Illusive (13 page)

“You have to hide us.”

His words aren’t registering. “What?”

“If you want us to escape,” Kit says harshly, “you’ll illusion this car to get us past whatever barricades the feds have set up.”

This cannot be happening. She can’t illusion something like a car. That hotel room in Manhattan was hard enough, but a room is static. This car is a moving, shifting, changing object. It’s far beyond anything she’s ever tried. Digging her fingernails into the fabric of the seat, she sucks in a breath and feels the illusion ripple through her brain. She instinctively wants to wrap it around her own skin, to make herself disappear, but that’s not what is needed right now. She pushes harder, trying to force her immunity outside of herself.

Darkness creeps in at the edges of her vision, shadows framing a world she no longer recognizes; she blinks several times.

“Ciere,” Kit says sharply.

The worst part is that she’s
trying
. She is reaching inside and pulling hard, but it’s as impractical and agonizing as trying to rip out her own intestines. She can’t do it.

“She’s turning blue,” Devon says, sounding alarmed. “Ciere, breathe!”

“Ciere!” Kit says again.

“Sod off,” Devon snarls at him. “It’s hurting her. She can’t do it and you can’t make her!”

Ciere opens her eyes, finds that she’s been pulled against Devon’s shoulder, his arms around her, his fingers touching the line of her jaw. “You all right?” His voice is soft in her ear.

She reaches up and tangles her fingers in his shirt, trying to push herself upright. “I’m okay.” The engine revs again and she feels it vibrate through her bones.

“All right, boys,” Kit mutters. “Chicken, it is.”

Ciere sees them—two feds with rifles, standing beyond a line of yellow cones. “They don’t want to fire yet,” Kit says. “Magnus!”

“Kit,” Magnus says, in exactly the same tone. “Where?”

“Underneath your seat.”

Magnus bends over. When he straightens, he’s holding a pistol, a silencer screwed into the barrel. Without even looking at it, he flicks off the safety, raises it to eye level, and fires two shots directly through the windshield. Cracks spider out along the glass and wind howls through the freshly made holes.

“I thought your lot didn’t carry guns,” Devon says.

Kit pays him no attention. “Magnus, if they hit the tires,
we are—” he begins to say, and then swerves hard, a loud chatter ringing out above the sound of the car’s engine.

“I see it!” Magnus leans out of his open window and aims at something Ciere can’t see.

Shots ricochet off the SUV, and one shatters the last remaining window. “Angle, angle,” Kit says over the racket. “Compensate for the windshield’s angle!”

“I know how to fire a gun, Kit!”

The car bounces into the air and Ciere’s head nearly hits the ceiling. Devon, taller than she is, cries out and begins frantically rubbing the top of his head. Ciere glances back and sees the line of yellow cones scattered along the road, bent and tossed about by the SUV’s tires.

The two feds stand on both sides of the road, apparently just having jumped out of the SUV’s path. One fed raises her rifle in a flash of light and sound.

Something explodes in a shower of sparks. Ciere feels a stir of air and the impact of a bullet slamming through the car. She throws herself to the side and sees the smoking hole carved through the SUV’s seat. It’s inches from where she was sitting.

She looks up, frantic to see if any more damage has been done.

“I don’t want to alarm anyone,” Kit says, in a tight voice, “but I think something hit me.”

Magnus shoves his pistol onto the dashboard and leans over. “Where?”

“Right side, beneath the ribs.” Each word is forced out from between Kit’s clenched teeth. Ciere edges forward, her hand coming to rest on the back of Magnus’s seat. It isn’t easy to see blood on Kit’s black shirt, but even she can tell that something wet is soaking through the fabric.

Magnus slowly peels the sodden cloth away from Kit’s side. “It’s not too bad.” He doesn’t look at Ciere, but adds, “You and Devon keep an eye on the back—see if there’s anyone coming after us.”

Ciere cranes her head around. Seeing through the rear-facing window is easy, since that window no longer exists. When she speaks, she has to raise her voice above the wind. “No one’s following us. Not yet.”

“Good.” Kit sucks in a deep breath and holds it for a second. “I’m going to keep driving. Any delay now could be fatal.” Ciere hears a soft noise; she doesn’t realize that it came from her throat until Kit adds, “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

“Shouldn’t he pull over if he’s been shot?” Devon asks. “I mean, if he passes out…?”

