Ruthless (24 page)

He heard the crack. It was subtle at first, like the noise a tuning fork makes, or like something bumping against something heavy. A thump, but with resonance. He listened, and he heard it again, louder this time.

Eric Simmons couldn’t help but smile. This was why he did what he did with Cassidy. It wasn’t because she was the greatest lay, because there were way, way better out there.

It was because when trouble came his way, she was the best damned insurance policy he could imagine.

The door shattered and collapsed inward, and when it finished, Simmons just stood there staring out at the Russian guy with a big ol’ smile on his face. “Nice job,” he said, feeling like he should say something to the dude. It was like looking in a dark mirror—tall guy, dark hair, handsome. His kind of friend, really. “I’m Eric Simmons,” he added, like he had to.

“Vitalik Kuznetsov,” the guy answered, gesturing him forward. Eric stepped out and gave the prison a look around. Still a cube. He could see a little more of it now than he could through the door, and now it didn’t look so distorted. That was another bad thing about the gel. It made everything look a little funhouse mirror-y.

“Simmons,” came the voice of a woman who had been lurking just outside his cell. His initial impression of her screamed
dangerous
in bold letters. “You’re wanted on the phone.” She extended a cell phone to him, which he took.

“Hey, babe,” Eric said without even waiting to hear who was on the other line.

“It’s so good to hear your voice again,” Cassidy said on the other end, relief rushing through with a little wheeze. That was her asthma. It was weird that she had it, because he didn’t know any other metas that had any problem like that. Not that he knew a lot of them. “How did they treat you?”

“It sucked,” Eric said, shaking his head. He was looking the Russian woman up and down. She was fit. Dangerous, too, obviously, but … how long had he been in there? “What’s the play? We just gonna waltz out of here?”

“The Russians dusted the place with a suppressant that took away all metahuman powers,” Cassidy said with a little undisguised glee. “They got Sienna Nealon and her brother with it, but they both slipped away. She’s been making a lot of noise since, raising some hell all over their campus.”

“You want me to bring the place down around their ears?” Eric asked. He looked around the prison, the Cube. He wouldn’t mind sending this place down on itself, rubble crashing down for five stories and burying this hellhole forever. Maybe it’d bury his memories of this boring dump with it.

“I want you to come back to me, baby,” Cassidy said softly. She was echoing a little, which meant she was in her chamber. He wondered if she’d been in there the whole time he’d been in here. It would have been like doing a prison stint for both of them if she had, though she didn’t mind as much. “I want you to come to me, and we’ll deal with Sienna Nealon later, on our terms.”

“Seems a shame not to get a hit in while I’m here,” Eric said, “and while you’ve gone and declawed her and all. Without her powers, she’s gotta be a nothing, like—”

“She’s killed twenty of my men,” the Russian broke in, her frosty eyes flaring cold. “Including two metas.”

Eric felt his mouth dry out. “Live to get revenge another day. Got it. Sounds like a good idea.”

“There is one thing we could do to cause her a few headaches,” Cassidy said on the other end of the line. He could almost picture her, in his head. Bad lay or not, she’d be a damned welcome sight after his last few days. And a welcome—well. She’d be welcome.

“I’d like that,” Eric said. “I’d give her a brain hemorrhage if I could. What do you want us to do?”

“I need you to have Vitalik open one of the cells,” Cassidy said. “More than one if possible—”

“It’s possible,” Eric said, glancing over at Vitalik. “Dude can frost these suckers over in no time. Cracks ’em open like a crab leg. Which, I am totally in the mood for lobster right now. Or seafood of some kind. They didn’t feed me anything but pre-fab shit in here, baby, like you wouldn’t believe—”

“Eric,” she said softly on the phone, and Simmons came right back to himself. He looked over the Cube, looked at the Russian lady, and at Vitalik. They were both waiting on him for instruction. “We need to help cover your escape. You need some help.”

“Help, yes,” Eric said. “Got it. Who in here is gonna help us, though?” His eyes swept the whole square of prisoners, and he’d counted something like twenty of them. “Kind of a lot of choices.”

“I did the research,” Cassidy said, cool, smiling through the phone. God, he wanted to get his hands on her right now, she sounded so good, even with that slight wheeze. “I want you … to open the cell with Anselmo Serafini in it.

