Sacrifice the Wicked (20 page)
I
t didn’t make any sense.
Parker let herself in through her front door, the hair on the back of her neck prickling under the certainty that she was being watched. She had to be. There was no way Sector Three would leave her apartment unmanned.
Not unless Lauderdale assumed Simon would do his job.
Then it made perfect sense.
Parker swallowed the spike of anger, of tears. There was too much work to do, too many things to fix—people to rescue.
Please, let there be people to rescue.
The alternative was unthinkable.
Parker shut the door behind her, surveying the strangely neat living room. As far as she could tell, everything remained in its place. Which bothered her.
Wouldn’t Lauderdale’s people have tossed it? It’s what
her
people would have done. No cushion unturned, nothing left to chance. Evidence mattered to Parker.
Maybe not so much to previous directors. Or to Lauderdale.
Sloppy?
Or a trap?
Parker leaned against her door, listening for a long moment. The rain had let up, leaving the roads wet enough to splash as cars drove by the complex. She could dimly hear the faint strains of movement—other tenants above and below preparing for their days.
Unaware that anything was wrong.
Beneath the subtle hum of the electrical grid and her own blood in her veins, everything was still.
No bell. No Mr. Sanderson to greet her.
Damn it. Had they let him out? Did they take him, did they do worse? Parker pushed away from the door, bit her tongue before she called for the animal that had been her friend for over a year.
The cat had been a designer castoff, that strange mix of white hair and blue eyes that all the genetically created litters seemed to throw once in a while. Parker didn’t care. He was adorable; playful and lovable and a little bit grumpy.
And now he was gone. One more thing this whole mess had cost her.
Come on.
Of all the things she could be worrying about, a cat should have been the least.
Parker glanced at the small table by her coatrack. Her coat still hung on the peg where she’d left it.
Every sense straining, she strode through her living room. “Mr. Sanderson?” she whispered.
Like it mattered.
“Kitty?”
No bell. No gravelly meow.
Parker wanted to cry.
Instead, firming her jaw against the ache building there, she turned and headed for her office. Her gun was gone, left behind in Simon’s car, but her safe held a few extra things. Another gun, smaller but just as useful in a pinch.
The syringe.
But no extra identification.
As she input the code into the security panel, she barely kept from laughing. A little over a year ago, she’d considered developing a fail-safe—a plan in case things went badly. But she’d talked herself out of it.
Why not? She’d just made Mission director. What could possibly go awry there?
Such a fool.
“Not that it matters,” she muttered.
And especially not now. Because as the door swung open, her gaze quickly cataloged the contents.
Gun. Jewelry. Documents. Cash.
No syringe.
“What the hell,” she breathed. “What the
hell
.” What kind of God did she piss off?
Quickly, she withdrew the small bag with her backup weapon inside. The zipper hissed free, and a nylon holster spilled out. The gun inside wasn’t loaded. She fixed that, too, and slammed the safe closed.
She’d just run out of options.
Lauderdale had his sights on her missionaries. Her people. No matter how many of them had turned—if any of them had turned—she owed it to them to get them out. They deserved better than this.
That serum was her best chance. Now she’d have to scale back the odds.
Parker took a moment to lean against the wall, wincing as her body pulled in all the places she didn’t want to think about now. The dull ache of her muscles only reminded her that she didn’t
care
what Simon was doing.
She didn’t care if he bled to death in that godforsaken safe house.
She didn’t care if she lied to herself.
It was time to go. To her death, probably. But it was something.
Click.
She froze. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, heightening every sense to overwhelming acuity. She raised her gun, muzzle pointed at the ceiling by her shoulder, and held her breath.
Someone was here.
The ambience changed, in that so-subtle way of another presence nearby. Parker’s eyebrows knitted as she strained to hear something, anything that would tell her who—or what.
Simon?
Something rasped in the living room, something clattered softly, as if the intruder had picked up an object and set it back down.
So her place was under surveillance after all.
Parker blew out a silent breath, seized her courage in both hands—right around the handle of her loaded gun—and stepped out into the hall. She pulled every footstep, tread lightly to the corner and flattened her shoulders against it.