“Ah,” Kit says, grinning. “Friends don’t let friends drive while hemorrhaging?”

“You’re not hemorrhaging.” Magnus presses the wadded-up
cloth to Kit’s side. “It’s a graze.” He reaches beneath his seat again, and this time he comes up with a plastic first-aid kit.

Kit lets out a breathless little laugh. “God, that stings. I’d forgotten how much being shot hurts.”

“I’d forgotten how much getting shot makes you whine,” Magnus replies, cracking open the first-aid kit.

“You certainly know how to make someone feel better.” Kit’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel as Magnus goes to work.

Soon the only noises are Kit’s occasional complaints and the wind roaring through the broken windows. Ciere continues to watch the car’s rear, keeping an eye out for a tail. As they flee the city, she can see the smoke from the raid. It billows up, illuminated by searchlights. The whine of sirens recedes into the distance.

N
o matter how long Daniel spends in the shower, he can still smell the smoke on his skin.

The bathroom is all black marble and polished silver. The hotel’s signature line of soap adorns the sink, and the towels are folded in the shape of swans or some other ridiculous bird. The UAI definitely like their ritzy hotel rooms.

His bedroom is part of a larger suite that joins with Aristeus’s and Morana’s rooms. Well, Daniel corrects himself, now it’s only Aristeus. Morana was taken away on a stretcher and rushed to a Baltimore hospital. Daniel can’t say he’s heartbroken. In fact, he’s bordering on smug.

He tries to hold on to that feeling. It’s better than the sharp stab of pain when he remembers Ciere’s betrayed face. When she looked at him, not like a friend, but as an enemy.

The ache in his chest feels physical—like he’s being ripped apart from the inside. He and Ciere are friends. They’re crew. She’s the closest thing to family Daniel has left.

She’ll never forgive him. None of them will. Daniel digs his hand into his eyes, desperate to erase the memories.

Leaving the bathroom is a calculated risk. Daniel considers just staying in here, taking a towel and bunking down in the bathtub for the night, but then Aristeus will realize that he’s hiding.

Feel the fear, but do not let anyone see it.

It was an old saying that Kit was fond of repeating. When he would say it, Daniel and Ciere would share an exasperated look, and say,
“Jeez, why can’t you just say ‘never let them see you sweat’?”

“Because,”
Kit would say,
“my way sounds more intelligent.”

Daniel lets out a small laugh. It keeps hitting him. He’ll never listen to Kit’s pompous advice again. That part of his life is over, and that thought rubs at already raw wounds. Desperate for something new to think about, he strides out of the bathroom.

The suite is large and opulent, with a wall of windows overlooking the western horizon. A large leather couch faces another wall where the entire surface is covered with HDE; it’s probably programmed with all the television channels a person could want, but Aristeus hasn’t gone near it. Instead, he
stands by the windows with his arms crossed over his chest. But that’s not what draws Daniel’s attention.

The hotel door is open just a crack.

Daniel takes a step toward it. That door is an offer of freedom, a lure. To escape, all Daniel would have to do is walk through it. But he can’t. Aristeus knows that, so he didn’t bother shutting it. It’s a deliberate gesture—a way to show Daniel exactly who is in charge here. Aristeus probably gets off on these power plays.

Two can play this game.

“Any word on your partner?” Daniel asks.

Aristeus doesn’t turn, but Daniel can see his dour expression reflected in the window.

“Concussion and broken ribs,” Aristeus says, without looking at Daniel. “Internal bleeding. They’re taking her into surgery.”

Daniel makes no attempt to hide the smile in his voice. “That’s too bad.”

Aristeus continues to stare out the window. “Morana will be fine. She’s one of us after all.”

One of us.
Like being immune is some great privilege. Like it makes a person special. In Daniel’s experience, having an immunity doesn’t improve one’s life at all—it makes one a target.

“Are you sure you didn’t see anything?” Aristeus asks. He
doesn’t have to layer his immunity over his words to ensure that Daniel tells the truth. His earlier injunctions took care of that.

Daniel swallows. Aristeus’s present question is open-ended—it allows for Daniel to smudge the truth. Just a little. That’s how he manages to swallow down Ciere’s name and immunity. He will not betray her unless explicitly forced.

