Codename: Night Witch (41 page)

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One sleek black armored limousine after another queued by the front gates, disgorging a steady stream of passengers, along with an even greater number of security women and men.

The drug lords were the easiest to spot in the mix. These powerful barons of the pharmaceutical industry stood apart from the crowd, and not just by their elaborate mode of dress. No one dared approach them for fear of violence from their heavily armed escorts.

Men and women of industry, bankers and life-traders, they were all gathered together, muttering amongst themselves, hotly debating what it was that had brought them all here tonight. Last to arrive were the dilettantes. These were the pretenders and all around hangers-on: men and women of good breeding looking to snag a rich, if preferably aging, plutocrat to make their own.

The miserable weather encouraged all the guests to make haste, and it was a simple matter for Sigrid to slip into their mix as they made their way up the winding walkway to the promised warmth of the grand palace inside.

The generous vestibule was crowded with guests and security as she arrived. A smiling hat-check girl offered to take her coat. Sigrid accepted, though she took care not to smile or talk with the girl—her role as a young woman of means didn't permit her to chat up the help.

Letting her coat slip from her shoulders, she handed it to the girl. The colonel's dress worked its function to perfection. Not one head in the vicinity failed to turn her way, and at least seven jaws went slack, as no one failed to notice the girl in the stunning red dress.

Hide in plain sight?
Harry Jones was a master of the craft. Tonight it was Sigrid's turn.

Security was tight, but that was to be expected. She was being scanned at this very moment. The scrutiny was intense. Sensors hidden within the floors, walls, and ceiling scanned every part of her. X-rays, body scans, holo-scans—there wasn't one inch of her unaccounted for. But while the other men and women were being patted down, frisked and manhandled, Sigrid was allowed to pass. After all, what could she possibly hope to hide beneath a dress that revealed so much?

Now, only a single uniformed footman stood in her way. He stepped in front of her, blocking her before she could enter the gathering.

"Miss—?"

"
Lady
Camila Valentina Rodriguez," Sigrid said. "I'm on the list."

She wasn't, of course, but the footman didn't have to know that. This was the only part of her plan that was a complete gamble. And if it didn't work…well, things were about to get interesting rather quickly. As soon as she'd said her name, the electronic register—in all its mechanical efficiency—recorded and interpreted her voice and sent the name directly to the database.

And promptly fed back a null return, with an annoying squawk that didn't sound polite at all.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Rodriguez. There seems to be some sort of error. On our part, I'm sure. If you'll stand off to the side, I'll have security take care of—"

"No need. Here. Allow me. I'm certain my name is there. I'm a guest of Lord and Lady Middlesbrough."

Sigrid didn't have a clue who the lord and lady were, or if they even existed. It didn't matter. Her chatter was simply a distraction, a delay. While she chatted and simpered, her PCM was doing its damnedest to hack its way into the footman's database. And taking its sweet time too.

Well, if it didn't work, there was always plan B. Sigrid eyed the footman's heavy recoilless tucked into his uniform coat. She scanned it, taking a quick inventory of its ordnance. Just in case.

"Oh, look!" Sigrid said, clapping her hands. "It's there! My name. I knew it."

The footman did a double take, looking back at the register's display. Her name, which hadn't been there a moment ago, now appeared in bright bold letters.

"Well. So it is. Our mistake. Please,
Lady
Rodriguez, if you'll follow me, I shall be happy to announce you."

The footman removed the sash, parted the curtain, and Sigrid stepped through.

And froze.

She found herself standing on a landing. The landing was at the top of a small flight of steps overlooking the grand hall of the marquis's palace. Gleaming chandeliers lit the high, arched ceiling. Every square inch of the main hall appeared occupied by the evening's several hundred guests. They chatted in clusters, tended to by servers in their black finery. The sounds of music—from a real live band—mixed with the collective rumblings of conversations, filling the hall with a roar of noise.

But it wasn't the sight that stopped her cold. It was the unmistakable feeling—she'd been here before.