Holding the gun to her chest, she squeezed her eyes shut, counted her pulse.
A voice, male, muttered something unintelligible.
Not Simon. She’d recognize his voice forever.
Say you’re mine.
Never.
She rounded the corner, gun held at arm’s length, grasp steady. “Don’t move,” she ordered.
Her voice cracked through the silence.
The man by her fireplace froze, a small frame in one gloved hand. His back to her, all she could pick out were his clothes—dark wash denim, a hip-length neoprene jacket—dark hair clipped short and styled fashionably back from his face, and gloved hands held up by his head. Lean, but not scrawny. Still, nothing like Simon’s powerful athleticism.
Disappointment, painful and worthless, squeezed her chest.
She fought it down. “Who are you?”
“I’m going to put this down, okay?” The voice wasn’t overly deep, not as clear as Jonas’s tenor but youthful. Steady enough, even if it wasn’t as cool as she would have expected from an operative.
A fresh recruit? Newly minted out of GeneCorp?
“Do it,” she snapped, “and turn around. Slowly.”
The frame clattered faintly against the mantel. Indication enough of his less-than-steady nerves. Score one for her.
She braced the gun, arms already starting to complain at the weight as the man turned. Sculpted features, smooth jaw. God, young kid. Maybe mid-twenties. Maybe less. He had a youthful charm about him, even as serious as his features were as he stared at her. Handsome, in a naturally charming way. He had the bad-boy look but none of the vibe.
His eyes were dark enough to nearly be black, and they met hers without fear.
Well, without too much fear.
Young enough to play at bold, old enough to know a bullet hurt. But not one of hers.
Her eyes narrowed. “I know you.”
His grin, rueful as it was, revealed a dimple at the side of his mouth. “From the café. Yeah, let me explain.”
Parker took two steps into the living room, but she didn’t lower the gun. “Ten seconds. Talk fast.”
“I’m not here to hurt you. My name is Danny—Daniel,” he amended, fast enough that her eyebrow climbed. One part amusement, one part pity. He was taking her order at face value. “Everyone calls me Danny—”
“Streamline it, Danny.” Parker gestured to the sofa with her gun. “Sit down.”
“I’m not—” His mouth twisted, pride as far as she could tell. Following the line of her gun, he sidled over to the elegant piece of furniture. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but it was pretty and she liked it.
He sat gingerly. “Can I put my hands down?”
“Keep them where I can see them.”
Slowly, he lowered his hands to his knees. His gaze slid to her gun, her face. Back to the door. Her gun, again.
“Are you expecting someone, Danny?” she asked pointedly.
“I’m not sure.” Surprisingly candid. “I didn’t expect you to come back here. I wonder if they would.”
They
. Her finger tightened on the trigger. “It’s been a long twenty-four hours,” she said evenly. “You need to get to the point. Who are you working for? Sector Three?”
“What?” He flinched. “No way! I’m not a witch hunter, either.”
“Clearly.”
“I’m here for something else. Someone else,” he amended. He watched her for a moment, raising one hand to rub at his smooth jaw. “Look, I’m not here to fight with you or anything. I’m supposed to bring you to safety.”
“Then why did you come after us in the café?” She watched her question arrow right between his eyes. He winced, tried to hide it, and only ended up scrubbing that gloved hand down his face.
“Yeah.” The word crept out from behind his palm. When he dropped his hand, he looked tired, but nervy. Jumpy. “Okay, so, my name is Danny, like I said, and I’m acting on behalf of someone who isn’t part of the Church.”
“Who?”
“I can’t—”
Parker crossed the room, close enough that he could stare down the barrel. “I’ve had a really, really rough couple of days. I’m tired, I miss my cat, and I’m pretty sure the next thing I do will get me killed. So you tell me how likely I am to shoot you down and get you off my back.”
The blood drained from his disarmingly handsome features. “I know, I know, but I really can’t say. She wants me to—I mean, you need to meet her yourself.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know!” He threw up his hands, fingers splayed. “Please, I’m just the messenger. You know you’re not supposed to shoot the messenger, right?”
