With the release of ORACLE only a week away, it seems like time to give folks a small taste of what to expect in this duology. Unlike most of my previous work, this story is told in multiple third-person points-of-view. There's no magic, but there is the magic of science and scientific theory, as well as some pretty nifty psi-abilities. Action, adventure, breaking-and-entering, sarcasm, and an android--what more could you want?
I hope you enjoy!
Chapter One
The straining engine of the approaching Ames
moving van sputtered and hissed, barely making forty miles an hour on the
winding mountain roads, and announcing its arrival long before white metal
flashed in the trees below. Olivia Gellar braced her feet on the asphalt,
adrenaline already spiking as the van drew closer, trundling its way up the
mountain.
This job
will be child’s play.
“Sixty seconds, Olivia.” Nick’s voice crackled in
her ear. She’d left her partner higher up the west side of the mountain with
binoculars and an excellent vantage point.
“Check,” she said. “Come on down.”
She took the earbud out, snapped it into an
insulated case, and then tossed the case toward the side of the road. It hit
the shoulder and bounced into a patch of grass, out of harm’s way.
Time to work her magic.
Olivia stretched her arms out to either side,
palms forward, fingers splayed. She closed her eyes and concentrated. The
orange behind-the-eyelid sun glare disappeared, replaced by a gray mist. She
harnessed it to use with her unique talent.
The short hairs on her arms and the back of her
neck stood to attention, teased by the static field coalescing around her body.
A sharp, familiar pain struck, as if a hypodermic needle had been shoved
between her eyes. She pushed the pain and the gray mist forward, out in front
of her like a negatively charged brick wall waiting for its opposing force on
four wheels.
An engine roared and a horn blared. Scorching air
blasted the bare skin on her neck, face and hands.
Olivia opened her eyes and saw the front end of
the Ames van crumple as it hit the invisible wall, absorbing the brunt of its
own kinetic energy. The van had barreled around the bend faster than Olivia
expected and the remaining kinetic force slammed into her.. She flew backward
several feet and struck the pavement ass first. The impact drove a shock up her
spine, the air from her lungs, and the static field collapsed.
The world tilted and looped, and she coughed until
she could breathe again.
“Ouch.”
She forced her body to roll over so she could
observe her handiwork. The wounded van stood sideways across the middle of the
road, smoke rising from its mangled front end. The windshield had spider
webbed, but not shattered. Acrid odors of burned rubber and motor oil tingled
her nostrils and amplified the throbbing headache that only time would dispel.
“Olivia?”
Nick sprinted out of the woods with a handful of
broken twigs stuck comically in his wavy brown hair. He paused briefly to snag
her earbud case out of the grass as he dashed toward her, barely sparing a careless
glance at the van.
“I’m fine,” she said. Sort of. “Check the driver.”
He jerked left and slowed as he approached the
van. Olivia kept her eyes on him as she struggled first to her knees, then
feet, blindly picking a piece of gravel out of her throbbing elbow. Her stomach lurched, and she willed it away. An impact like that deserved a little
upchucking, but she had a job to complete.
Work now,
side effects later.
Nick peered inside of the open passenger window.
“Driver’s unconscious. His mind is pretty deep inside. He won’t be bothering
us.”
“Good.” Olivia approached slowly, a bit unsteady,
as if she was walking underwater. She crouched and peered beneath the van. “No
gas leaks, so just leave him there. He’ll be fine. Until Mitchell gets his
hands on him, anyway.”
Nick grunted.
They met at the back of the van. Olivia wrapped
her hand around the padlock securing the rear door. Nick’s hand drifted to her
lower back, the simple touch centering her addled mind. Through the haze of
pain, she pulled from the mist and her own inner reserves. The metal lock
heated. Hotter, hotter, until it snapped and hit the pavement with a soft
clatter. Nick tugged the lever. The door scrolled up.
