The Trials (The Red Trilogy Book 2) (5 page)

Chudhuri is a silhouette outlined in dull red, but I can see the nod of her helmeted head. “Maybe. Or maybe your dragon strike force found a softer target. The mediots are reporting that Thelma Sheridan is dead. They’re saying she was murdered in her cell.”

I stop breathing. I don’t blink. For three seconds I am utterly still, a trapped animal obeying an instinct that tells me if I don’t move I won’t be noticed and then, maybe, I can hide from the truth—because if it’s true, we’ve lost.

The whole point of our mission, of First Light, was to bring Thelma Sheridan to trial, to expose what she’d done, and to implicate those who had aided her and those who had allowed her to get away with it. The only head of state willing to host that trial was Ahab Matugo, who took custody of Sheridan when our plane landed in Niamey. It was his promise to bring her safely to trial, but if he’s failed, if it’s true Sheridan is dead, First Light will have been for nothing. We will have delivered an American citizen into the hands of an incompetent kangaroo court and no one will give a shit about our reasons why.

I ask, “Has there been any official confirmation? Has Matugo issued a statement?”

“The news just broke.”

I ponder the situation, and because I need some kind of
hope to hold on to, I say, “Matugo is a damn good strategist. He might let a rumor like that live for a while, just to cut down the odds of someone else trying to murder her.”

“My concern, Lieutenant, is what a rumor like that will do to the odds of someone trying to murder
you
.”

I look again toward the node; the light is still out. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Oh four oh seven.”

The trial is scheduled to start at ten hundred. Six more hours.

“I don’t think you have to worry, Master Sergeant. I think hitting us here was always the backup plan. Better to take out Sheridan than us. Hell, she expected it! Eliminate the possibility that she might testify, while turning her into an American hero, murdered in a third-world jail—and we get to be the bad guys who put her there.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, Master Sergeant, for letting me know.”

“Yes, sir.” She salutes, then turns smartly and leaves the cellblock.

I continue my vigil, standing by the glass, watching the node, endowing that missing light with more meaning than it deserves. I imagine that if the lockdown is lifted, if the light comes back on, it’ll be because Sheridan’s death is confirmed—and our court-martial will be a short and certain affair.

But the node stays off.

•   •   •   •

At
0930
we assemble in the cellblock corridor, each of us with our hands cuffed. We’re wearing our dress uniforms, except I’m not wearing shoes; I can’t. The shoe inserts I need to make dress shoes fit weren’t delivered, so I’m standing in bare titanium feet, just like I do every day. I hope the
judge doesn’t toss me out of court for not being properly attired.

Major Ogawa stopped by the cellblock early to convey last-minute instructions on courtroom procedure. I used the opportunity to inform my squad of yesterday’s encounter with the president and of the reported death of Thelma Sheridan. They understand the implication of these events and they’re angry, but there’s no going back. The only thing we can do is press on, take our case as far as we can, as far as we’re allowed.

I stand at the front of the squad with Jaynie beside me. We form two lines. Master Sergeant Chudhuri has stayed past the end of her shift to ensure we make it into court. She and Sergeant Omer face us, flanking the open cellblock door. They’re rigged in helmets, armor, and bones. Both wear sidearms. Behind the transparent shields of their visors, their expressions are stern.

Chudhuri says, “Our local network remains locked down. So Specialists Vitali and Phelps will precede us, taking up positions by the parking-garage door and the elevator, to ensure the security of the basement corridor. When they signal all clear, we will leave the cellblock and proceed without delay to the stairwell. I’m not feeling inclined to take the elevator this morning. I think we can all do with some exercise.”

She looks at me for agreement—unnecessary because she is currently in command, but I nod my approval anyway. “Thank you, Master Sergeant.”

We march as a unit through the jail, Chudhuri on point, Omer as rear guard. I’m nervous as hell. Maybe it’s just a mistake that the network is down; maybe someone forgot to turn it back on. Or maybe it’s still down for a reason.

We reach the jail’s outer doors. Chudhuri gazes out a tiny window. An alert buzzes and the doors swing open.
We step out, and I can see to the end of the long basement corridor. An MP, anonymous in armor and bones, stands guard partway down, with another stationed at the far end. We advance, hard-soled shoes striking the floor in tight rhythm. I hear the doors close behind us. The bolts slide home with a solid
chunk
.

