Invasion of Justice (Shadows of Justice) (6 page)

Dropping the useless self-pity, he pulled out an innocuous-looking camera no bigger than his palm. He turned it on and held his index finger over the sensor in the lens until the back slid open.

Pointing the lens around the room, he made sure all was functional,
then linked the device to his laptop. The tracking software came up on the bigger screen–useless since he'd been unable to get a tag on her. What he wanted was the code breaker he kept stored in the camera's memory.

He brought up CRIA's home page and addressed a bogus email to Special Agent Kincaid. Gideon smiled when seconds after he pressed 'send' the agent's inbox came streaming onto his screen.

Skimming for keywords relating to Chicago, Gideon found more references than he had time to track down. He saved it all but studied the most recent five messages in depth.

Knowing Kincaid, the evidence officer's death had to be the issue. Why that got Petra keyed up was a better question.

He heard the soft whir of a housekeeping cart as it moved down the hall to prep for a new day. Hacking the hotel's information system, he changed his room status to 'cleaned' and ignored the overflowing trashcan at his feet and the pizza boxes in the corner.

Quickly Gideon shut down his systems and stowed the more sensitive gear in case someone did manage to get in.

He had a quack to catch.

Petra stood in front of the museum steps frustrated with Kincaid, this case, and life in general. Her sister, whoever she was, had been here, had been in trouble somewhere on the other side of those massive doors, and now she was simply gone.

Beside her Kincaid stood still, but she knew his eyes were taking in every detail of both the accident scene and herself.

"Feeling anything?" Kincaid pushed.

Petra shook her head. "Nothing to enhance or contradict the formal report." She knelt to the scarred pavement where the pursuit-stopper had melted the tire and caused the evidence van to slide out of control and into a roll. "Let's go look at the van."

To his credit, Kincaid kept quiet as he drove them to the police wreckage lot. Petra appreciated his restraint, unsure if she could answer specific questions about her interest at the museum. She needed the silence to try and get a handle on her feelings and all the residuals bouncing around.

"The men from the train have started their sentences," Kincaid declared, breaking the silence.

"What charges stuck?" she asked, regretting the inadvertent pun as she thought of Nathan and needles.

"Kidnapping and assaulting an officer."

"Meaning me?"

Kincaid nodded.

"That's hardly fair. Gideon baited that man into action. I'm surprised the defense didn't go for entrapment."

"They did," Kincaid admitted. "The evidence and the report matched up."

"Thanks to you."
Petra crossed her legs and arms, to hell with neutral body language. "I thought you were better than that. So much for fair and impartial."

Kincaid brought the car to a jerking stop in front of the wreckage lot gate. "I could say the same. You're supposed to read people and crime scenes Petra. Why did you purposely put yourself in danger?"

"I needed information. Information that could've been gained peacefully, if I'd been allowed to do my job my way."

"Gideon says Jane Doe's killer walked away from the fight in the engine."

Petra struggled to keep her tone neutral. "I told you it was self-defense."

"So one of the prisoners jumped the lead guard, killed her, and led the exodus to freedom?"

"Sure." Petra stared out the window, away from Kincaid, but the lot full of crumpled vehicles did nothing to soothe her.

"What aren't you telling me, Petra?"

She faced him then, ignoring the anger in his eyes and aura. "The same things you never tell me. The details that don't matter as long as you get to put away the correct bad guy." She flung open the door. "Let's go. I'll read the van and you can write it up however you need to." She left him sitting there and marched to the cop at the gate.

"You need a vacation," Kincaid muttered before offering his credentials.

The man checked Kincaid's badge and request form, then pushed a button and pointed. "Fatality row 8, slot D. You got ten minutes."

After a brief pause and a mechanical groan, the gate slid back, allowing Petra and Kincaid access. She had to shield herself from the echoes and aches radiating off the most recent accidents.

When they arrived in the fatality section, Petra was glad her defenses were holding. "So much pain here," she murmured.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just a lot of physical pressure. That's usually easier than the emotional, unless it's in high concentrations."

"I'll never get how inanimate objects tell you so much."

