwell coughed, retching, bent over the controls. There were supposed to be other medical personnel watching, monitoring vitals, fine-tuning dosages. A bevy of observers. Gentlemen, today we are going to secure ourselves against all enemies, foreign
and domestic—

  That was what he had said before her first induction. Who? An older man, graying at the temples, a raspy, cigarette-roughened voice.

  The next jolt of agony didn’t come. Trinity’s muscles cramped, some firing because they had no choice, others still locked into resistance, trying to pull against the restraints.

  The loosening restraints.

  Caldwell retched again. A fresh wave of ugliness roiled through his scent. Something was happening. It was different this time. The flashes of the old induction peeled away, leaving her shivering, muscles locking down, concentration narrowing to a still, small point. Greater strength and flexibility—she wasn’t as heavy-strong as the male agents, female biology instead granting her enhanced pain tolerance, flexibility, calculation—and the ruthless feminine willingness to do what had to be done.

  Liquidate or leave?

  She trembled on the edge of just letting go, willing heart and lungs to cease their functioning. It was easy enough, once you were pushed past endurance.

  Or she could make one final, supreme effort. Either the restraints would give, or blood vessels and muscles would burst free, and she would perhaps die anyway.

  I’d rather go down fighting, she thought hazily and erupted into violent motion.

  Tearing. Needles ripping free—jabs in her thighs, upper arms, a spear of ice at her throat. The nylon straps didn’t give, but the one over her left wrist had been slightly improperly secured, and the application of hysterical force popped one of the metal tabs free. A quick twist, a yank, and the one at her elbow was firmly locked—but she could yank upward, bone creaking as it was subjected to horrible sideways stress, then her left arm was free. Her hand blurred across, hitting the catches on her right shoulder and elbow; her right hand slipped out of the loop, leaving a generous proportion of skin behind. Blood burst free; she tore at the tough woven fabric over her throat.

  Caldwell straightened from his retching fit and let out a short, garbled cry of warning. It was useless; there was nobody in here but the two of them. Trinity surged upward, her right hand blurring out and sinking deeply into the blond man’s stomach. The strike didn’t have a great deal of force or leverage, but he was already in bad physical shape. Whatever he had, it made him bend over, a fresh gout of steaming vomit splattering the floor. The titanic stink ratcheted up another notch.

  The straps over her hips refused to budge. Trinity yanked desperately on the catch-release, electricity crackled, and the needles moved, vainly seeking her flesh. The ones that hadn’t broken sprayed or dripped chemicals, the drugs meant to overpower her viral load spending themselves uselessly. The restraint finally loosened as Caldwell straightened, his flushed, sweating face rising like a bad dream atop fatigues that had once been ironed and starched but were now sweat-soaked and spattered with other effluvia.

  “Three,” he croaked, “you’re not supposed to do that.”

  He’s insane. It was the only possible explanation. Trinity pawed at the catch-release, and it parted grudgingly. If she could just get her legs free—

  Caldwell lunged for her, and Trinity’s hand flashed up, a palm-strike meant to catch and break the nasal promontory, driving it into the brain.

  He lurched with eerie, stuttering speed, and if she hadn’t been so concerned with getting herself free she might have had more time for the blinding realization that he was infected, and the virus—Gibraltar or Gemini, it didn’t matter—was eating him alive. Snot rimed his nostrils. The speed of his physical collapse was astounding, but he was for the moment incredibly fast.

  Agent fast.

  He jerked aside, the strike catching him on cheek instead of nose, and stumbled back, his hands blurring up to clap at his face. “You bitch!” he moaned, his mouth a loose wet round O. Trinity scrambled, the thin fabric onesie tearing. A needle jabbed for her hip, another one for where her chest would have been, servomotors whining. He had expected to run the induction on her with no witnesses, and had somehow infected himself with the virus.

  Yes, she decided as her hands found the releases for her knees, he was definitely, incredibly and utterly crazy.

  “You’re not supposed to do that!” he howled and lunged for her again.

  Trinity moved, one naked hip burning against the table’s metal surface, a fulcrum her entire body turned around. Her right foot flicked, sinking into his stomach, and she grabbed at a handy metal servo-arm, this one topped with a gruesomely large needle meant to deliver a massive dose into the subject’s thigh. Steel screamed, delicate machinery screeching to a halt, and she might have regretted interfering with such beautifully modulated gears and movements if the situation had been otherwise.