Chudhuri passes the prisoner-intake door. Jaynie and I follow a step behind her. That’s when my overlay finally comes back on. Familiar icons crowd the baseline of my vision and I hesitate, missing the cadence as I try to figure out whether or not I’ve got an outside link. No one notices my misstep though because the next moment gets erased by the deafening
whump!
of an explosion. The concussion breaches the prisoner-intake door, blasting its bolts and hinges away, and slamming my eardrums. I stagger, dazed, into Jaynie while smoke wreathes the steel door.

At first the door refuses to fall. Then a second, lesser concussion sends it toppling inward. I follow Jaynie, scrambling to get out of the way. Chudhuri is screaming, “Get down! Get down!” A flash-bang goes off, so close it feels like the explosion is inside my head. I lose track of things. When awareness pops back I’m on the floor and I can’t see shit. My vision is a celestial war of drifting black shadows and dazzling bright flares. And my hearing is trashed. Ears ringing and everything muffled: the screams, the gunfire.

But when a heavy-caliber weapon goes off above my head, I hear it. It’s not Chudhuri or Omer because they only have sidearms, which means they’re outgunned.

I don’t want them dying for me.

Kicking off the wall, I drive my shoulder into half-seen knees.

My shoulder cracks against a titanium strut.

Fuck.
A dead sister?

The shooter staggers, but doesn’t go down. Logically, the
next step should involve putting a bullet in my brain, but that doesn’t happen. Instead, a titanium hook closes around my bicep in a crushing grip, and I’m half lifted, half dragged toward the blown-out doorway.

My arm feels like it’s about to pop under the pressure of that grip but I can bend it, so I reach back—with both hands because they’re still cuffed together—and I grab hold of a strut. Though I can’t see to confirm it, I assume the shooter is fully rigged in armor, bones, and helmet, leaving only one vital spot for me to hit: the throat. That’s what I target. Using the strut for leverage, I swing my robot feet straight up. All those sit-ups I did while hanging upside down pay off as I point my toes and jam them in the general direction of my assailant’s throat.

I score a hit.

The effect is dramatic, more than I expect. Flesh tears and blood surges free, a hot rain that splatters my face. I try to get my feet back on the ground, but the shooter is staggering, backpedaling through the doorway and into the garage. And with the arm hook still engaged, I’m dragged along.

Then the hook releases. I let go of the strut and tumble to the concrete floor. The shooter collapses beside me, dropping some kind of assault rifle in the gushing blood. I roll and grab for it, but someone else gets there first, kicks the weapon out of my reach, and then kicks me in the chest with the toe of a footplate. It feels like my chest caves in. I curl up in agony—only a moment and then I’m grabbed by my armpits and hauled to my knees.

“Don’t fight it!” a man growls in my ear as an arm, braced by struts, squeezes my throat. “We’re going to get you out of here.” His grip tightens and I can’t breathe; I’m down on my knees, so I can’t kick. He’s waiting for me to pass out. “Tango!” he shouts. “Let’s go.”

Tango, wearing the bones of a dead sister, appears on the edge of the rectangle of light that is the blown-out doorway. Details are lost to my addled vision, but I can see enough to make out an assault rifle, held at shoulder level and pointed in my direction. I have a fraction of a second to wonder if anyone in the corridor is still alive, and then the weapon goes off: three fast shots that smack against my captor’s visor,
pak-pak-pak!
He goes over backward, releasing me on the way down. Three more shots follow. None hit me, but they set off a hell’s chorus of car alarms. I suck in a painful breath between clenched teeth as I scramble behind a concrete pillar. The only thought in my head is,
What the fuck is going on?

If I had a link to my handler Delphi, I wouldn’t have to ask. She’d have a situation report ready.

“Shelley!”

My hearing is still muffled and the voice is competing with car alarms, but I swear to God it’s Chudhuri. I’m hit with an ugly suspicion. She stayed past her shift. Is she a partner in this?

“Lieutenant Shelley, are you injured?”

I don’t answer.

“Are you armed?”

Why the hell is Chudhuri still alive?

I don’t answer, holding out for the cavalry. I mean, this is the fucking federal courthouse, the territory of US Marshals. It’s a block away from the Capitol, in a district inhabited by cops from the Secret Service, the FBI, and the goddamn National Park Service. I can’t be alone here for long.

“I’m coming after you, sir,” Chudhuri warns.

