Ruthless (17 page)

So far, so good.

As soon as I heard them enter, I ran out the back door and angled my path to take me straight across the wide glass windows of the chemistry lab. They stretched roughly waist-high to ceiling, black glass that I could barely see through from outside.

As far as schemes went, this was probably one of the more harebrained I’d come up with. After all, I was placing myself directly in the line of fire with these guys and essentially saying, “Here I am! Shoot me!” Given my prior experience, they, being bad guys with guns, probably would oblige.

Hopefully quickly and without giving it much thought. Or smell.

I glanced back through the chemistry lab’s windows as I took off across the snow. I was moving at the speed reserved for a grandma whilst napping, struggling across the vacant snowfield as the freezing chill dropped down on my exposed flesh. Why hadn’t I worn something more formal to this party, like a bearskin rug? Or a Gore-tex jacket? You know, on the off chance I’d be thrown out a window and hunted through the winter night, as they do at most formal events.

No, they don’t? I’m just special, I guess.

I hoped, hoped, hoped that the mercenaries pursuing me wouldn’t do something smart, like make for the exits and run me down. They could definitely do it. The only thing ahead of me was the training building, and it was a long ways off. If they were even in average shape, they could catch my tragically limping ass with ease.

But whoever had hired them hadn’t paid them to capture me alive.

I saw the movement when I looked back, the shadow in the hallway beyond the chemistry lab. It was a man with a rifle, raising it to his shoulder in preparation to fire. I threw myself down into the snow and waited as I heard the first shot crack over my head. I waited and hoped for another.

I didn’t have to wait long, though I didn’t end up hearing it.

The first shot broke the window from the hallway into the chemistry lab, where I’d run through and slapped the valves for every single gas line in the place on full blast a couple minutes earlier. They were designed for heavy-duty flame experiments with Bunsen burners, and I’d left them wide open. I doubted the lab had completely filled up, but it had filled up enough. One shot broke the glass dividing the mercenaries from the gas.

The second shot exposed the propane—or butane—or whatever-ane—to a lit flame in the form of muzzle flash.

Mom wasn’t big on chemistry when she home-schooled me, but she did teach me what happens when you expose an explosive gas to an open flame.

Kaboom.

The lab exploded and propelled flame and glass over my head. My ears echoed from the force of the blast, even though I’d covered them with my hands as best I could. After they stopped ringing, I rolled over and looked at what I’d wrought.

Destruction of government property. Whoo-ee.

Lots of destruction of government property.

Flames blazed out of the wrecked windows and billowed up the side of the building to light up the night. I could feel the heat like it was reaching out for me, even though I was a good hundred feet away by this point. It was warm, felt kinda nice for a second. Then it started to get way too hot for my taste. It spread too, and I realized that the explosion had ripped through the structure to leave a lot of the guts of it exposed.

That ought to get someone’s attention. Hopefully local PD, then the FBI, because I could use some help.

I looked toward the entrance to the science lab on both sides, but all I could see was flame, crackling within. I’d blown my pursuers up but good.

I sighed into the wretchedly cold air, staring straight ahead, my eyeballs feeling like they were going to freeze, and then I stumbled to my feet and off into the night, the fire guiding me toward the training building.

And the armory within.

Don’t fuck with me, people. Powers or no, I will hunt your sorry ass down.

Natasya stared at the billowing flame in the distance, at the building that had exploded in the night. She stared, mouth slightly agape, and listened. The detonation had broken windows all along the side of the headquarters building, filling the air with the freezing temperatures of outside, causing the sheep that they were overseeing to gasp and cry out.

It was enough to make her even more livid.

If she hadn’t had to keep her calm while speaking on the phone with the voice.

“Where’s my network access?” the voice demanded. Apparently this contingency had not been planned for.

“I plugged the drive you gave me into their computers,” Natasya said. She was not used to missions going this awry, either. Except for that last one before the gulag, of course. “I have done all I can.”