“I told you,” Daniel says, “I saw Morana run after a girl. I would’ve followed, but that would have put me out of your three-mile radius.”

“No normal girl could have taken down Morana,” Aristeus murmurs.

It’s not a question, so Daniel doesn’t have to answer. His gaze slides to the door again. He can see the hallway lights peeking through the sliver of open space and he can just make out the sound of footfalls. Daniel’s immunity sends a jolt through him—someone’s coming. Before he can say anything, Aristeus speaks. He leans against the window, hands in his pockets. “You’re uncomfortable here.”

Daniel considers denying it, and then weighs the pros and cons of outright admitting he’d rather be spending time with a cobra than with Aristeus. Finally, he settles on saying, “The hotel’s a little out of my price range.”

“Right.” Aristeus nods. “You’ve been on the run since you were thirteen. You ran away from home.” He moves away
from the window. “I had some of my people run a background check on you. There’re no reports of domestic violence and your grades were fine. You played sports, had friends. From what I can tell, you were a surprisingly well-adjusted young man. Did you run away because you were immune?”

Now that is a question, and Daniel can’t ignore it. Aristeus’s order to
tell the truth
yanks the words through his lips.

“No,” he says. “That wasn’t it.”

“Then why?” Aristeus asks. He seems genuinely curious. He’s playing good cop, trying to forge some kind of bond between them.

Again, Daniel cannot remain silent. “I did it for my sister.”

A flicker of surprise crosses Aristeus’s features. “Your sister? Tell me.”

No. Daniel can’t say it aloud; it will tear him apart. He sinks his own nails into his arm and blood wells up. But the pain cannot halt his words. “I ran away so that if anyone in my family were to catch the government’s attention, it would be me. That’s why I never used an alias. My twin sister is immune, too. I didn’t want her to be recruited.”

There it is. Daniel has never told anyone about his sister. He waits for the inevitable question—
What’s your sister’s immunity?
He’ll have to answer, and then his sister will be part of the system, forcibly recruited just like Daniel.

But Aristeus doesn’t ask. Instead, he’s looking at Daniel
like he just became more interesting. “How did you figure out you were an eludere?”

“Accidentally revealed my power by scoring a goal in a football game blindfolded,” Daniel says, relief making the words easier. His own secrets are of little value to him. “Did it on a dare. I’d never realized that everyone didn’t have a sixth sense, so I didn’t know any better. How’d you figure out you were a dominus?”

The briefest flicker of hesitation crosses Aristeus’s face. “I commanded my father to stop hitting my mother.”

Before he can say anything else, a whisper of instinct snaps Daniel’s head up. Aristeus follows his gaze to the door, and a moment later there is a knock.

Agents Eduardo Carson and Avery Gervais fill the doorway. Carson openly gapes at the room in a way that makes Daniel think the FBI agents must be staying in a very cheap motel.

“Glad to see you two came through the raid unharmed,” Aristeus says.

The two agents stand awkwardly in the doorway for a second before Gervais huffs out an impatient breath and steps inside, pulling Carson with him.

“You, too,” Gervais says. “Although I heard your partner had a… setback.”

Aristeus’s mouth draws tight. “She’ll make a full recovery.”

“Glad to hear it,” says Gervais. Without asking permission, he walks to the HDE wall and digs out his cell phone. He presses the phone to the enamel’s smooth surface. A shimmer runs along the wall, a ripple of light, before the screen powers up. The hotel logo appears in the center while the HDE syncs up to Gervais’s phone.

“We’ve got good news and bad news,” Gervais says. “First, the good news is that the raid on the TATE cell went well. There were no fatalities on our end, and only four or five injuries, including your partner. We managed to round up most of the perps suspected of working for TATE, although a few did manage to slip past the barricades.” He clears his throat. “We could have avoided that if we’d had more time to prepare.”

Aristeus seats himself at the couch and waves his hand in a gesture of dismissal. Keeping the FBI agents in the loop is obviously the least of his worries. “Has everyone been IDed?”

Carson, who has so far remained near the door, moves farther into the room. “We’re still working it,” he says. “Not everyone we found at the compound had legitimate tags, and many of them lack obvious criminal records. We’re trying to corroborate fingerprints with medical records at the moment.”

“And was this Frieda Fuller among them?”

