A blast shook the tunnel. Her limbs tensed in anticipation of impact, but the tunnel held. She kept sliding until her muscles burned from the strain of holding on.
Finally, her feet hit solid ground. A spray of water shot up to her knees.
She backed up against a side wall and cocked her ear. Over the pounding of her heart, she heard only silence.
She half-stood and rested her right hand on her good leg.
She was standing in some kind of passageway. In her first year of training, she had learned about the security corridors that major urban airports had built at the beginning of the century in defense against possible terrorist attacks. This must have been created when Midway still operated as an airport.
She rotated her left wrist in a slow circle. Hot sparks shot up her arm, but she could flex her fingers. Not broken.
Her left leg throbbed. She ripped off a section of her undershirt and wrapped the cloth around her thigh. She pulled it tight, sucking in her breath against the sudden sharp pain.
The skittering and squeaking of rodents broke the silence. Anika was glad for her thick-soled, mid-calf boots. She could handle the dark, but she didn’t much care for rats.
She sniffed the air. Damp. Not too moldy. Definitely fresh air coming in from somewhere. A faint light appeared far down the tunnel. It hinted at the source of the air and a way out.
When she emerged into daylight, the slant of the sun gave her the time. 1300 hours. Less than an hour since she and the others had stood together and listened to Salazar’s final instructions.
Less than an hour, but now, a lifetime ago.
She stared back at the smoking ruins of the building and an uncontrolled shudder ran through her. Her survival meant Gianni had failed the agency’s loyalty test.
Gianni.
Longing pulled at her, like hot quicksand. She wanted to see him. One last time. She turned and began the ten-kilometer hike to the truck stop.
Will you be there?
Anika lay down in a patch of dead grass and shrubs within viewing distance of the truck stop. Her perimeter search of the area had confirmed no sightings of either her U.N.I.T. team or Gianni.
Relief battled with disappointment.
Where are you?
She took one slow breath as a drop of sweat rolled along her hairline, down her temple and past her ear. Twelve seconds.
The ground grew harder underneath her sore muscles. The endorphin patch had stopped working three kilometers ago and a deep throb in her thigh reminded her that she’d need medical help soon. She resigned herself to waiting until Gianni showed or the sky grew dark enough for her to risk looking for a dead drop.
She concentrated on another slow breath in and out. Another twelve seconds of in-between time. If she were running or fighting hand-to-hand, the same amount of time would take five fast breaths. The technique of counting breaths to track time in the field had required a lot of practice in her first year of training. It was like dividing her brain into two sections: one section counted while the other directed her eyes and hands and feet to unlock sealed files, scan crowded rooms, fire lasers, chase down runners.
Ten breaths later, each one accompanied by a painful stab in her leg, she conjured an image to distract her. Gianni’s tall lean body, graceful and silent as a dancer, lay down beside her. He reached for her hand, wrapped it in his, and held it against his chest. Her fingers picked up the steady beat of his heart. He was here, right next to her. No longer distant or angry. The ground softened and a breeze cooled her cheeks. She relaxed into the sweetness.
When the sky turned a protective shade of blue-gray, she stood and stretched her stiff limbs. As they had throughout the afternoon, husky drivers ambled toward the main building and a rail-thin woman with brassy red hair scrounged the garbage chutes and approached the drivers for handouts.
On a hunch, Anika decided to start her search in a storage cylinder that the service droid had entered and exited a couple of times in the past three-and-a-half hours. The spot was far enough away from the more trafficked pathways to lower the risk of an accidental find, but close enough to avoid a suspicious-looking search.
Along the wall of a waist-high cement barrier separating the cylinder from a row of trucks, Anika spied vibrant blue chalk marks. Her pulse jumped. To the untrained eye, the marks looked like the random scratchings of a child. But she recognized the signs of a dead drop. She studied the marks more closely: five hash marks, space, three marks, space, one mark … What did they mean?
She proceeded to the cylinder door, secured by a keypad. She tested the door. It beeped a warning. She visualized the blue hash marks. A numeric code, maybe? She pressed the numbers on the pad in the order of the marks and the lock snicked open.