Sigrid stood with her feet mired in place, unable to move. A woman behind her bumped into her with an embarrassed gasp, which Sigrid failed to notice. She was stuck, transfixed, and she was utterly convinced: this was the place of her nightmares. More than that, she feared she knew exactly why she had come.

With one hand on the rail, careful not to tip over in her heels, Sigrid descended the steps.

She didn't notice it at first, perhaps mistaking it for the collective drone of conversations around her, but there was a buzzing in her ears. With each step, that buzzing grew until it was impossible to ignore. She shook her head, but that only made it worse. She was having trouble focusing. Something was clouding her vision—a flash of an image, dozens of faces contorted in fear and death. They came at her, swarming over her.

Her hand came up as if to ward them away, but as quickly as the image had come, it vanished.

She was starting to wonder if she'd imagined it when it hit her again. This time, she heard their screams and their cries for mercy. Stumbling, she gasped aloud. Her nightmare was becoming real before her eyes. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Sigrid understood her mistake too late. The dreams, the images assaulting her since she'd awoken in that facility, they weren't from some collection of lost memories. This wasn't from her past. They weren't memories at all. The dream images were schematics; they were orders, detailed and precise. The dream was a command program, and someone had just ordered that command program activated.

Her world became a blur of color noise; the buzzing in her ears grew to a thunderous roar. Yet the louder it sounded, the clearer everything became.

This place, it was utterly familiar to her. She knew each and every square inch of it. Through the crowd, she saw the winding staircase. Straight out of her nightmares, it was exactly as she knew it would be. She even knew where it led—up to the private residences and the offices of the marquis. To the left were the kitchens. And to her right…

On the far side of the hall, past the groups of guests, beyond the buffet table and past the waiting group of flesh-traders, Sigrid saw them: the two great, oaken doors. The doors were sealed. Eight security men stood watch. Beyond those doors was a conference hall, and there, tonight, a new Council would be formed.

Except that she was here to stop it.

She was a quarter of the way across the floor, striding purposefully, pushing her way through the crowd before she realized what she was doing. The doors loomed ahead of her like a portal. The answers she sought were inside. All Sigrid had to do was enter. She knew this, because the whispered voices told her so.

Enter and free yourself. End your pain.

But Sigrid wasn't the only one moving toward those doors.

The noise of the crowd around her grew in volume, and there was a great deal of jostling as people were forced to make way. Not for her. Not for Sigrid. But for a new group of arrivals.

Excited muttering, pointed fingers. No one was looking at her. Ahead of her, not fifteen meters away, armed security men worked to part the crowd, forcing everyone back. Without delay came a long procession. Forty-seven women and men—forty-seven new targets for the Night Witch. They walked in silence, separated from the crowd of guests by the men in their security uniforms. The double oak doors opened and the procession was ushered quickly inside. One by one they passed. The only thing separating her from them was an arm's length and the clusters of eager, jostling guests that kept getting in her way.

Somehow, Sigrid knew them all. She knew their names, their titles and their positions. Bank accounts, stock holdings, sexual histories and proclivities—nothing was left off the record. Not even the order in which they were to be killed.

Yet there was one person in the procession—one that stood out from all the others. Her presence sent a jolt through her that left her trembling. She looked exactly as she had seen her last, nearly seven years ago. Unlike the others, this woman didn't walk. She hadn't been able to walk properly for decades. She was in a wheelchair, and she was, of course, Lady Hitomi Kimura.

Desperate, Sigrid tried to call out to her—to warn her away—but the words stuck in her throat. She tried to raise her hand, only to find it planted firmly at her side. The more Sigrid struggled, the more her own body betrayed her, fighting back, and the greater the pain became.

Her world tilted hard over. Her eyes rolled back far into her head and her knees buckled beneath her. Only the crowd of people surrounding her, pressed against her, kept her from falling over. Somehow she made it to the wall. She clung to it, leaning hard against it. She remained there for several minutes as she gulped in lungfuls of air.