Gervais and Carson exchange a look. Gervais punches in a command on his phone. The HDE wall glitters and a picture
appears on its smooth surface. It’s of a woman sprawled facedown in a parking lot, her head tilted at an unnatural angle and her limbs tossed about.

Daniel bows his head—he doesn’t want the agents to see him grieve. Fuller is dead. A rush of relief follows his initial shock. He’s sorry she’s murdered, but at least dead people can’t become traitors. Fuller’s secrets will die with her.

“This is the bad news,” Gervais says after a moment’s pause.

“Fuller is dead?” Aristeus looks at Gervais for confirmation.

“No, she’s just resting,” Carson deadpans, and Daniel balls his hand into a fist. Choking suffocation might be worth breaking Carson’s nose.

Gervais gives his partner a quelling glare. “Two of our agents pursued TATE members who managed to escape the main compound. They fired, and we fought back. This woman here was later IDed as Frieda Fuller.”

“I wanted her alive,” Aristeus comments.

Carson throws his hands up. “They were armed—they fired at federal agents. If you thought we were going to lie down and play dead—”

“She was the head of that TATE cell.”

“Then I don’t see why you’re upset,” Carson says. “The woman probably would’ve faced a death sentence anyway. Just happened without the court or jury fees.”

“I wanted to question her,” Aristeus replies. “She was trying to obtain information that could be a matter of national security. I need to know if she found it.”

Gervais and Carson look at each other again. An entire conversation takes place in that moment. It ends when Gervais twitches his shoulders in a shrug. “You know,” he says to Aristeus, “this… uh, joint mission between the UAI and FBI would probably go a lot smoother if we actually knew what we were looking for.”

“I second that motion,” Carson says, holding his hand up as if in a mock vote.

Aristeus’s gaze is fixed on Fuller’s picture. He doesn’t answer right away; his eyes unfocus and he lets out a small sigh. “Tell me what you know about TATE.”

Gervais speaks. “It’s one of the lesser-known terrorist groups currently active in the US. Known primarily for cyberterrorism—distributing sensitive information, breaking into government sites, and taking down the federally instituted firewalls. The name stands for Total Anarchy, Total Efficiency.”

Aristeus shifts restlessly. “Do you know who Richelle Fiacre is?”

Gervais snorts. “Is your next question going to be if I know the current president, too? Of course I know who Richelle Fiacre is. She’s the one surviving member of the Fiacre family.
The last remnant of that godforsaken pharmaceutical empire. Whereabouts currently unknown, although we’d love to find her. I think she was in Italy the last time US intelligence knew her location.”

A cold smile touches Aristeus’s lips. “Not living. Not anymore.”

“What?” Carson says, startled. “Seriously? She’s dead?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s the definition of ‘not living,’ ” Aristeus says smoothly. “Or maybe she’s just resting.”

“How?” Gervais demands.

“Liver cancer.” Aristeus rolls his shoulder in a shrug. “It took her rather quickly, as she never sought treatment. Checking into a hospital would’ve given her position away, and her anonymity was important to her. We only found out when she was identified at a morgue in New York. She had already had her will delivered to an estate lawyer in Baltimore under the alias of ‘Marie Louis.’ ”

“So the last Fiacre finally bit it. It’s something for the history books. Doesn’t explain why we raided a Baltimore suburb,” Carson says impatiently. “What does this have to do with TATE?”

The words take a moment to register, but Daniel feels it when everyone comes to the same conclusion. The silence is so complete that he hears Carson swallow. “Shit. You mean those terrorists were after the last Fiacre’s will? Why?”

There is only one thing that the Fiacres are known for—only one legacy they gave the world. One thing that people would kill or die for. “But the formula doesn’t exist anymore,” Gervais says quietly. “Fiacre destroyed it when he killed his family. It’s a fool’s dream.”

“I disagree,” Aristeus says. “Do you know what Fiacre’s last message was? He posted it on his website just before he set off those explosives. One word: Pandora. A box that could never be closed.”

“You think it’s still out there,” Daniel says, and he tries to sound as incredulous as possible. He’s a good liar. Maybe if he sounds startled enough, the feds won’t figure out that Daniel has already pieced this together. “You think the magic vaccine formula is just floating around, waiting for someone to find it.”

Aristeus turns a cold smile on him. “I know it is.”