She stepped inside the cool interior and scanned the shelves of paper products, cleaning supplies and dispenser refills. Something glinted on the floor near the edge of a bottom shelf. She bent down and reached for the object. Her breath caught in her throat as her fingers closed around an oval medal with the raised outline of St. Jude. She searched for and found the nick along the edge. She pulled the medal out from under the shelf, bringing with it the links of chain wrapped around the strap of a black knapsack.
She could hardly believe Gianni had parted with his most prized possession. He had risked so much to help her win her freedom. What price would he pay for choosing her over U.N.I.T.? She slipped the chain over her neck. The medal felt warm and heavy against her skin. A fist squeezed around her heart. How could she have agreed to their plan?
She did a quick check of the knapsack. Typical “go bag” items: energy pellets, extra clothes, med kit, camouflage. The start to a life on the run.
She exited the storage cylinder, brushed away the blue chalk marks and headed for the nearest bathroom. With every step, fiery sparks shot up her leg. Once inside the single-occupant room, she sank down to the floor and elevated her leg.
She made herself swallow a few of the tasteless pellets, then reached past the clothes, the oxygen nosegear, and protective eye patches to the med kit. Rifled through the Numb-It gel and dissolving staples until she found —
thank God
— pain blockers. She set the dial on the inhaler to a quarter dose, enough to blunt the pain, but not to glaze her mind or senses.
While she waited for the medicine to kick in, she fingered Gianni’s chain and medal. Maybe it wasn’t too late to change the scenario. If Gianni had deactivated her tracking chip, her status would be KIM, killed in mission. As long as she didn’t report in at the nearest safehouse, the agency wouldn’t know she was alive. Command and Second wouldn’t know that Gianni had helped her survive.
He had the best chance if she went on the run. It would mean a lifetime of running and hiding, even if she figured out how to permanently deactivate or remove her tracking chip. Not much of a life. But if it gave him the kind of life he wanted, it would be worth the price.
Anika opened up the knapsack’s false bottom that hid black market cigarettes, loaded with real nicotine, and the drug known as Pink. She held up an ampoule of the candy-colored liquid. Originally marketed as a harmless cure for a variety of ailments, Pink had gained notoriety when early users accidentally streamlined it through their nasal passages and discovered its mind-altering effects. The FDHA had banned it, but that just forced the drug underground, enhancing its barter value. The ampoule slid neatly inside her jacket pocket.
She hoisted herself up and stood at the sink to doctor her upper thigh. The Numb-It did its job anesthetizing the wound. The staples didn’t even sting as she punched them into place. She’d probably have a scar, but at least the wound didn’t appear to need professional attention.
After a hit of wide spectrum antibiotics, she started on her makeover. Out came a light brown wig, brown-colored lenses, transparent facial tape, fake teeth and semi-permanent bronzer. Minutes later, she surveyed the results in the mirror. The disguise wouldn’t pass the facial recognition systems used by air and high-speed train transport, but it would fool the older equipment still in use on most roads and freeways.
She removed the 9mm Glock from inside one of the socks. Gianni had been smart to provide her with a gun. Ammunition for the old-style weapon was cheaper and more plentiful and, at close range, just as deadly as a laser.
She ran through the standard checks as best she could with her one good hand — confirmed the safety catch was on, removed the magazine, cleared the chamber, set the safety catch to “fire,” and squeezed the trigger. A satisfying snap told her the gun was in good working order. She thumbed the safety catch back on and re-loaded the magazine. The gun tucked neatly inside a swath of stretchy material that she wrapped around her waist.
She finished dressing, adjusted the wig and cap, and made a final visual inspection. The blocker had relaxed the lines of pain around her eyes and between her brows. Her limbs had mellowed, too, with her thigh mumbling a grumpy protest and her wrist, a mild complaint.
Only one task was left. She pulled out a locator. Gianni had tried giving it to her at the solo briefing. Or what she had thought would be the solo. When she had refused to take it, he had seemed to accept her decision.