Unventilated air wafted out and sunlight poured
in, illuminating the interior. Reinforced with aluminum sheeting the walls
resembled a Jiffy Pop popcorn pan. A hospital gurney stood bolted to the floor
in the center of the storage space.
Olivia climbed inside, pulse racing. McGreary’s
information had been correct about the time and place of transport. She just
wished that his knowledge of the cargo had been wrong.
A teenage girl was strapped to the gurney, her
narrow body covered by a thin, white sheet. Shorn close, her hair color was
impossible to discern. Cheekbones protruded sharply beneath translucent skin,
an awkward contrast to her thick, overdeveloped brow ridge, giving her youthful
face a hawk-like appearance. Her chest rose and fell in a steady, sleep-induced
rhythm.
“Is she drugged?” Olivia asked. Her voice echoed
painfully in the metal cocoon.
Nick stepped to the opposite side of the gurney.
He touched her cheek, concentrating with his own unique talent. “Yes. She’s
deeply unconscious, O, I can’t reach her.”
“God damn them.” Olivia unsnapped the buckles on
the gurney. “Drugging her up and stuffing her into the back of a van for
disposal. I guess Wilderness got tired of storing their mistakes and decided to
start getting rid of them.”
“We don’t know that.” He tucked the sheet around
the girl’s supine form, and then picked her up with little more effort than in
years past. They both struggled a bit more these days. “McGreary knew she’d be
here, but he didn’t know why. Maybe she was being delivered to a satellite
lab.”
Olivia followed him out of the van. “Please. If
this were a secured transport, there would have been at least one agent. They
didn’t even have someone in the back guarding her.”
“Can we table the argument for now? Like after
we’ve given McGreary his sister back and he’s paid us for our work?”
“Fine.”
She followed him into the woods, to the short
trail that would lead them up to their waiting SUV. Agents would be on the
scene in a few hours. They likely already knew the van was compromised. No
agents in the van did not mean there was no security measures in place. Olivia
knew Wilderness, and she knew their tactics. If the girl, Brooke McGreary, was
still an Active Project, they would put Mitchell on the case.
Gary Mitchell specialized in retrieving lost
Projects. After all, he had been trying to retrieve Olivia and Nick for
eighteen years.
#
Brooke remained unconscious for the two-hour drive
to the rendezvous spot, a rest stop along I-77, just over the Ohio state line.
She showed signs of waking during the last five minutes of the trip, so Olivia
kept close watch. She didn’t know if the girl’s powers were dormant or active,
and she didn’t want to find out the hard way.
Been there,
done that, with no intention of going there again.
Nick steered the SUV toward a wooded area a few
hundred feet from the brick restrooms and information building. A blue pickup
truck was parked in front of a cluster of picnic tables, and a figure emerged
as Nick pulled into a neighboring space.
Olivia climbed out of the passenger side, her
stiff back resisting movement after being still for so long. The ungraceful
landing on her ass had definitely left its mark, and she wouldn’t be surprised
to find some black and blue down there later.
She joined Nick on the other side of the vehicle.
Patrick McGreary approached them, hands at his sides, deep-set eyes wide with
silent questions. His thick frame and sunburned appearance bore little
resemblance to the girl in the back of their vehicle—not surprising given how
Wilderness tended to treat their Projects.
“Did you find her?” McGreary asked.
“Yes,” Olivia replied. “She’s still asleep, but we
found her. Exactly as you said we would.”
McGreary expelled a deep breath. “Thank you both.
You don’t know what this means to me. When they took her, I didn’t think I’d
ever see her again.”
Nick opened the rear door. McGreary leaned inside
and stroked Brooke’s bald head. His shoulders started to shake, and Olivia
looked away. Gave him some privacy with his emotions.
“You’re lucky,” Nick said. “Most of the time, when
Wilderness takes something, you don’t get it back. I just hope we weren’t too
late to make a difference.”
“Look what they did to her,” McGreary whispered.
“My pretty little sister.”