“What’s her angle?” Parker demanded, ignoring the twinge in her chest that threatened to give in to sympathy. The kid was good. Just the right amount of charming.
Danny looked her in the eye. “Same as yours,” he said. “We all just want to right some wrongs.”
It smacked of truth.
But then, had she really been a great judge of character lately?
The gun wavered. Lowered slowly as she shook her head.
Of course she had. She’d pegged Simon the moment she’d met him, had read Mrs. Parrish’s intentions within seconds. It wasn’t her ability to gauge people that should be called into question.
It was her decisions after.
And now she had to make another one.
“I’m supposed to tell you something, but I’m going to reach into my pocket, okay?”
When she nodded her assent, he slid one hand into his inner jacket pocket. His eyes on hers, he eased the edge of something blue out.
Parker’s eyes narrowed on the plastic case. It crinkled. “How did you get that?”
“Luck,” he said, the word a sigh. “And one hell of a safe-cracking program.”
Her jaw shifted. “I didn’t write it,” he said hurriedly. “For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry to be violating your privacy like that.”
He was too young for this. The real regret stamped on his features forced Parker to swallow her angry words. “But we ran out of options. I’m . . . It’s an offering,” he added sheepishly. “A show of good faith, okay?”
Her fingers closed over the case. When he let her take it, Parker lowered the gun to the floor.
Relief filled her. And with it, a wild curl of hope.
Danny visibly relaxed. “That’s not our only offering,” he said, slower now. Firmer. “You’ll see when you come with—”
“No.”
He flinched. “Aw, come on. Don’t make my life difficult.”
“I have to get to my agents.”
“But they’re—” His jacket beeped, three signals and nothing. Danny’s eyes widened.
Parker raised the gun, but he didn’t pay any attention as he clawed at the snaps of his jacket.
The comm he pulled out was smaller than the kind she usually saw. Not as sleek as the newest ones, but not standard, either.
“Oh,
balls,
” he hissed. He stood, pushed away her gun with an impatient hand, and said fast, “We have to go. Like, now. Like, right fucking now!”
“Danny, calm down and tell me what’s going on.”
He ignored her platitude, grabbed her hand, and pulled her for the door. “If we’re lucky, we can—”
They weren’t lucky.
As Danny reached for the doorknob, the heavy panel burst open. Slammed hard into the kid’s face and sent him careening backward into her. She stumbled, tried to catch him as he collapsed in a tangle of his own limbs.
Two operatives darted through the door, guns drawn, masks firmly in place. Hers? She couldn’t tell. They didn’t register anything but professional training as one circled Danny and the other dropped a boot against his neck.
“Nobody move!”
Parker braced her arms, gun held tightly, but too late. As fear filled her, as adrenaline surged through her too-wired body and sent her stumbling backward, the other man in black body armor leaped at her.
She swung the gun like a golf club, reacting in pure anger, scared to death and tired of it. The metal caught the underside of the man’s faceplate, cracked it up the center and sent him sprawling.
He didn’t swear. Her missionaries would have sworn. They were only human, after all.
She spun wildly, made it two steps when thunder cracked behind her. It split through her eardrums, froze the blood in her veins.
But it didn’t level her. Didn’t even hurt.
The bullet wasn’t aimed at her.
Danny.
Parker turned, her heart in her throat.
The man she’d hit grabbed at his mask, shaking his head as if she’d stunned him, but the other lowered his weapon from the ceiling. Plaster coated the carpet. Speckled white flakes across his black armor.
“Try that again,” came the modulated voice from within the other man’s helmet, “and I’ll put a bullet in the kid. Drop your gun.”
Her gaze dropped to Danny, his face mottled beneath the pressure of the operative’s boot. He clung to it, struggling to wheeze around it. “Go . . .”
“Drop it, Director.”
What did she care? Danny was just some unknown agent. A soldier in this strange, no longer subtle war.
“Go!” he rasped.
