The Nexus Series: Books 1-3 (47 page)

Corey nodded and
headed for the scaffolding near the room’s entrance.  “He’ll leave the way
he came in.  We’ll let him come to us.”

The others
followed Corey.

Jill paused put
a hand on
Dizzie’s
shoulder.  “No,
Diz
, you’re not armed.”

Dizzie
hesitated.  “Fine.  But you guys be
careful!”

“I was thinking
reckless,” Corey said softly over his shoulder, “but I guess I could do
careful.”

She stuck her
tongue out at him.

THE
man with the robotic hand watched a bank of glowing screens in an otherwise
darkened room.  The screens showed several camera views of the room that
housed Sherlock.  The central screen showed the feed from the camera
mounted directly above the central processor’s control panel—a close-up view of
the tattooed man placing his explosives.

Movement on
another screen caught the man’s eye.  Four figures were now stealthily
climbing the scaffolding near the front of the room.  They hoisted
themselves onto the railed overlook where the escaped prisoner had first
entered the room.

The man picked
up his mobile and typed a message with his robotic fingers: 
They’ve
found you
.

On the central
screen, the tattooed man paused and withdrew the mobile from the strap around
his torso.  His eyes widened as he saw the message.  He looked into
the camera and mouthed,
Where?

The man with the
robotic hand sent the camera feed to the other’s mobile.

The last of the
figures was just disappearing into the passageway off the overlook. 

13

DIZZIE
watched from the shadows as the escaped prisoner turned away from the central
processor tower.  He went back up the ladder.

He didn’t go
back the way he’d come.  Instead he went the opposite direction.

Dizzie
leaned forward, craning her neck.  Through the
crowded columns and platforms she caught glimpses of him running toward the far
wall.  A second railed overlook, like the one he’d entered on the opposite
side of the room, protruded above him.  He leaped onto it and disappeared
through a door.

Dizzie
tapped frantically at her mobile.

BRADLEY
positioned himself halfway down the dark passage, just around the corner of the
intersecting passage.  Corey and Amber waited in the darkness immediately
inside the door.  They probably wouldn’t have any trouble, but just in
case the guy got past them, Bradley was ready.

His mobile
vibrated slightly.  A message from
Dizzie
tagged
“urgent”: 
He went another way!

Bradley had
about one second to ponder the message before he felt a blow to the back of his
head.

“WHAT
was that?” Amber gasped.

“Bradley, you
okay?” Corey whispered down the passage.

A long second of
silence followed.

Then someone
leaned abruptly around the corner, crouching near the floor.

They had just
enough time to realize that that someone wasn’t Bradley before the shots were
fired and the stunners hit their mark.

Corey and Amber
crumpled.

THE
man with the robotic hand waited anxiously.  The screens showed
him nothing of interest.  All of the action was happening out of any
camera’s sight.

His mobile
chimed. 
How many were there?  Three?

He reviewed the
footage to make sure of his answer: 
No.  Four.

DIZZIE
heard the shots echo from the door to the passageway above her.  The
prisoner must have circled around to where they’d been waiting for him, and
they got him.

Or he got
them.  She didn’t think he’d been armed, but if he’d been able to sneak up
on any of them he could have nabbed one of their weapons.

She
waited.  If the prisoner was down, any second now she’d get a message
confirming it.

Several seconds
passed.

Several more.

No confirmation.

Dizzie
wrung her hands.  For the third time tonight
she considered sounding the department-wide alarm.

For the third
time she decided not to.  The guy had rigged Sherlock with
explosives.  If he heard the alarm he might panic and detonate.

She started
climbing the scaffolding.

JILL
waited on the catwalk beyond the passage.  The HQ floor was
spread out like a map far below her.

But she wasn’t
looking down.  She looked at the door to the passageway that led back to
Sherlock’s room, then darted her eyes around at the network of walkways
suspended from the ceiling.  She’d received
Dizzie’s
message.  The guy had taken another route out of Sherlock’s room.  He
could show up from almost anywhere.

Her mobile
vibrated again.  A message from Bradley: 
Found him.  Retrace
your steps.

Jill wrinkled
her brow.  Bradley calling
her
for help?

Cautiously,
weapon raised, she moved back toward the entrance to the passage.  It was
dark enough among the catwalks.  Beyond the door it was pitch black.

A shot sounded
from the passage.  Jill threw herself down onto the catwalk.  She
returned the favor, firing three times at the open door.

Another shot
came at her.  She rolled onto her back.

Another.