Petra smiled at him. She'd never been able to effectively explain how she saw the world to anyone. Not even to the specialists her parents consulted through the years. Her psychic strength was post-event, reading the emotions people left behind on other people and things. Her vision spectrum differed slightly from that of the general population, allowing her to see fluctuations in mood and energy around a person. The out-of-body flights, well, everyone thought they were bad for her, but she refused to give up the exquisite freedom, especially when she'd learned to use her flights to help others.

She wondered if her sister had any traits that held her apart from the world. She was starting to hope so–it would give them a small piece of common ground.

She neared the back of the van and felt a devastating, emotional punch to the heart. Grief and sorrow from two dominant people threatened to swamp her, but instead of weakening, she felt a spurt of strength. Grateful, she used the unexpected gift to sort out the sensations tumbling around her.

Her sister had been very close by when Officer Ferguson died. She was one of the dominant residuals. The other was the surviving officer. His temper and helplessness lashed out and Petra took a step back.

Kincaid slanted her a look, then pushed open the van doors and she followed him inside, reading the feelings left behind by the man who'd worked here. The loudest traces of Larry Ferguson told her he enjoyed his job and took his work seriously. She read a man of integrity and purpose, and good spirit. "This is a terrible loss."

Kincaid muttered an agreement.

"No. Beyond the obvious loss of a fellow officer, Kincaid. This was an upright man of courage."

"As all cops should be."

"Yes, but he went above and beyond in the pursuit of justice. Losing him has upset her terribly."

"Her who?
The Jane Doe from docks?"

"No." Petra didn't elaborate on her lie.
"Just a witness to this accident who knew Ferguson."

"So it was an accident?"

"No." She doused Kincaid's relief. "This was sabotage."

"How can we prove that now? The partner removed the restraints in support of his protest."

"Admissible proof won't help anyway."

Kincaid gave a low whistle. "The saboteur is the same serial killer we've been hunting in Ohio?"

She nodded, thinking. "I'm ninety percent certain. If he's not the same man, he's on the same team. The residual is all over this panel." She let her fingers hover, let her vision blur. "Your admissible proof might be in the programming. If he tampered with the automatic restraint settings in addition to fraying the straps–"

"Either method would've been enough."

Petra nodded. "Using both insures the fatality."

"Our boy's been nothing if not thorough."

A bell rang out over the lot and Petra scrambled out of the van.

"Where are you going?" Kincaid asked.

She pointed to the speaker mounted high on a nearby pole. "Time's up."

"Says who?" Kincaid checked his watch. "We've got two more minutes by my count. Get in here and help me collect the box."

Petra blinked and climbed back in to help Kincaid. Hearing things, even bells, couldn't be a good sign. She made a mental note to call Kelly as soon as possible. Maybe her desperate un-anchored flight had made her more vulnerable than she suspected.

Chapter Four

What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and
is immortal. –Albert Pike

It shouldn't be this easy, but he wouldn't scoff at such an unexpected pleasure. He'd planned on a challenge, but he could create other challenges if she continued to play the fool.

Naturally, he expected stupidity from her handlers, they were but average humans. He hadn't expected she'd hold herself to their uninspired view of her potential.

Leo Kristoff toyed with the memento he'd saved from the day he'd created Petra Neiman Burkhardt. He closed his eyes and brought her face into focus, as clear as a hologram in his mind's eye.

He modified the image to the memory of holding her in his arms moments after her birth. Her parents were thrilled with their baby girl, thrilled with him for helping them conceive.

Now it was time for her to be reborn to her higher purpose.

Who better to baptize her, than her maker?

Kristoff opened his eyes, rang the tiny silver bell once more, and waited.

* * *

Gideon was surprised to beat Kincaid and Petra to the wreckage lot, but he made the most of the advantage, taking a parking space across the street with full view of the only entrance to the facility. He watched Kincaid and Petra arrive, check in with the guard, and walk inside. As soon as they were out of sight, Gideon took his time to approach and attach a bug to Kincaid's car. Programmed for a twenty-four hour degrade, he'd get anything of immediate importance and by the time this listening device ate itself and stopped transmitting, he'd have something more permanent in place.

While he waited for Kincaid and Petra to return to the car, he used his laptop to continue researching Petra's parentage, or rather the doctor who'd made Petra possible.