Sigrid heard the whispers of the people around her. Drunk, they said. Disgusted, they turned away.

With each passing second, she felt herself slipping away, like a program wiped clean only to be overwritten. Sigrid shook her head. Fighting was useless and only brought more torturous pain. There was something working its way through her, forcing its way in and threatening to take her over, and it was going to succeed.

"No!"

She'd blurted the word aloud. Two ladies stopped their conversation to shoot her cold stares before turning back to their cocktails and canapés.

Sigrid was losing it. Within seconds, she knew she would be lost forever.

Silently, Sigrid activated her communications module. The transmission would be detected, but she didn't care. It didn't matter anymore.

"Suko."

"Sigrid? We're almost in. We're at the tradesman's entrance now. We can get to you in…eight minutes—"

"Shut up!" The words, though communicated without sound, still felt harsh in her head. But there was no time for kindness. "Suko, you have to listen to me. Lady Hitomi is here."

"Hitomi?"

"I saw her. She was right in front of me."

"Sigrid, are you sure?"

"Suko, listen to me. You have to do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

"Sigrid, you're frightening me."

"Good. Because I'm frightened myself. I understand, Suko. I understand what this place is. I understand what Jones did to me. And I know what he wants me to do. Suko, you have to get out of here."

"Blast it, Sigrid, you know I'm not leaving you."

"You have to."

"Sigrid, why?"

"Because, my love…" Sigrid clung to the wall, grasping for control. "Because this is where I'm going to kill you."

"You don't know that! You can't say that! Sigrid, don't—"

Ignoring her pleas, Sigrid switched the channel off.

She did it because Suko was wrong. Sigrid knew exactly what she was going to do. She knew how she was going to do it, and she knew when. She was going to kill every last soul in this whole damned place, and there was nothing she could do to stop herself.

She knew this because the man who had just issued the kill order was standing right in front of her.

"Good girl," Harry Jones said. "Now, get to work."

CHAPTER THIRTY
The Night Witch

Ever since Sigrid was a child, Harry Jones had hunted her. He'd killed her friends, taken Suko from her. There wasn't anyone in the world she wanted to kill more. And here he was, standing in front of her within easy reach.

No, not
him
. This was the "new" Harry. The one from the photographs the magistrate had showed her. He looked younger than he'd appeared on Bellatrix—decades younger than on Konoe. How this was possible, she didn't know. Each of her probing scans were blocked. It didn't matter; she would kill him just the same.

Her hand lashed out, ready to clasp his thin neck and squeeze. Her fingers froze not two centimeters from his face, as if locked in place.

"You won't kill me," Harry Jones said. "You can't. Perhaps one of these days you'll come to accept that."

Sigrid tried again, but her hand refused to move. If anything, it pushed back against her, causing her to grunt, straining from the effort.

"I killed you on Bellatrix," Sigrid spat. "I saw it. I saw you burn!"

"Did you? Memories can be a tricky thing, Ms. Novak. Don't you think?"

The pain came hard again, winding and twisting its way through her head. Sigrid collapsed against the wall, grasping at her temples with her hands.

"What have you done to me?"

Harry Jones pulled his thin lips into a smile. "Why, absolutely nothing, Ms. Novak."

"You took my memories. You stole my life."

"Your memories are not part of the equation. Eliminating them was necessary. We needed to free you from that burden."

"Burden? What burden? What are you talking about?"

The crowd surged between them, people pushing past: a waitress with a tray of empty fluted glasses headed for the bar; a couple arm in arm, deep in conversation. For a moment Harry Jones disappeared. Sigrid blinked, wondering if she'd imagined him. But there he was again—and looking
exactly
as she'd seen him on Bellatrix six years ago, taller now, older, pale and painfully thin.

"How…?"

"It is time, Ms. Novak," Harry Jones said. "Time for you to get to work. Time for the
Night Witch
to make her mark."

Night Witch.