This time she
felt the stunner hit her shoulder.

HE
waited in the darkness of the passage for several seconds.  The girl could
be faking it.  Finally he took a cautious step toward the doorway.

He heard a creak
down the passage behind him and whirled around.

The girl
silhouetted in the doorway to the overlook had already snatched a gun from one
of the other fallen agents.

He fired before
she could raise the weapon.

Now four
unconscious agents lay in the passage—and one more outside the passage
door.  He typed a spiteful message to the man with the robotic hand: 
Five.

Then he turned
once more to the girl on the catwalk.  She still hadn’t budged.  He
walked toward her, glancing at the busy floor far below.  There was no
sign that the shooting had been audible down there among the clamor of
activity.

He looked at the
unconscious girl again.

And froze.

No...

Time stood
still.  A momentary paralysis seized him.

Finally he found
his legs again and walked shakily toward her.  He knelt beside her to get
a closer look at her face.

It can’t be.

He searched the
girl’s pockets and found her department ID.  He read the name, then read
it again.  Maybe he had misread it and it would say something different
this time.

He hadn’t. 
It didn’t.

Slowly he got to
his feet, staring ahead blankly.

The man with the
robotic hand sent him another message: 
Hurry.

The
mission.  He’d nearly forgotten.  He steeled himself to
continue.  Forcing one foot in front of the other he continued along the
catwalk.

He glanced back
at her unconscious form one last time.

It simply
can’t be
…

ANOTHER
branch of the catwalk ended at the wall several meters above the windows
looking out from Holiday’s office.  The tattooed man went through a door
into another maintenance passage.  This part of the base wasn’t under the
lake; it was deep in the island where
GoCom
sat,
stories above him.  At the end of this passage he reached his second
destination.

The elevator
shaft—the base’s one and only route to the island’s surface.

His hands shook
slightly as he took two more of the devices from the strap beneath his
shirt.  He placed them into predetermined recesses in the shaft’s
structure.

Detonation would
leave the base with zero routes to the island’s surface.

He left the
shaft.

And in his mind he
saw her face again.

HIS
last destination, accessed by the maintenance walkways, was the tunnel leading
out of the department garage.  He placed the final two explosive packages,
then began taking the tunnel on foot.  Soon he’d be back on the satellite’s
surface.

It had gone
essentially as planned.   If he chose to do so, he could hit the
detonator and trigger simultaneous explosions in three locations.

Sherlock would
be destroyed.

The elevator
shaft would collapse.

The tunnel would
blow open.

The waters of
the lake would rush in upon the base and its trapped agents.

Trapped
agents...

The unconscious
girl on the catwalk...

No, he couldn’t
think about that.

He couldn’t stop
thinking about it.

A
few minutes later he stood on the stained concrete floor of Pete’s Fish
Cannery.  He took out his mobile.

His hands were
still shaking.

He started
typing the code to trigger the detonation.

He saw her face
again, eyes closed as she lay on the catwalk...eyes peering across the water as
she sat cold and wet and alone.

He canceled the
detonation sequence.

Then he took out
the other mobile, the one he’d taken from the young Korean man.

Young. 
They’d all been young—the one whose phone he had taken, the three he had shot
in the passage.

And the girl on
the catwalk.

He had to
concentrate.

Because this
mobile belonged to an agent, it would have direct access to Sherlock.  He
ran a search on the young man’s phone.  Soon he’d pulled up all audio
records that matched his search criteria, and sent them to his own
mobile.  He used a program on his mobile to analyze the audio.

A notification
popped onto his screen: 
Voice
synthesization
completed.

He typed a
command into the program, then held his mobile next to the young man’s.

Director
Holiday’s voice spoke out of his own mobile’s speaker.  “Sherlock, we have
an emergency.  Temporarily cease all surveillance, analysis, and
communication inside the base.”

The young man’s
mobile received the audio.

The escaped
prisoner waited tensely.

“
Of course,
sir.  Advise me the minute you wish me to resume these operations.
”

THE
man with the robotic hand watched impatiently.  The cameras had shown the
tattooed man placing his final explosives, disappearing into the tunnel, and
reappearing at the cannery.  Now he was out of sight. 

Why wasn’t the
detonation happening?

The screens on
the wall in front of the old man suddenly showed nothing but static.

His mobile
chimed.
  It’s done
.

He leaned back
in his chair.  “Finally,” he whispered.  Perspiration gleamed on his
forehead.

PANIC
seized HQ.  Every process tied to Sherlock had come to a sudden halt.

