Agent Zero

  She came back to herself slowly, leaning forward. Her forehead was against something warm, and someone was holding her. It felt nice.

  Safe.

  He smelled good. No cologne, just clean male. She hadn’t been this close to anyone in a long, long time. He was still talking, low and soothing.

  “—sweetheart, I promise it’ll be better. I’ll make it better. Just relax. Just breathe nice and easy, baby, and everything will get better. I’m right here.”

  How does he know what to say? The truth was, she’d been waiting all her life to hear that sort of thing. It was a damn shame it had to come from him. He probably wasn’t a bad person, but her life was gone. Completely thrown out the window.

  Again. How much bad luck could one woman have before she decided to just step away from it all? Like leaving your slippers next to the bed. Goodbye, so long, don’t write, don’t call, just forget there had ever been a Holly Rachel Candless.

  “I...” She coughed. Her mouth tasted awful. He had her upright, somehow, and they were under a giant oak that had lost its leaves already. The houses here didn’t have fenced yards, merging their greenery in companionable tangles. Were there people inside, wondering what these strangers were doing? “Reese.” A croak. Had she thrown up? She didn’t taste it, but her abdomen ached so badly.

  “I’m right here. You’re safe.”

  No, I’m not. She straightened. Found her balance. He didn’t want to let go of her, maybe thinking she’d fall over, but she pushed until he did. “You should just leave me here.” She sounded surprisingly steady, she supposed. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sick, Reese. Really sick, and it won’t matter if they do...whatever it is they’re going to do to me. I should have told you earlier. I’m... I’m sorry.”

  “What?” He glanced up, checking the street behind her. “I’m not going to let them catch either of us.” A level gaze, and—of all the things he could do, he chose to brush a few damp strands of hair out of her face. “What makes you think you’re sick?”

  “I...” She was shaky and exhausted now, even though she’d slept so heavily. “Look, just leave me here. Okay? I just—”

  “No.” His eyebrows drew together. He inhaled, sniffing, and she stared. “Nothing wrong with your charts but some anemia and severe stress. Panic attacks are normal—you have anxiety spikes. Your blood pressure’s low, too. You shouldn’t be on your feet all day.”

  How do you know? Do you have medical training, too? It was probably in that stupid file he had, her life pinned on the wall like a butterfly. “Look, I—”

  “Get in the car.” He pushed her, gently but irresistibly, and she half fell into her seat. “You start feeling like that again, we’ll pull over again. Drink some of the Gatorade. Your electrolytes are all out of whack.” He locked the door, closed it and went around the front of the car. A high blush from the chill on his cheeks, he looked like a young professional out for a Sunday drive with a nauseous friend, she supposed.

  Was it even Sunday? She didn’t even know what day of the week it was.

  He dropped down into the driver’s seat, buckled himself in and the car roused softly. He stared out the windshield for a few moments, and Holly was suddenly certain he was going to say, You’re right, you’re weight I don’t need, get out.

  It would serve her right, too. All of this had happened because she’d selfishly wanted to feel normal and go out to coffee. She should have turned him down, shut him off, found another job, pulled away, done what she knew she was going to have to eventually do.

  “I want you to listen to me,” he said, finally, very quietly. “Are you?”

  There’s nobody else talking. “Yes.”

  “I couldn’t stay away from you. I’m selfish. I should have left you alone, but I didn’t.” He nodded slightly, as if she’d agreed. “I’m not going to. Drink something. We’re going far today.”

  He wasn’t going to listen. Holly slumped in the seat, her head throbbing.

  We want to do some more tests, the doctor had said. She’d agreed, nodded through scheduling them and never gone back. Paid the bill for the initial visit when it arrived, even though it took her down to quarters for the rest of that month. No insurance meant couldn’t afford it.

  It’s expensive, Phillip had said, even though he was covered through his school. Why bother when I can just treat you? We can use the money elsewhere.

  You didn’t need a weathervane to know about the wind, Dad always said. She knew what she had. And when she got home, there was Phillip at the table, just waiting to drop the bombshell. How he must have nerved himself up to it.

  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Even being selfish over a goddamn coffee date didn’t matter. It all ended up in the same place, and her condition had been steadily worsening for a while now. She didn’t have much time left, and Reese was bound to have a weapon handy, if a woman got desperate enough.

  So Holly just closed her eyes, and let him drive.

  * * *

  That was close. In any number of ways.

  What did she think she had? Her medsheet showed nothing but low blood pressure and mild anemia, though there were notations about her bloodwork being off. He hadn’t smelled anything off in her in all this time, except the drugs and that deep-yellow metallic tang, the only thing about her that didn’t smell delicious. He’d also studied the financials and figured out that she’d put her ex through med school, which was a waste since Holly had no doubt been the bright one in that marriage.

  Any man who would divorce her was an idiot.

  Maybe it was just rabbit talk. If you weren’t trained to handle it, the stress would get to you. Hell, it got to you even if you were trained, which was why he was worrying about her ex instead of trying to pin down what had felt so off this morning.