  As it was, she finished spinning, folded her knees and got her feet underneath her on the slick table surface. Caldwell sprawled against the control console, and Trinity had to dodge another jabbing needle. The electrodes crackled, smeared with conductive goop, and the entire apparatus let forth a shuddering, grinding whine.

  It was getting ready to discharge again.

  How had Caldwell become infected? Did it matter? Would the infection spread? The consequences of such a thing were vast, a trembling matrix of analysis and percentages inside her aching, riven head. A deeper certainty grew underneath them as she paused, watching him scrabble feebly at the console. She’d kicked him with all the force she was able to gather, perhaps rupturing something.

  It will all be over soon, and we’ll be together.

  Had he infected himself?

  She coughed to clear her throat, spat to the side, an economical, efficient motion. The world spun, righted itself, and her body was a loose collection of puppet joints. Freeing herself had taken most of her strength, and now she balanced unsteadily on the edge of unconsciousness, swaying and staring at the hazy shape that was Noah Caldwell.

  Who, calmly enough, his eyes glittering with fever, fumbled at his hip.

  And drew a gun.

  * * *

  The screaming stopped, and the seething fermentation of the medical building took a deep breath, pausing before the plunge. Sooner or later they were going to decide to sweep hall by hall, and that would require both of them to get even more creative. Reese’s scent held an edge now, a complex stew of smoke-laced worry. He checked the corner. “Clear.”

  “She’s got to be down here,” Cal found himself saying unnecessarily.

  Reese nodded, but Cal could guess the likely chain of thought. Our chances go down the longer we’re in here. Is it really worth it? Especially if the other man was feeling the way Cal was—the headache mounting, his arms and legs not quite moving the way they should. He was still fast, and still stronger than a normal human, but now he began to see what Trinity called “degradation.” It had only been a little over thirty-six hours.

  What was she feeling?

  It made him a little unsteady, to be honest. The rage, simmering just under the surface, wanted to work free. He’d failed Tracy, and he’d stupidly allowed Trinity to think whatever she did under Bronson’s thumb meant anything, and now he was about to fail her in the most basic of ways, as well. If Reese decided to cut the losses and vanish, well, Cal couldn’t blame him.

  It was tempting to just throw up your hands and say I’ve done all I can. You could justify it a million different ways, and Reese would be justified in a million and one. He could abort, go meet up with Holly, be back over the border and safe in two shakes.

  Cold, calculated self-preservation was trained into an agent. Anything else was that unholy bugbear they wanted to get rid of.

  Emotional noise.

  Reese glanced at him again.

  Cal took a deep breath. “You can go.” He pitched the words nice and low; they wouldn’t carry even to hidden microphones. “Get your girl and get out of here.”

  The other man shrugged, covering the ha
llway. Cal moved automatically into the next pocket, covering, as well; they leapfrogged once more. It was outright nerve-racking even if you were trained for this sort of thing.

  That was what they couldn’t give you in training. You could know, intellectually, the way your pulse wanted to spike, the way sensory acuity turned every step into an excruciating feedback loop and every inch of skin into a hypersensitive antenna.

  Actually living through it, though, that was another thing entirely.

  I didn’t sign up for this. None of us did.

  Here he was, in the middle of hostile territory, right where he needed to be confident and invulnerable. Instead, his pulse kept wanting to spike, and all he could think of were a pair of big dark eyes and her soft mouth in the darkness. How the merry-go-round had stopped, and everything in the world narrowed down to a single small, still center.

  Trinity.

  She’d come back for him, even though she thought he’d be furious at her for any part in Tracy’s death.

  It wasn’t your fault, he wanted to tell her. They put us here, we didn’t know what we were signing up for. We wanted to serve, and we were told to kill.

  “We should pull out,” Reese said finally, very softly. “She’s stopped. You know what that means.”

  Generally, yes. It meant liquidation.

  Cal’s mouth tightened. “I’m not leaving her.”

  Reese, with his gun pointed down the hallway, actually rolled his eyes. “Good. I was thinking you were about to bail.”

  “Never.” Cal showed his teeth, a facsimile of a smile, and realized it was true. Getting out of here was the safe, sane, reasonable move, since the chances of her being alive were sliding downhill every moment.

  The look on her face when she tasted her first milk shake. The gold in her hair. Her hands, checking the wound, her soft husky voice in the darkness.

  If they’ve killed her...

  It almost blinded him. His body moved smoothly, mechanically, training worn into muscle memory. If he could smell the rage simmering off his skin, the other agent certainly could. But Reese betrayed no nervousness. Cool and calm, he moved ahead of Cal, stopping every once in a while to test the air.