Olivia busied herself watching the small rest stop
crowd, his genuine gratitude both overwhelming and embarrassing. This was why
she hated meeting clients face to face. It made the jobs personal when she
wanted them to remain professional. Getting emotional led to thinking about the
past, and she couldn’t do that and remain objective.
Do the job and reap the rewards.
Watching Wilderness occasionally take one up the
ass was purely a bonus.
Once McGreary regained his composure, they gently
transferred Brooke to his truck and buckled her into the passenger seat. She
stirred, but didn’t wake, and thank God for that. Olivia didn’t need to see
their joyous reunion.
“I have a doctor friend who’s waiting for us,”
McGreary said as he closed the truck door.
“You should get going,” Olivia said. “Disappear
before they start hunting for her.”
“If they
hunt for her. But even if they try, being a precognitive has its advantages. I
never have to ask who’s at the door, and I always know if the train’s running
late.”
“Just keep her away from Wilderness. Get out of
the country, move to Istanbul, I don’t care. Keep her safe. And yourself, too.”
“I appreciate the concern, but it’s not necessary.
You did what I paid you to do, and I thank you for that.”
Olivia shrugged. They would take on any job that
insulted or damaged Wilderness. A tenuous truce prevented her and Nick from
attacking the scientific research organization outright, and they abided by
those unspoken rules. But these sorts of odd jobs were fun. Something she would
have done for free if the interested party couldn’t pay. Fortunately for them,
McGreary had created his independent wealth betting on football games.
Precognition definitely had its financial
advantages.
“Our concern is free,” Nick said. “We’ve been
dealing with Wilderness most of our lives. We know what they’re capable of, and
we don’t take unnecessary risks when they’re involved.”
McGreary nodded. “I understand. At least let me
read you. A sneak peek at your future.”
“I know my future, thanks.”
“How about this week then? What can it hurt?”
Olivia stole a glance Nick, whose gaze had shifted
to the ground. She had a good idea of their future, as well, thanks to their
biology, but that future was in three to five years. Not the events of the
upcoming week. Moreover, McGreary seemed eager to provide them with some sort
of parting gift.
“What the hell?” she said. “Give it your best
shot.”
McGreary took her right hand in his and held it
loosely. She expected him to close his eyes or start to hum or something
equally cliché. Like television psychics who only pretend to have the kind of
talent that truly existed in people like him. Instead, he stared at her. His
dark brown eyes dilated and seemed to look right through her head. She
visualized a hamster running on its wheel and couldn’t imagine what he saw in
there. Seconds passed. He blinked and released her hand. His eyebrows furrowed
into a knot.
“What?” she asked.
He tilted his head to the left, seeming to debate
his reply, and that made her kind of nervous. “I saw two strangers coming into
your life. I’m not sure who they are, but one is mundane and the other
powerful. Unique. They’ll help unlock a secret.”
Olivia bit back a sharp retort. Two strangers had
already come into her life this week, and she was staring at one of them. He’d
tried, but perhaps his power went on the fritz occasionally.
Then again, he’d said one was mundane, and both
McGreary and his sister had talents.
“Well, that was enlightening,” Nick said. “But
seriously, you should get going.”
Patrick nodded, seeming distracted.
They waited for him to drive away, hopefully
taking Brooke as far from Wilderness and West Virginia as possible, before they
climbed back into their borrowed SUV.
Olivia pulled the safety belt across her lap.
“Well, whoever this mystery pair is, I hope one of them’s cute.”
“What if they’re both girls?” Nick turned the key
and the engine roared to life.
“Still hope one of them’s cute, because Nicolas,
my friend, you have no sex life.”
He put the gear into reverse. “And you do?”
“Well, not at this very moment, but I hope to have
one tonight. After a hot shower, some ibuprofen, and a long nap.” She settled
against the seat, shifting until she found a comfortable position for the long
ride home.
Chapter Two
“Dr. Frey! Open the door!”