“Simmons is out,” J.J. said in my earpiece. We’d set up a quick conference, and now—for better or worse—the geek was a temporary replacement for the normal voices in my head. Whom, I have to say, I strangely missed at the moment. Maybe it was the contrast of having J.J., Reed and Scott echoing in my ear in their stead, but having the viciousness of Wolfe on call was occasionally useful, even if I didn’t talk to him or the others as much as I used to.

I should probably do more of that, I conceded.

“What’s the plan here?” Reed asked as we stormed through the tunnel toward the headquarters building for the second time tonight. This time, though, I was dressed for the occasion. My AA-12 fully automatic shotgun was slung over my shoulder and ready for the dance. It was a much better choice than a dress, I had to concede. More comfortable for me, too, even though it felt a lot heavier without my meta strength.

I missed my meta strength like a dieter missed carbs.

“Follow me and don’t die, Sean Bean,” I shot at Reed. I knew it would elicit a frown without even turning around, but I did it anyway just to see the look on his face.

It was sour. “Thanks for that,” he said, the MP5 slung around his shoulder, ready to go. I knew he knew how to use it, but I was a little unsure if he
would
use it when the moment came. I had to assume so, though.

“They’re moving to Anselmo’s cell,” J.J. said with a rising note of panic.

I said something distinctly unladylike and caught a sidelong glance from Scott. He shouldn’t have been surprised, because he and I had done it numerous times. Then I remembered that he couldn’t recall it even if he wanted to, and I felt a surge of guilt that I ignored, ignored, ignored.

“You’re clear through the lobby,” J.J. said. “One guard at the entrance to the prison tunnel.”

“What are we gonna do about the hostages?” Reed asked, and I could hear the nerves.

“Punt,” I said, not really sure. “We can lock down the prison on our end, maybe, trap them down there. J.J., the prison guards—”

“They’re … not gonna be of any help,” he said, in a tone that left me in no doubt that they were dead. Damn.

“The mercs are gonna kill the hostages if we don’t deal with them, Sienna,” Reed said, catching my attention again. “They have to be first priority.”

“Anselmo getting out is my first priority at the moment,” I said, with a snap. “That and the guy who could send our whole world crashing down with the touch of a finger against the ground.”

We emerged into the stairwell, and I could mentally feel Reed digging his heels in. “You’ve always been the boss,” he said, taking hold of my arm, dragging me around, “and I’ve gone along with everything you’ve said because you’re almost always right. But this time? You’re wrong.” He said it with enough certainty that it rattled me down to the teeth. “You want to protect the world against Anselmo and Simmons walking out of here, and I understand that. But there are like a hundred hostages up there who are going to die right now, today, versus the threat that those guys might maybe kill someone tomorrow, if they get away.” His dark eyes were serious, pleading. “Those guys with guns will mow through the hostages, and it’ll be guaranteed blood and guts right
now
, today. You want to be a protector? Save those people.”

“I told you I didn’t want to—” I made a hissing sound. I felt my fist ball up as I stood there on the first step of the staircase, looking up at him. “You realize Anselmo and Simmons have a serious grudge against us? And now the Russians do, too, if we let them get away. They’ll sucker punch us when we least expect it.” I leaned closer to him. “You have people other than yourself to worry about, now, you know. Because cowards like them will not come at you head on. Especially a worm like Anselmo. He’ll go right for—”

“I know what he’ll go for,” Reed said, but his face was pale. “But saving these people now is the right thing.”

“Time’s a wastin’,” J.J. said.

I glanced at Scott. “I’m in for whatever,” he said. He always was easygoing. Except for that one thing.

I felt the waver of uncertainty. I knew what kind of trash Anselmo, Simmons and the Russians were. What kind of trouble they’d be later. I should have killed Anselmo Serafini three years ago, should have broken his neck when I landed on him.

But I’m not a murderer. I’m not a stone cold killer. I do what I have to do, but I don’t enjoy it … I mean … grim satisfaction at a job getting done aside, this isn’t how I would have chosen to spend my evening.

Is it?

Who was I, really? An unrepentantly vicious killer like Eric Simmons had accused me of being? Someone who used my powers to stomp all over anyone who got in my way?

Well, sometimes. When necessary.

When
I
thought it was necessary.