“Whose side are you on, Chudhuri?”

Several seconds pass. Then she says, “Fuck you, sir. Lieutenant, if you are not injured, then get on your feet
and get out into the open, before I see that you’re charged with attempted escape.”

I lean out to look around the pillar. My vision is good enough that I can see a sprawled figure beside a white van. Crouched beside the body is one of our MPs, holding a handgun while rapidly popping cinches to separate the fallen assailant from his rig.

Another MP stands over this tableau, holding an assault rifle pointed in my general direction. Chudhuri, I assume, though her visor is black and I can’t see her face.

“Why aren’t you dead?” I shout over the car alarms.

She asks me, “Why aren’t you?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

“Are you armed?”

“No.”

“Then get the hell inside.”

I’m awkward with the handcuffs on, but I get my robot feet under me and slowly stand up. “Who’s been hit?”

•   •   •   •

Every one of us is beat up, but the only one who’s dead is the merc . . . the one I killed, the one whose throat I kicked out. I’m standing in the shower, letting her blood wash off me, repulsed by what I did to her. Maybe it was justified, but it wasn’t exactly human.

It feels worse because I’ve since learned that the mercs came at us with a nonlethal assault, using plastic bullets tough enough to knock down even the armored MPs but unlikely to kill. They had only four personnel on their team: three rigged soldiers and a driver waiting in a white van with FBI insignia.

I thought they came to kill us.

When the door blew out, I expected black-ops soldiers sent by the president, or by Carl Vanda, but in hindsight it’s clear to me they were amateurs.

And that they wanted to extract me alive.

Nolan is showering next to me, his skullcap in hand as he rinses his scalp. On his chest, swollen tissue and a deep black bruise mark the impact of a plastic bullet. My chest is bruised too, from the kick I took. It hurts to breathe. And where the merc grabbed my arm there’s a black bruise like some drunk amateur’s tattoo encircling my bicep.

“Who do you think sent ’em?” Nolan asks as he slips his skullcap back on. “You think it was Rawlings?”

“No.” Colonel Rawlings is retired army. On the First Light mission he served as our outside contact. Along the way, he tried to turn my squad against me. “Rawlings wants this trial. But if he did change his mind? He wouldn’t have told the mercs to rescue me and leave the rest of you behind. Hell no. He’d have ordered them to put a bullet in my brain, before they extracted everyone else.”

Nolan considers this, and nods. “Who, then?”

I turn the water off and reach for a towel. Sergeant Haffey is standing watch in the doorway of the narrow shower facility. Technically, he should tell us to shut the fuck up, because we haven’t been debriefed yet and we should not be discussing what happened, but he doesn’t say anything. Like us, the MPs exist at the center of an arena. A spotlight illuminates us, suggests we are central to the action, but in the shadows beyond the reach of that light, dragons contend. The MPs feel the pressure of it just like we do—hell, Haffey had to face the president and no doubt he’s thought about what could have happened if he’d been present for the shoot-out—but the pressure has only made our MPs more determined. They know the job they’ve been handed isn’t to keep us confined, it’s to keep us alive, and they’ve pulled together around us. We’ve become a cohesive unit, just like any unit under pressure in the field. Haffey doesn’t tell us to shut up, because he’s on our side.

So far as I’m concerned, he’s part of the conversation.

“I don’t know who sent the mercs,” I admit to Nolan. “Nothing about the operation makes sense to me. Carl Vanda might like to have me alive, but he would have used real bullets, and slammed the rest of you.”

Nolan reaches for his towel. “Yeah, it’s like whoever it was, they wanted to grab you, without really pissing you off.” We frown at each other and I know we’re both thinking about the dead merc. “I guess they kind of fucked that one up,” Nolan adds.

•   •   •   •

My dress uniform is ruined, and anyway I think the FBI agents investigating the attack bagged it as evidence, so I put on my combat uniform. Then I’m escorted to the same consultation room where I spoke with the president. I get to spend the next ninety minutes with two FBI agents who insist on going over every second of the attack in excruciating detail even though they have video from the helmet cams of all four MPs, along with recordings made by cameras in the parking garage. They don’t ask about my overlay and I don’t volunteer the news that it switched on just moments before the explosion. My theory is that the fake FBI van was equipped with a relay already hacked by the Red. As I passed the door, it sensed me and automatically restored me as a node on its network—one more surveillance device among millions, made active again.