Now she gripped the blue rectangle no longer than her little finger until its edges dug into her flesh. She should have known he wouldn’t acquiesce so easily. But finding her wasn’t part of the plan. As far as he was concerned, she was dead. What they had or might have had was dead, too. She smashed the device with a stomp of her boot and tossed the pieces down the waste chute.
Inside the diner, the harsh light seemed to drain the interior of most of its color. Anika scanned the patrons, room layout, and egress points. A dozen civilians. Plus the service droid, now behind the bar. Two dozen tables. No egress other than the door she had just entered.
She walked over to the food and drink dispensers that stood against the wall. Most of the selections were out, except for the day’s special of beef-substitute in congealed gravy and a side order of mysteriously named “carbo medley.”
So much for real food.
She punched in her order, set it on the tray, and grabbed a pouch of water.
Two men, in baseball caps, wool plaid shirts, jeans, and work boots watched an aeroball game on the wall monitor. The backs of their jackets were stamped with the Globe Transport logo. The trucker on the left refilled his friend’s glass from the pitcher of beer on the counter, then topped off his own. The droid removed an already empty pitcher and set down a bottle of Dry Out.
The bearded one on the right gave Anika an appraising look as she passed by. His friend shouted a profanity at the screen. A few heads turned, then reverted to their own business.
The all-news monitor farther down the bar flashed images of charred rubble, a ’bot clean-up crew, and a pretty brunette newscaster.
Anika quick stepped to a corner table, set down her tray and slipped into the bench seat. She plugged in earphones just as Jackson Palmer, the pseudo-legitimate businessman, came on screen.
“It’s outrageous,” Palmer said. “Clearly the work of disturbed minds. Probably terrorists.”
Lying nukebag
. Anika’s lips twisted into a grimace.
Over the shoulder of the on-site reporter, a dozen autobots swept through the rubble while their human handlers directed them from the perimeter of the cordoned-off area.
Anika’s fingers tightened around the edges of the tray.
Would her image come up next alongside false information about her past? Like what had happened with Olszewski when he had gone rogue after a mission, prompting U.N.I.T. to deliver a trumped-up history of terrorist activity to the local and national authorities? That was six months ago. No operative had tried running since.
The news switched to the latest tensions in Sudan.
Anika released a slow breath and stretched out her fingers. So U.N.I.T. wasn’t treating her escape as unauthorized. Either that, or Gianni had taken care of her tracking chip and the agency thought her dead.
She took a bite of the lukewarm food and scouted the room for a ride.
The two truckers ordered another pitcher from the droid. Their voices had grown louder. She ruled them out.
Another group of truckers, with different logos on their jackets than the pair at the bar, sat in the far corner. Full trays of food lay in front of them. They were just getting started. The young couple watching the news was a possibility, but they didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave, either.
The man at the table two over from hers had pushed his plate to one side and was finishing off a bottle of sparkling water. Anika examined his squat frame and broad features. Eastern European descent, most likely.
He pulled out his handheld and began speaking into it. She leaned forward. Ukrainian. Not her best language, but she could make out that the man was speaking with his wife or maybe girlfriend, asking about the kids, the leaky sink, the estimate from the contractor.
Family man. Good.
His voice softened to a sing-song stream of questions and answers, with liberal sprinklings of
pryntsesa
, or princess. A tender smile tugged at his lips as he promised that
Papa
would be home soon.
His daughter. Even better.
The trucker who had shouted obscenities at the monitor swiveled around on his chair and pumped his fists in the air. “Go Trojans!” he cried.
As post-game images streaked across the large screen, the man drained his mug, stood, and glanced around the room, a lopsided grin on his face. He caught Anika’s eye and his grin widened.
Don’t even think about it.
She switched her gaze back to the parking lot. The red-haired woman who had been wandering the grounds earlier rested in a squat against the side of the building. A black all-terrain with privacy windows pulled in between two mammoth rigs. The driver door retracted and a man in civilian clothes stepped out.