  If he had deep pockets and government resources, he’d have hit the airwaves with APBs and some sort of cover story by now. Nothing in the papers, nothing on the radio, nothing on the television this morning while Holly slept and he kept the sound turned all the way down.

  That was distracting, too. The blue flicker of the television playing over her peaceful face, and imagining her waking up and smiling at him.

  Just didn’t smell right. That’s all.

  Maybe it was the lobby, where the kid at the desk had looked at him just a little too long. Maybe it was the distant sirens cutting off as they got closer, silent as sharks while Reese and his little minnow swam out of the net. Was he just being paranoid? If he started deconstructing, they were both dead in the water.

  He was sweating lightly. His pulse kept wanting to spike. Holding her while she shuddered and tried to breathe, helpless even with the little invaders still working in his bloodstream making him stronger and faster...it was enough to give him a serious case of the wind-ups. He needed to clear his head.

  There was a good way to do that, but he didn’t think she’d go for it. Not to mention the fact that he’d probably wilt before takeoff, given his luck.

  Stop. Calm. Think.

  She was silent, slumped in the passenger seat with her eyes closed, but at least her breathing had evened out. She wasn’t shaking with distress, or making that soft choked sound that turned him inside out. The freeway was unreeling under them, nothing was likely to explode in the next few minutes, so maybe he could start making her a little more comfortable.

  Just how are you gonna do that, soldier?

  Any way he could. “Holly.”

  She stirred, a little. “What?” One colorless little word.

  “I told you I was in an accident, right? Bomb in the road.” He waited for the light to turn green, accelerated onto the on-ramp. “Broke my spine in two places, ribs, legs...for a while they weren’t sure I’d live. But I did. Woke up quadriplegic and they said, Wouldn’t you like to walk again?” A short, chopp
ed-up laugh; he merged onto the freeway. Traffic was light, nothing out of place. Just one car among many on the American road veins, moving along. “I knew I couldn’t. But they asked, so I... I just didn’t want them to send me back to the state home the recruiter found me in. I hated it there.” He stole a glance at her. She was pale, shaking a little, her eyes still closed. An arc of charcoal lashes against her cheek.

  So he went on. “They scraped and prodded and poked me. I wasn’t too bright, but I was an ideal candidate in...other ways. So they...they injected me. I didn’t know with what. Then I got sick. Really sick.”

  He’d picked up little bits of information while he burned with fever, unable even to thrash. Screaming about fire until his voice gave way, every nerve ending frayed, tearing an inch at a time. No relief, no letup, just the burning and the pain. “The casualty rate for that phase of the program was about ninety percent. I made it, though. Lay in bed for another two weeks, eating everything they gave me, and one day my legs started twitching. Then my arms. It hurt.” Regrowing nerve tissue is a bitch. “I had to learn how to walk again. How to run. How to do other things.”

  “That’s pretty impossible,” she whispered.

  You’re telling me. “The best part was cognitive. Neuroplasticity. Learning new things. Repairing damage. Sensory acuity, pain suppression. I can hear your heartbeat. I can smell aspirin metabolizing in people, for God’s sake.” And other things. “The physical’s pretty nice. I’m a lot stronger than I look. Cellular respiration’s up, flexibility and endurance, you get the idea.” He took a deep breath. “That’s why I’m valuable. That sort of enhancement doesn’t come cheap.”

  “How did—”

  “I’m telling you this because I want you to know. If you were sick, really sick, I’d smell it on you.” Like that yellow-metal tang, because you’re coming down with something. It bothered him, but so did everything else about this. “I’d know. You’re just stressed by being placed in a...a situation.” Being drugged, kidnapped and dragged around like baggage. Time to start treating you a little nicer. Once I’m sure we’re not blown or dogged.

  “How did they do all this? Like, you’re some kind of bionic man, or something?”

  “I have no trouble with metal detectors, babe.” All flesh. I’ll show you sometime. Now that was the wrong thing to say, but it was pleasant to contemplate.

  “Then how do you know I’m not sick?”

  Are you really going to tell her? “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I could tell you if you had something bad. I would smell it on you, and I don’t.”

  “What do I smell like?” A jagged sigh. “I can’t believe I’m even asking this sort of question.”

  I can’t believe I’m almost ready to tell you. “You smell...good.”

  “Good? That’s it?” Now she sounded irritated, and it was a welcome change. Maybe if he got her flat-out angry she’d cope better.

  Not a lot of traffic now, and a little subconscious muscle relaxed, easing all at once.

  The problem was, he didn’t want her angry, either. He wanted her...happy. Or at least reasonably content.

  That’s not what you want.

  “You smell more than good.”

  “Oh.” The irritation had drained away. “How do I know you...well, it’s useless to be asking questions now, right? Once I’ve gotten over the fact that I was kidnapped by government psychos, a bionic spy is small potatoes.”

  Just keep thinking that way. Of course, when she eventually saw what he was capable of, what would she do?

  It was a little late to be having any sort of qualm. So he took a deep breath. This one was freighted with apples and spice, a familiar heat below the belt. Goddamn distracting with her so close, warm and breathing. What could he tell her?

  “It’s not useless. You want to understand what you’re in. It’s reasonable.”