The urgent, muffled voice spurred Dean Frey away
from his chaotic desk. The computer’s hard drive lay smashed into dozens of
pieces, the hardware inside completely exposed. He’d tossed in a handful of
refrigerator magnets for good measure. His few remaining paper files and two
thumb drives were secured in the pack strapped onto his back.
His life’s work reduced to an old backpack.
He darted to the lone sixth floor window. His
already rolling stomach bottomed out at the sight of it. He rarely looked out
the window; he never used the rusty fire escape. Living on the top story had
never bothered his agoraphobia until the moment that three-by-five hole in the
wall became his only escape route.
He would not go willingly with the men shouting
outside his door. Doing so signed his own death warrant.
“Open it!”
Dean pulled, the window’s swollen frame squealing
in protest. He managed a space of maybe nine or ten inches before it refused to
rise further. He shoved the pack out first, and then squeezed through the tight
space. It occurred to him in a mad panic that all of his middle school suffering,
of being called “bean pole” and “arrow man” wasn’t so bad. His tall, skinny
build had probably just saved his life.
His hard landing on the iron fire escape rattled
its entire frame. A wave of vertigo swept over him. The ground blurred and his
head spun wildly. He gripped the rail, inhaled deeply, and then blinked hard.
I can do
this. I have to do this.
He shouldered the pack, swung around and descended
the ladder. Hand over hand, foot over foot, down the rusted rungs. One level at
a time. Not thinking about how far down to the ground it was.
Wood crashed above, probably the front door being
smashed in. Men were talking, some shouting, and the loudest of whom Dean
recognized. He had a very distinctive voice. Gary Mitchell, head of security at
Wilderness.
The man had left the office just for him.
Guess that
makes me special.
Dean hurried his descent, dropping floors as
quickly as he could without looking down. Above him, the fire escape clattered
with sharp squeals and clangs. Someone was following him, but Dean concentrated
on going down and nothing else. Third story to the second. Almost there.
He hit the ground and bolted toward the street.
Men shouted his name. The building wall spat brick and mortar as he ran past.
He registered that he was being shot at, but did not stop or slow down. If he
did, he would be killed. Even running toward daytime traffic, he couldn’t be
sure he wouldn’t be caught. He would not go gently. Not by a long shot.
Dean emerged from the alley and melted into the
bustling lunchtime crowd. Pedestrians carried briefcases and takeout bags,
rushing to meetings in their business suits and silk ties. Dean had thrown on a
pair of blue jeans and an old sweater, and he carried a faded backpack on one
shoulder. He was certainly the only one in the crowd running from the people he
worked for.
Used to work for.
He looked straight ahead, always searching. Public
phone booths were insanely hard to find nowadays, but they still existed. His
cell was in the apartment, as smashed to bits as his computer, useless even if
he’d kept it. Wilderness could have traced the phone.
A block down, he spotted the Holy Grail attached
to the side of a gas station. He clamped his hand down over the pack strap and
made a beeline for the payphone. No one noticed him. Here he was anonymous for
a while.
“For a good
time, call Alice” was scrawled in black marker across the top of the pay phone,
right above a number. Dean grabbed the grimy handset, then took a moment to
look around, searching the faces of the passersby for anyone he recognized.
No one. Not yet, anyway.
He fished into his pocket for change and tossed a
few coins into the phone. His fingers flew over the keypad; punching in the
number he’d burned into his memory last night. Probably the only person who
could help him out of this mess.
“The number you have dialed is not available,” a
mechanical operator voice said. “If you require assistance—.”
Damn it.
Dean slammed the handset back into the receiver.
His money clinked. He turned and looked back down the street toward his
apartment building. Less than twenty feet away, he spotted a familiar face.
Daryl Yates, a tall, thin man with a hooked nose who always reminded Dean of a
younger, uglier Jimmy Stewart, was Mitchell’s second-in-command.