There was a pause before the voice spoke again, and Natasya could tell the voice was suddenly alarmed. “What … the hell is going on there? There’s a thermal imaging bloom on your location—on the science building.”

“Nealon escaped,” Natasya said bluntly. She’d sent six men after the little bitch, and she had a suspicion that they’d been in that building when it had gone up. Damn it all.

“Escaped how?” the voice asked coldly.

“Volkov picked a fight with her,” Natasya said. “Just before we took control. The suppressant went off just before they tumbled out a window.”

There was a pause, and the voice came back as frosted as the ground. “Where is she now?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Natasya said. “But I suspect she either died in the explosion or used it to cover her escape.”

“Where is Volkov?”

“Dead,” Natasya said. “She shot him in the head. Apparently she had a gun, which was something you failed to mention—”

The voice came laughing back. “I thought four of you with a small army to back you up could handle one de-powered twenty-something. Apparently, I was wrong.”

“This isn’t over yet,” Natasya said, cold determination racing through her. “We’re getting you your link into their network. Until then, I have Vitalik working on the first contingency for the prison.”

“And their security force?”

“Neutralized,” Natasya said. “They took the bait, the laden food. We had to kill three or four, but the rest are tied up.”

“Find the girl,” the voice came back again. “Get me into the network. Open the prison.”

Natasya fought back a bitter desire to say something untoward. “As you wish,” she said instead and pushed the red button that terminated the call. “Miksa!” she called, sweeping her gaze over the hostages, mewling like frightened kittens. The Hungarian snapped to, hurrying up to her from where he’d stood, staring lazily into the distance. “Do you want to hunt Sienna Nealon or would you rather I go?”

The Hungarians eyes gleamed. “I would revel in the chance to burn her alive. Slowly, of course.”

Natasya showed no reaction his proposition; inflicting pain was not something that interested her, not even for the capitalists she so despised. Removing them was a satisfaction, a tiny step forward for the cause, but the act itself? It was a means, not an end. She shrugged. “Of course. Take a few men with you and hunt her down.” She waved a hand at the burning remains of the building in the distance. “I suspect you should start there and see if you can find some tracks.”

Miksa nodded and jumped out the window without another word. Not that he had much to say in any case, but this was notable even for him. His reaction had been … not entirely unpredictable. Metas recruited from the satellite states behind the iron curtain had had it rough when they’d been brought into the KGB program. Russians were insular, preferred to keep to themselves. The outsiders forged their own connections, found their own friends. It was a tie that was difficult to break, Natasya knew.

She’d worked with Liliana Negrescu and Miksa before. He had spoken almost normally during those missions. Almost. It was a good sign for how he felt about her, Natasya figured.

And she wouldn’t have wanted to be Sienna Nealon when Miksa caught up with the girl. She’d been wandering outside for quite some time now. Frigid cold. Perhaps wounded. Already a long day, and she’d fought with Volkov … no, it was best if she’d died in the explosion. Best for her, best for them.

But if she hadn’t … Miksa was sure to slowly roast the skin off her bones. Of that, Natasya was certain.

They’d come to kill me.

That was my conclusion as I ran across the snowfield, barefoot, toward the training building. They’d attacked the agency, taken hostages, and chemically castrated the metas, which was just my brother and me. Volkov said that they were here to kill me before I shot him in the face. Four Russian metas and who knows how many hired guns, here to kill little ol’ me.

Well, three Russian metas and six or so fewer hired guns, now. Still, numerically, the odds were not in my favor.

But I’d beaten worse odds.

I struggled through the field, the cold burning my nostrils inside, forcing the air into my lungs with each hard, ragged breath. My body was numb through and through, and I was pretty sure nerve damage was already setting in. I wanted to lie down in the snow and die, but I struggled on, in my flimsy damned dress, on bare feet that I couldn’t really feel anymore. It was like I was walking on stumps at this point, each step a labor of a thousand years.