  “And you’re a reasonable guy, right?”

  He was ready to agree, but something in her tone warned him. Still with her eyes closed, slumped there, her pulse hiking a little and a slight undertone of nervous smoke to that glorious scent of hers, making the yellow-metal tang that much more prominent.

  Keyed up with panic and adrenaline, and ready to let it all out on someone. He was the closest target.

  The only target. If it made her feel better, fine. If she wanted to scream and punch, he didn’t mind.

  So he just shrugged. “No, Holly. I’m not reasonable. Never would have gotten into the program otherwise. I’ll tell you what I am, though.”

  “Scary?”

  You could say that. “Yeah. And determined, and resourceful, and capable of just about anything when it comes to you.”

  “Not to mention crazy,” she muttered.

  “Got any more adjectives to throw on the pile?” If she was going to blow up at him, now would be a good time, when he had her under wraps and still vulnerable.

  “Tons.” She let out a shaky sigh, her hands lying limp and discarded in her lap. “Reese?”

  “What?” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Don’t wreck the car.

  “Thank you. I... I haven’t had a panic attack since the...the divorce.”

  Now that was pure Holly. Thanking him, as if he hadn’t destroyed her life. “Must have been stressful. I’m sorry.”

  “You can’t smell cancer, Reese.”

  “Mmh.” An easy, noncommittal answer. Was that what she thought she had? Why? It brought up other interesting questions, ones he had no answer for.

  Could he smell cancer? And just what was that yellowish component to her smell, the only shade that wasn’t flat-out delicious? If she’d been sick when he met her...

  Don’t borrow trouble. Just keep moving.

  * * *

  “They were just coming to pick you up.” The aspirin Bronson had taken just before entering this glare-lit, linoleum-floored room wasn’t kicking in nearly soon enough. His head was pounding, and being in a room with one of the damn subjects was always nerve-racking. Eight was zipped to the metal chair, the chair was bolted to the floor and the new head of the medical staff swore the massive dose of tranquilizer was still working its way through Eight’s system.

  The blond guy, reeking of smoke and covered with soot, dirt and probably dried blood from the capture team, stared at him, his nostrils flaring a little. He said nothing.

  “You escalated, Eight. This is bad. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me something. Anything.” Make him think you’re on his side. His own shirt was none too fresh, he couldn’t even send Three to get him a new one. Christ alone knew what would happen if they lost her.

  Besides, he didn’t want that computer brain in his apartment.

  Eight sighed. It was a deep, heavy sound, and Bronson braced himself.

  “What. Do you. Want.” Each word as flat and uninflected as if Three was speaking.

  Three was in the safe room, watching through the video feed. She hadn’t corrected him in a whole twelve hours or so, which had to be some kind of record. Which reminded him, he should probably send her to residence soon. She was looking a little wilted.

  Not that it mattered. She’d never win any goddamn prizes.

  His head would not quit pounding. That bottle of Chivas in the filing cabinet was sounding better and better the longer this went on. Plus, the light in here hurt his eyes. The cinder-block walls weren’t comforting at all, either. “Another agent’s gone off the reservation.” It was Bronson’s turn to sigh. “I’ve talked to the higher-ups. Told them you could track him, especially since it’s domestic. I think I’ve got them ready to give you another chance.” He kept his hands loose and dangling empty, wishing he could stick them in his pockets or even carry a file. A pencil, a paper clip, anything.

  The autopsy had confirmed the civilian girl Eight
had been banging didn’t have any hint of the original virus or Gemini. Eight’s bloodwork from two days ago was solid, but the eggheads were muttering something about core load and stress factors. Control had checked in—some of the other agents had been brought back in, fat, dumb and happy, and they were slated for the induction process, even though there was a near-zero survival rating for that. If they did survive, they’d be like Three.

  No trouble at all.

  Eight’s head tilted slightly, his eyes as bright blue and direct as ever. He was in rags of civilian dress—jeans, a sweatshirt, his filthy socks since they would have taken his boots as a matter of course—but he didn’t look nearly as battered as a man who had just been through a house fire and rendition should.

  Even secured to the chair with zip ties and handcuffs, it was best not to underestimate them. Which was why Bronson stayed near the door, and why Caldwell was right outside and teams stationed at either end of the hall this interrogation room sat off of.

  “Did you change your cologne?” Eight asked.

  “What? I don’t wear—come on, soldier. Don’t be a smart-ass. I just got chewed out for sticking up for you. Are you going to be reasonable or not?” Because if you don’t, you’re liquidated. You idiots can’t survive a shot to the head, no, sir.

  Ten minutes later, Bronson stepped out into the hall. Caldwell, sweat drying and flaking on his forehead, snapped to attention. He had blue eyes, too, just like Eight, but they were bloodshot and blinking now. “Sir?”

  “He’ll play ball. Take a six-man team in, untie him and give him something to eat. Get him some kit. I’ll pull the target file together.”

  “You think he’ll—”

  “He doesn’t have a lot of options.” Bronson massaged his temples. “In any case, we’ve got him chipped, and we’ve got grids and cores from here to Florida.”