Yates met his gaze. Both men froze. Dean’s heart
slammed against his ribs. Yates’s hand slid toward the front of his jacket.
Dean bolted, intent on running until he was hit by
a car or was shot in the back. He raced toward the street, bolted through the
nearest lane, and almost slammed right into a sheriff’s cruiser, paused in
traffic in the far lane. Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted to cheer or weep.
The deputy rolled down the window. Sunlight
glinted off his nametag: Porter.
“Problem, son?” Deputy Porter asked.
“Um, yeah.” Dean glanced behind him. Yates stood
stiffly near the abandoned payphone. Mitchell approached, his eyes glued on
Dean. Dean turned back to the officer. “Yes, sir. I really need to get to the
bus station. You see, my wife is in Wheeling and she’s about to give birth to
our first son, but I don’t have a car and—”
“Hop on in, son,” Deputy Porter said. “I’ll give
you a lift. You’ll have to ride in the back, though. Rules and such.”
“Thank you so much. You have no idea.” He opened
the door behind the deputy and slid inside, slamming it shut.
“You mind the siren? It’ll get us there faster.”
“The siren is fine,” Dean replied.
Porter flipped a switch on his dashboard and the
cruiser’s siren wailed to life. Dean looked out the window at the street.
Mitchell and Yates were gone.
Thank God.
He leaned into the seat, shifting his pack around
to rest in his lap, and tried to get his heart rate back under control. This
was simply a diversion. A quick rest before the next sprint. They were being
followed for sure, but there was no way to turn around and check without being
obvious. A suspicious deputy was the last thing Dean needed.
“First kid, eh?” Porter asked. He adjusted his
rearview for a better look, and Dean glanced up into curious eyes.
“Yeah.” Dean fidgeted a little. Lying was not
something he did well. “It’s been hard, a lot of miscarriages. I had to come
out here for business, and left poor Sally home alone. She isn’t due for two
more weeks, but I guess you can’t plan these things.”
Sally? Of all the names he could have picked, he
came up with Sally? He didn’t even know a Sally, except for the blond girl in
the Peanuts comics.
“I’ve got three kids myself,” Porter said, smiling
broadly. “All girls and every one of them looks like their mama.”
That was probably a good thing. The deputy was
chubby and balding, with mud-brown hair and a pointed chin. Not ugly, but not
someone you’d want a girl to take after.
“Wouldn’t have minded a son,” Porter went on. “But
my wife decided three was enough and had that operation. Wouldn’t trade my
girls for anything, though. You’ll know what I mean pretty soon, I think.”
Dean nodded along, content to let Porter do all
the talking. Then he wouldn’t ask questions Dean didn’t want to answer. Thankfully,
it wasn’t far to the bus station. He was half-afraid that the chatty deputy
would start telling him stories about potty training and diaper rash, all
subjects Dean had no interest in. Not today, and not anytime in the near
future.
Assuming he had a future. He’d heard stories about
the security team at Wilderness, and the things that those men were willing and
able to do.
If Dean didn’t get real help soon, he would be
dead.
#
Dean talked fast to prevent Deputy Porter from
following him to the ticket window. The aged man seemed to take it upon himself
to see to Dean’s welfare, concern that may have touched Dean if he wasn’t
running for his life. The longer Porter was around him, the stronger the
likelihood of him getting hurt. Or his family getting hurt. Either way, not
something Dean wanted on his conscience.
The bus station bustled with life. Young couples
searching for their buses, families juggling luggage of all sizes, single men
off on business trips, one or two poorly dressed kids that might have been
runaways. If Dean hadn’t been looking so hard for familiar faces, he probably
wouldn’t have noticed any of them. They would have been as anonymous to him as
he was to them.
Anonymity was a good thing.