It was as if
Sherlock had been unplugged. 

14

VIBRATIONS...

Director Holiday
felt vibrations against his chest.

He sat up. 
The interrogation room swam in front of him.  A faint haze still lingered
in the air.  He heard the confused buzz of activity from HQ down the
corridor.

The two guards
lay unconscious on the floor at the other end of the table.

Another
vibration.

His mobile in
his coat pocket.  He’d missed five calls in as many minutes.  There
was another incoming call right now, number unrecognized.

Holiday furrowed
his brow.  “Sherlock, where is this call coming from?”

No answer.

He stood up and
took the call.  “Yes?”

“They think
you’re all dead,” the Russian accented voice replied, “but they’ll realize the
truth sooner or later.”

Holiday was
striding quickly toward HQ.  “Just out of curiosity, why
aren’t
we
all dead?”

The man ignored
the question.  “I’ve ordered Sherlock to cease all in-base operations.”

Holiday stepped
onto the HQ balcony and peered down at the confused activity below.  “So I
see.”

“If I were you,
I would shut him down entirely for a time—perhaps forever.  At the very
least, do not resume any of his in-base functions.”

“Or else?”

“The people who
sent me here will notice, and they will realize you’re still alive.”

“I suppose
you’ll be in a bit of trouble yourself when that happens.”

The tattooed man
ignored this comment too.  “When they realize it, they will send someone
else to kill you.”

“Someone they
hope won’t get a case of the
guilts
and abandon the
mission this time.”

The man
hesitated.  “I have my reasons for helping you, Director.  Do not ask
what they are.”

“I didn’t. 
I won’t even ask who you’re working for, or why they wanted the mayor
dead.  You see how cooperative I am?”

Another
hesitation.  “There is obviously much you don’t know.  Perhaps it is
best that way.”

“What I
am
going to ask is what you did with the agents who came after you?”

“Do not worry,
they are unharmed.  Unconscious, but unharmed.”

Holiday closed
his eyes in relief.  “It’s hopelessly ironic, but I feel as though I ought
to thank you.”

“Please, do not
bother.”

“Thanks all the
same.”

“Goodbye,
Director.  Remember what I told you.  The less you know, the
better.  And keep in the dark if you want to live.”

The connection
went dead.

IN
an alley among the abandoned warehouses east of the lake, the tattooed man
dissembled his mobile and threw the pieces into a sewer grate.

“SHERLOCK,
open a private connection between my mobile and yourself, please,” Holiday said
into his mobile as he circled the HQ balcony.  “No recording—you’ve been
compromised, as you are well aware.”

“
Yes,
sir.  As you humans like to say:  This conversation never happened
.”

“Your impeccably
logical programming has no doubt concluded what my first question is going to
be.”

“I just lost
the signal of the escaped prisoner’s mobile, sir.  He disappeared in the
unused warehouse district on the eastern shore.  Shall I keep my eyes open
for him?”

“Out of
principal.  But he’ll certainly know how to disappear.  And my second
question, have you guessed that as well?”

“I don’t have
eyes on your agents, sir, but I can lead you to them.  Meanwhile, might I suggest
allowing me to show you what the escaped prisoner was up to?”

THEY
called Sherlock a
him
, not an
it
, so it only made sense that they
called the programmers and engineers who worked directly with him “handlers.”

Two of his
primary handlers, a younger man and an older woman, stood facing the control
panel for Sherlock’s central processor—the very place the tattooed man had been
standing not a quarter of an hour ago.

They looked
sleep deprived.  The phone at their division office down in HQ had rung off
the hook until the assistant agreed to wake them and bring them in to take a
look.  The journey hadn’t been long; like nearly every department member,
they lived on site.  Not that that made them any happier about being
dragged out of bed.

“Hmm,” the woman
mused as she tapped at the screen.  “Looks like there was a direct order
for Sherlock to halt local activity.”

The other
frowned.  “Direct order from...?”

She scratched
her head.  “That’s strange.  It says it came from—”

“Let me guess,”
Holiday’s voice sounded behind them.

They turned to
face him.

“Sorry, sir,”
said the woman.  “We didn’t realize you’d given the command.”

“Nor did I,
originally,” said the director, ignoring the quizzical looks that statement
prompted.  “However, we’ll leave things the way they are for now. 
Seems someone is tapped into Sherlock.”

“There’s no
evidence of that,” the man countered.  “We just ran a check.”