I made it to the training building’s entrance and into the lobby, a ten-foot by ten-foot cube, tops. It was a little warmer there, and I breathed the air that was probably less than normal room temperature like I had been submerged under the water for ten minutes. I gulped hungry breaths, felt a hint of warmth on my skin, and then slapped my hand to the scanner and prayed for a green light.

It beeped and I struggled with the door again, shoving myself into the tiny crack I was able to force open with my hands refusing to operate normally. I fell to the ground and started to crawl. I wanted to rub my hands together, but the .380 was still clenched tight in my right. I needed clothing. I needed warmth. I needed something to eat, because I was supposed to be devouring miniature quiches right now, dammit. Not crawling through snow and ice with bare hands and feet, powerless and being stalked by a bunch of assholes with a grudge I couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

Okay, well, I might be able to sort of comprehend it. I do have a tendency to—shall we say—inflame the emotions of people who cross me. But I used to just kill them, so problem solved. Like that guy in the bank vault with the bar of bullion. Splat, done, no more issues.

Clearly, someone had a grudge, though. Well, probably. My logical mind ran through the possibilities. Assassinating the head of the United States’s metahuman policing unit? Not a terrible idea, not when the supply of replacements is low. I mean, Reed was good, but—

Aw, hell.

Reed.

I’d totally forgotten him in all the hubbub and fleeing for my life. I’d left Reed behind in the party, fetching me a social lubricant to help me make it through the party. Now he was there with the terrorists—

Or dead. He could well have been dead.

My stomach sank as I considered that possibility. The idea of my brother dead because these Russians came to kill me … it didn’t sit well with me.

It made me sick.

I struggled on, working my way forward into the training building. It had a lobby beyond the glass security one, and I crawled through it at a turtle’s pace. Even the thought that men were coming to kill me couldn’t spur me to move any faster. I just wanted to lie down and sleep, which was probably a sign of hypothermia. This was what you get for going out in a thin dress at negative ten degrees with a wind chill even higher than that.

If I got out of this alive, I vowed to move somewhere sunnier. Like Mercury.

I made it down the hall and looked back only to realize that I was trailing blood behind me. Great. Another problem to deal with. Because I didn’t already have enough of those. I looked down and saw that my legs were red, frozen crimson ice smeared along the length of my knees and shins, blanketing the pale flesh. I looked down and saw similar marks on my hands, but I couldn’t find the wound. Blood loss probably wasn’t helping with the hypothermia, though.

I vowed never to go to a party again. This is why I’m a hermit in my off-time. Another decade of self-imposed isolation was starting to sound like a damned good idea.

I made it to the armory and slapped a bloodied hand on the biometric sensor. It dinged for me and opened the door, but I had to force my fingers into the gap to pry it open. This door was heavier, and I struggled with it for a while before it opened. I managed to crawl inside and shut it, and then I pondered what the hell to do next.

My dilemma was getting worse by the minute, and my logical mind whirling with the possibilities and inevitabilities. They were here to kill me. They were armed and in force. I’d just left a trail of blood, footprints and crawl marks from the scene of my last encounter with them to here, and for certain there were more of them out there, just waiting to get me. I was bleeding, weak, tired, hypothermic, frostbitten and without my usual powers. Or spunk.

But I was also pissed off, hurting, backed into a corner and afraid for my life. Not a good place to find me.

I pushed myself back into the work, crawling through the armory and taking inventory of what I’d need. First aid kit? Yep. Rifle? Yessir, please. With extra magazines. Weight was going to be a limiting factor here, so I went with an M-16 variant. It had quad rails, with some fancy doohickeys on the side. I ditched the laser and kept the flashlight and red dot sight. We didn’t have a quartermaster, per se, and this armory was exclusively for the use of our meta personnel—i.e. Reed and myself—and since Reed only practiced with these weapons when I made him, I knew where everything was. I found an M209 grenade launcher and latched it to the picatinny rail on the bottom of my rifle. That took some doing, what with my hands being in the state they were. The next time I ran into one of these clowns, I wanted them to ask themselves, “Where does she get these wonderful toys?”

You know, as they were being blown into itty-bitty smithereens.