He was also in luck for a change. A direct route
to Wheeling was scheduled to leave in less than ten minutes. Dean paid for a
ticket, relieved he had enough cash in his wallet to cover the bill. Security
tapes or not, he didn’t need his credit cards traced or attached to his
destination. If they even worked. Wilderness knew people. It was likely that
they were wiping out his entire life as he stood there, waiting for a young
woman with blue-streaked hair to print out his bus ticket.
She slid the ticket under the glass partition and
offered him a half-assed smile. “Have a nice trip,” she said with the
enthusiasm of someone resigned to saying that ten thousand times a day for the
rest of her life.
Dean mumbled a hurried thank you, grabbed the precious
slip of paper and turned. He almost crashed into the man in line behind him. He
muttered an apology and moved to the left, studying the station lobby,
automatically searching for black suits. Anyone in a black suit was immediately
suspicious, whether they were a lawyer, a tax attorney or one of Wilderness’s
security agents. Spotting no one who seemed overtly interested in him, Dean
walked toward the outer doors.
Once he exited the depot, he felt a fraction
better. He inhaled the semi-fresh air, almost choking on the strong odors of
oil and exhaust fumes. Six buses were lined up, in various states of readiness.
Four had their sides raised, and uniformed men tossed luggage into the
underside compartments with all the care of circus jugglers. The first two
buses in line were loading passengers. Dean checked the numbers. His bus was
first.
No way is
this good luck going to keep up forever.
He glanced back at the depot, and his hand jerked.
Yates and Mitchell stood at the ticket booth, only their profiles visible. The
blue-haired girl snapped her gum, but didn’t seem terribly interested in
answering their questions. Mitchell flashed a badge at her. Dean had seen those
badges, identifying the wearer as part of a private security firm. They worked
well as an intimidation tactic.
In most cases. The ticket girl just shrugged.
Yates turned. His dark eyes met Dean’s, and Dean’s
stomach churned. Yates nudged Mitchell. Dean didn’t wait to see how Mitchell
reacted. He walked toward the row of buses, moving quickly without drawing too
much attention. He went around the front of the fourth bus and back down along
the other side. A chain link fence topped with razor wire prevented him from
abandoning the bus station altogether. If more agents showed up, he was
completely screwed.
Dean dropped to his knees and peered under the
bus. Two sets of shiny leather shoes walked quickly in his direction. They
paused, and then split up. One went left, the other right. Dean swallowed. They
were going to trap him from either end of the bus.
His feet moved on their own, instinct carrying
Dean to the luggage carriers. He looked inside, expecting it to be stuffed
full. A clear path cut through to the other side of the bus. Only half loaded.
He offered a silent thank you to whoever was looking out for him today and
climbed inside. His hands slid on the surface of a leather suitcase, and he was
certain he heard something crack. Strong cologne bit his nostrils. His left eye
twitched, but he prevented the sneeze from escaping.
He peeked out of the other side of the compartment
in time to see Mitchell disappear around the back of the bus. Dean slid out,
landed on his hands and pulled himself out the rest of the way, uncaring who
saw or what they thought. His feet hit the pavement with a soft thump, and he
ran toward his own bus. He didn’t stop until he was inside and up the three
steps to where the driver waited to punch his ticket. Dean handed it over,
amazed that his hand didn’t shake. The driver glanced at it, punched it
absently and handed it back.
Dean found an empty seat halfway down the aisle,
glad the bus was only half-full. He imagined he looked pale and scared, and he
didn’t need a lot of people staring at him. He slouched low in his seat,
hugging the pack to his chest, afraid everyone around him could hear his
pounding heartbeat. The bus rumbled around him, that familiar, soothing engine
sound. He vaguely registered the driver making an announcement, or the hiss of
the closing doors.
I did it.
It wasn’t until the bus jerked forward that Dean
dared sit up and glance out the window. As they pulled away from the station,
he spotted a cluster of black-suited men standing amid the waiting buses. Dean
flopped back into his seat, relief hitting him like a sledgehammer and leaving
him boneless. His head lolled side to side in time with the lurching of the
bus. The trip should take about three hours.
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