Turning up Leo Kristoff's name made the hair on the back of his neck snap to attention. It was just too close to be coincidence, though the good doctor had never hidden his cutting-edge obstetrical work. To the contrary, he'd launched his political career with the accolades from the many satisfied families that wouldn't have existed without his help.

The current Health Chairman's name had recently appeared on a highly guarded black list–one that Gideon had seen while sorting through the Intel for Nathan's current op.

Gideon now had to wonder if Nathan knew about Kristoff's role in his birth. He had to wonder if the connection had impacted Nate's selection to the elite squad currently trying to squash a corrupt prison juicing ring.

"What next?" Petra's voice flowed from the receiver in Gideon's laptop.

Gideon didn't move, waiting for Kincaid to settle into the car and answer her.

"For you?
Rest."

"Sounds great."

Petra's easy acceptance surprised Gideon. Apparently, it surprised Kincaid as well.

"
Wow, that was too easy. You must be drained."

"More than a little," Petra confessed. "I'm sorry I couldn't read any more back there. This guy is so nasty, it shadows his physical features. He thrives on creating pain and chaos."

"Don't they all?"

Gideon grunted his agreement with Kincaid on that point.

"I'll take this to the lab and pick you up later."

"Pick me up for what?"

Gideon frowned, listening closely.

"The charity ball at the
Amberwood Polo Club starts at eight tonight. We're going. Don't argue," Kincaid said.

"I'm not going."

"Yes you are."

"No. I can't stand crowds and it's not part of this case."

"There might be a connection."

"To what?" she snapped. "You think the social elite invited our killer to a charity gala?"

Gideon laughed. Keeping their agenda in mind, he turned down the receiver on the rest of the argument and let the car slip out of sight. He was already running late for his own meeting and had some errands to run before resuming his surveillance detail. If he was lucky, Petra would stay put. When they went out tonight, he'd be right there with them.

Alone in her suite, Petra didn't bother agonizing over Kincaid's heavy-handedness. He was who he was and bickering would never help.

She'd give just about anything to avoid this charity ball thing. Amberwood Polo Club was just the place she'd find her parents rubbing elbows with the fashionable and elite. Of course, they'd raised her with the expectation that she'd join them one day, but today the very idea left her bitter.

Petra tossed and turned in a futile effort to get comfortable in the hotel bed. She rolled over again and pummeled the pillow. It seemed sleep didn't come easy to a daughter in the throes of a rebellion. Rebellious was a modest description of her feelings since she uncovered a sister and watched her parents cut Nathan out of their world.

How they could just give up on him–their own flesh and blood–baffled her. No questions, no denials, just bland acceptance that he could visit such horrendous violence on another person.

Her parents didn't get it. Even now after all her years of analysis and service to various legal authorities, they didn't understand her ability to practically smell the presence of evil. Nathan didn't give off that vile sensation.

She knew him. Just as she knew evidence could be manipulated and retina signatures stolen. There was no way the brother she'd grown up loving and idolizing could hide such darkness from her. Their unique talents and perspectives bonded them. They'd shared everything through the years–even dreams.

The dreams!

The idea echoed in her mind and Petra realized she'd found the connection she needed. He couldn't push her away or fight her in dreams. It was the one special bond they'd never confessed to any of the doctors or analysts. She'd always had better control during their dreams, though he'd always been better able to discern their meanings.

Having no idea to Nathan's whereabouts or his sleep schedule, Petra decided to try anyway. She thought back to the very first dream she could recall sharing with him. Closing her eyes, she let the warmth of the precious memory fill her and carry her away.

She stood on the edge of a desert cliff, the red earth beneath her stretching out to meet a soft morning sky above. The sun hadn't yet conquered the eastern horizon and the air buffeting her child's body was cool.

Here, at the top of El
Deir, a monument in the ancient city she was named for, she felt completely at ease. Thanks to her brother, this dream had become home more than anywhere she'd lived in her waking hours.

Here was where she'd learned to fly, before she understood how to control her out-of-body journeys. Smiling, she leaned into the wind and let it catch her.

She soared out above the cliffs, then dove down into the canyon like a hawk on the hunt. This was playtime, full and happy, and laughter bubbled up and out of her to dance across the air.