“Well, they
wouldn’t leave traces that you could find by running a simple check, would
they?”

The handler
frowned.  “So how do you know someone is tapped—?”

“Because the man
who planted the explosives confessed.  How is that for evidence?”

The woman’s
eyebrows rose.  “I’m convinced.”

The man was
staring wide-eyed at the column.  “Where—?”

“You can’t see
them from where you’re standing.”

“But—?”

“But there are
explosives planted there, yes.”

“Then we’d
better get out—!”

“Don’t worry,
there will be no explosion.”

“But you said—”

“I said don’t
worry.”

The young man
regained a fraction of his composure.  “You mean to tell us that someone
walked right in here and—?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t
he—?”

“I don’t know.”

“You
don’t
know?
” the young man demanded.

“Do you?”
Holiday asked blandly.  He continued without waiting for a response. 
“A team is on the way to remove the explosives.”

“You’re sure
this place won’t blow before they get here?”

“Would I be
standing here if I wasn’t?”

The young man
sputtered.  “So...you want us to do nothing?”

“For now.”

“You could have
told them that before they got us out of bed!  Where have you been,
anyway?  Everyone’s been trying like crazy to reach you!”

“I’m terribly
sorry this emergency has been so inconvenient for you,” Holiday said
icily.  “Next time we’ll try to have a crisis that fits more easily into
your schedule.”

The young man
sputtered wordlessly some more.

The woman
stifled a laugh.

Holiday turned
away from them.  “Sherlock, where to, exactly?”

“
You’ll
notice a railed protrusion about four stories above the room’s front door.”

He adjusted the
nearest automated scaffolding to lift him to the railed overlook.  “Send
enough medical personnel up here to see to them, will you?”

“
I’ll notify
them right away, sir
.”

He found them—
Dizzie
, Corey, and Amber just inside the doorway, Bradley
near the corner of an intersecting passage, and Jill on the catwalk just beyond
the passage.  The tattooed man had been telling the truth: unconscious,
but unharmed.

“Just one more
thing, Sherlock.”

“Sir?”

Holiday
hesitated a long time before he went on.  “Our situation is dire. 
Even this supposedly private channel between you and I will probably be
detected if we remain in communication.  I have no choice to but give you
the following order:  Until further notice, you must cease all functions
entirely.  As of right now, my dear Sherlock, you are to go into
hibernation mode.”

Sherlock didn’t
reply.  He’d already obeyed.

THE
unconscious agents were transferred to the medical wing.  They would
undergo routine examinations, just in case they had sustained any injuries in the
encounter, and be able to regain consciousness in a setting where they could be
cared for.  Holiday planned on being there the first instant they woke up.

His plans
changed when he got a call from the department investigator at the Flynn Tower
scene.  “Sir, we understand that the shooter was about to pull the trigger
when your team interrupted him?”

“That’s
correct,” Holiday confirmed.

“Did the rifle
or the rifle mount get touched or moved in any way?”

Holiday slowed
his step.  “Not according to the initial report.  Why do you ask?”

“We took a look
through the scope, sir.  It’s a little baffling...”

Now the director
halted completely. 
There is obviously much you don’t know,
the
tattooed man had told him.  “Go on,” he told the investigator.

“Sir, the rifle
wasn’t aimed at the mayor’s podium.”

The director
turned and began running the opposite direction, circling the balcony toward
the garage.  “And where exactly was it aimed, Detective?” he asked in his
rush.

The question was
just a formality.  He already knew the answer.

HIS
silver car screeched to a halt along a curb plainly marked NO PARKING!  He
leaped out and crossed the garden lined plaza in a few hurried strides.

The glass front
door of the luxurious high rise was locked, of course.  Holiday yanked his
mobile out of his pocket and redialed the same number he’d been calling the
entire five minute drive.

Still no answer.

He faced the
door again.  Two bullets later he stepped easily through, boots crunching
on the glass shards as he ran across the foyer.

He pounded the
elevator call button until it arrived, then pounded the button for the sixth
floor until he’d reached it.  Down the sixth floor corridor he dashed
until he came to the door marked 619.

It was cracked
open.

“Riley?” he
asked as he knocked.

No one answered.

He pushed the
door, and it swung open with a creak.  The suite’s expansive living room
was dark except for the city lights glowing from the windows.

“Riley, are you
all right?” he asked, crossing in the near darkness to the hallway.

There was a line
of faint light showing beneath the bedroom door, and something else...something
dark and wet that oozed through the crack and slowly puddled in the hallway.