And now
I
somehow thought it was okay to leave a hundred people at the mercy of a group of mercenaries to stop men who I knew wanted to kill me from escaping. What were my real priorities here? Saving lives, protecting people, or covering my own ass?

Dammit.

Even with no clear answer, I didn’t like the trade-offs here either way. Risk Anselmo, Simmons and company escaping or risk the mercenaries going on a killing spree when we hit their bosses. Because they’d be backed into a corner, too, and if they reacted anything like I did … the agency carpet would be soaked with blood.

“All right,” I said, and started up the stairs. “J.J., we need intel on the top floor. Disposition of mercs and hostages.”

“You sure about this?” J.J. asked. “They’re gonna have Anselmo out in like … minutes. And after him—”

“J.J.,” Reed said quietly.

“Two mercs in orbiting guard positions on the top floor, roving lookouts. They’re keeping their eyes open out the windows on the blind side of the building. The other six have eyes on the hostages and out the window of the bullpen to guard that approach.” He dropped into the realm of the sarcastic. “Clearly not expecting an assault from below.”

“We’ve got minutes until Anselmo potentially enters the fray,” I said.

“You sure he’s going to?” Scott asked.

Reed and I exchanged a look. “Pretty sure,” I said tightly. “He’s an Achilles, so he’s impervious to physical harm.”

Scott blinked at me. “How’d you beat him?”

I shrugged. “Threw him to the ground, partially drained him, threatened to break his neck—which I’m told is possible. He’s not invincible, just kinda like iron to hit.”

“I had an idea for how to deal with him,” Reed said sadly, “but I’d need my powers.” He held out a hand experimentally, and shook his head after a minute. “Maybe after this is over, we can spend some time asking ourselves why the government has a chemical weapon that suppresses metahuman powers and we’ve never heard about it?”

“Because they’re scared,” I said, cutting off that potential avenue for dickering. “J.J., I know you’re not a tactics guy, but maybe you could—”

“Wait until one of these guys passes near your door, and I’ll give you the heads up,” he said, forcing me to reconsider my assessment of him. “Then you can sneak up on the other roving guy without too much trouble, take him out quietly. Then maybe a distraction or two to get the other six looking different directions, and you guys can sweep in and clean house.”

I blinked and caught Reed’s eye. He covered his microphone and whispered, “He plays a lot of videogames.”

“Oh,” I said.

We stalked up the stairs and waited in the white concrete hallway under the lights, silent as thieves about to pull a heist. I stared at Scott, and he looked back at me blankly before smiling politely. As well he should.

I thought about my touch, about how long I’d been unable to lay a hand on people—like Scott, for instance—without draining their soul. I averted my eyes from him but kept watching him in my peripheral vision. We’d been together for a while before we broke up, and physicality hadn’t been a problem for us. I’d taken some advice given to me long, long ago by my aunt and had figured out how to carry on a physical relationship that worked out adequately, if not great. It was a little cold, a little distant—like me, in general—but we could do … things. Fun things. Lots of fun things.

But now, he could reach out and take my hand and hold it for hours if he wanted. Hours and hours. Forever.

I sucked in a deep breath and turned my attention to the stairwell door behind us. This was probably not the thing to be thinking about just now.

“Guard’s coming,” J.J. said into my ear. “Passing the door now.”

I had my trusty knife back on my belt. After this, I was seriously thinking about carrying it all the time. Reed opened the door enough for me to slip through. We’d never discussed it, but the breakdown of labor in our relationship always seemed to mean I was stuck doing the killing. Funny how that worked.

I ended the mercenary with the same back-of-the-skull stab-and-twist that I’d employed in the parking garage, and Reed slipped in place to grab him and drag him sideways into an office. Big guy, my brother. I didn’t mind defaulting to his strength, because he was fairly buff. And trying to manage that lummox as he fell would have been more than I could easily handle.

We were standing in an office corridor on the back of the building. The majority of the fourth floor was a large, open bullpen where all our cubicle workers did their thing. But on the back side of the building was a hallway that led past conference rooms and empty offices used for consultations or private meetings. Flex space, basically. Dull, white-painted generic rooms that were devoid of personality. I’d suggested beanbag chairs and some sprucing up of the décor, but Ariadne overruled me for budgetary reasons. Her words, not mine. I suspected it was an excuse for her to keep things nice and uptight.