In her dream she flew everywhere, exploring the ruins of a once vibrant population. She ducked in and out of tombs and catacombs, soared over the
amphitheatre and up to the Temple of the Winged Lions.

He'd shown her this place when she was young and he'd told her she'd grow into a winged lioness–strong, powerful, and protective. They would meet here in dreams to play or to talk. At this special place he taught her how to leave messages that no one else could find.

She simply thought, "I love you," and watched the words appear on the stone. She waited, hoping she'd be lucky enough to catch him dreaming too, when a dark sensation crept up on her.

Her face stung under the force of a blow and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. Petra put a hand to her tender lips, but when she checked, her hand was clean.

She leaped into the air, to escape the dream and the wicked laughter swirling around her.

The laughter ripped Petra from her dream into a new vision. A vision filled with a deadly battle.

She saw him circle the struggling victim and recognized him as the assassin from the genetics lab. She saw the blood on his lip and Petra felt how the fight made the kill all the sweeter for him. She watched him dodge the next desperate swing, felt his disgust for the pitiful scientist. With a single blow of hand to throat, he crushed the scientist's larynx. Unable to resist, he skipped the paralytic agent he'd used the last time and gutted the mute scientist with a horrific delight.

Petra woke in conflict, hating the sensations he'd pressed on her, wondering how it was even possible that he'd torn her from her own dream. Her body shook and her mind reeled from the vulnerability.

She reached blindly for the cell card and dropped it. She found her pad of paper to sketch what she'd seen. But her grip was weak and the room spun as a heavy darkness enveloped her.

Gideon stood in the main lobby of the Sears Tower and considered the various power struggles that had been planned and resolved within these walls.
Funny how people just came and went in their day-to-day lives with no clue about the plotting and planning taking place a few stories up.

He took the elevator to the tenth floor, then the stairs to twelve. Exiting the stairwell, suite 12-A was the first door on the right. He paused, realizing he shouldn't be trashing ordinary citizens for ignorance since he didn't have much idea what took place behind the other doors on this level.

He opened the office door and froze. Something was wrong. Only silence greeted him. This office had a 24/7 AID. The Automated IDentification program would sound a greeting the moment the door opened. If the guest was cleared, the door on the opposite wall would open. If not, the intruder would be treated with a memory-altering drug and escorted to a more benign office to recover.

Along with most other operatives, Gideon had tried to circumvent the AID in his early years with the special operations group. Neither he, nor any of his predecessors, had ever succeeded. This particular office had the longest running record for non-discovery.

If this place had been blown, no place was safe.

As if answering his concerns, the rapid tremor in his biceps wasn't the normal summons, it was the emergency pattern.

Damn, the last thing he needed was a project emergency.

Gideon's brain went into overdrive. He could leave immediately and pray his own cover hadn't been blown. Or he could stay and gather clues to who shut down the AID and why.

His debate ended when the sub-dermal pager beat another urgent tattoo in his arm. The door he'd expected the AID to unlock slid open revealing three men, all strangers. Their blank eyes and somber expressions combined with the bulky, popping muscles told Gideon he was up against professional juicers out for blood.

He slammed the outer door closed, feeling his blood warm to the challenge of combat.

Time slowed for Gideon. He saw each moment crystallized and separate from the next. The lead man stalled for a split-second, long enough for Gideon to capitalize on the miniscule advantage of surprise.

He dove for cover behind the reinforced AID desk as all three opened fire. Not stunner or
taser-shot. No, the sound of the ammo slamming all around him said these juice-jerks were packing retro, one hundred percent lead bullets.

Gideon laughed as he readied the pathetic excuse for a weapon his boss had approved. The .40 caliber pistol held a ten-round clip of either rubber bullets or stunner shot. Just the sort of ammo juicing soldiers ate for breakfast.
Without milk.

Non-lethal might've been the issue when they'd handed him this lousy assignment, but he was hip-deep in trouble and damned if he'd let these three take him out.

He loaded his clip of stunner shot and listened as they moved to surround the desk, then popped up and caught the one closest to the open doorway in the neck. The chemical ammo had more effect than Gideon anticipated. The sucker swayed and dropped to his knees.

Gideon knew the fallen soldier wouldn't distract others. The big argument in favor of juicing was the focus it gave men in battle. At least the downed man gave him a new cover point.