Sacrifice the Wicked (21 page)

Only Parker had never been like that. She couldn’t start now.

She dropped the gun.

“Good,” said the man. He raised his boot. Danny sucked in a gulp of air, red-faced, choking. “By the sanction of Holy Order of St. Dominic, you are hereby accused of being a witch.”

Parker’s mouth dropped open. “
What
?”

“No!” Danny struggled to sit up, but the operative casually backhanded him. He didn’t change his gun to his other hand to do it. Danny’s whole body rotated with the impact, slumping to the floor as blood gleamed on his lip.

The man with the broken faceplate seized her by the shoulder. “Payback’s a bitch.”

Her heart lurched into her throat. “No!” She twisted; his fingers tightened over her collarbone, bit cruelly. “Stop—”

She didn’t stand a chance. The operative swung a fist wrapped around the butt of his gun, and her head rang like a bell, stuffed with fireworks and white-hot pain.

Her vision seared to red, white. And nothing.

I
f hell had a taste, it lived in Simon’s mouth.

He didn’t know how long he’d slumped on the floor, or what time it was now. He couldn’t decide what part of his dreams were fever hallucinations, wishful thinking, or the torment of demons as he flashed from one hellish landscape to the next.

Degeneration at its finest.

Slowly, the skull-wracking pressure at his ears lessened. Sounds, real sounds, crept through pounding beats trapped in his head. The rhythmic rasp turned into the sound of his own breath, and a faint hum became the electric buzz of appliances, furnaces, more.

The world coalesced into focus.

His right hand vibrated steadily.

Simon raised his fist, squinted at the comm he’d clutched for who knew how long. Daylight streamed through the curtains, lit the blood-soaked carpet beneath him to vivid red and fading brown.

He was filthy. Saturated in his own blood. Tasting that metallic tang in his mouth and the salty remnants of the blood-laced mucus he hadn’t managed to force down.

And the world still wouldn’t leave him alone.

Every limb felt weighted with lead.

Groaning, he elbowed himself up, flipped the comm screen open. “What?”

“Simon? You’re alive!” The voice fractured through the silence. Familiar . . . but strained.

Simon rubbed at his gummy teeth with the back of his hand. “Jonas?”

“Jesus, man, I’ve never been happier to hear your voice.”

The raw relief in Jonas’s weary tone forced Simon’s attention to sharpen. To arrow on the screen. “What happened?”

“Before or after Neely tried to kill me?”

Jesus Christ. “Short version it, Jonas.”

“There’s been a coup. We’re talking full-blown overthrow, man, secret police and all. Operatives I’ve never seen before have taken over the Mission.”

Well, that wasn’t a surprise. “Taken over how?”

“As far as I know, not a single bullet has been fired. Well, not up there, anyway.” The analyst had a way of injecting verbal expression, and the grimace Simon heard hurt. “The one lodged in my leg probably doesn’t count.”

Why would they—Simon shook his head, hard enough to send the loose pieces of the puzzle clattering inside his thoughts. “Neely tried to kill you. Did he say why?”

“Nothing. Just, ‘Come on up to see the director, Jonas!’ and then
blam
. Lucky for me, someone was watching my back.” A pause. “Your doing?”

“Jonas, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Simon managed not to growl it. He even somehow succeeded in a kind of calm.

But the shit had definitely hit the fan.

“Okay, okay. I’m in the feeds and I’ve been monitoring the broadband for hours.” Keys clicked behind him.

And something new. A murmur, as if conversations happened around him.

Wherever the tech was, he wasn’t in his van.

“It’s bad, Simon,” Jonas said seriously. “Mainstream media’s all talking about a witch attack from earlier this morning. Not a word about the mess at the quad.”

“Details,” Simon demanded. “I need details.”

“Right.” More keystrokes, clicking through a brief silence. Simon squinted blearily. “The only thing I’ve been able to piece together is that a bunch of operatives in Mission armor showed up at the headquarters. General staff has been replaced—I dunno where they put ’em, but they aren’t home. And, Simon? They got her.”

“Her?” And then his brain kicked in. He straightened fast enough for his vision to swirl, but he clenched his teeth, forced himself to his knees. “
Parker
. Where?”

“Chatter says they picked the director up at her place.”

Fucking hell. She’d gone back. Why the hell would she go back?

Because that’s where she stashed it.

“She was—get this—with an accomplice. Until about an hour ago, I assumed you were him.”

“No.” He growled the word. Who the hell had she picked up? What
him
?

Who was he going to have to murder?

He struggled to his feet, swayed. Damn, he felt like death warmed over. “Jonas, where are you?”

“With, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “With a mutual friend, I think.”

Simon slitted one eye in fierce concentration. Where was his shirt? Oh, right. The bedroom. The noise he made was noncommittal.

“Simon, uh . . . I have to say. You are one
bastard
of a conniver.”

“Jonas, for the second time—”

“You’ve been stepping out on me.”

“Oh.” Simon padded into the bedroom, found his shirt where he’d discarded it. “That friend. Tell me something, Jonas.”

“Yeah?”

“Is he really a friend?”

There was a pause. And then, very seriously, “You didn’t know, did you? You risked it all on a gamble?”

Simon’s smile lacked humor. And hope. “Yup.”

“You manipulative son of a bitch.” But it didn’t sound like anger. Jonas sighed, the sound crackling through the frequency. “I don’t know if friendship is the word, but there’s at least a temporary kind of alliance. The ghost is damn pleased with the datadump you handed over—through me, might I add. I’m patched up and alive when I should be smeared in an alley, and Neely’s dead.”

“Good enough.”

“No, it isn’t.” There was an edge to that fine tenor Simon couldn’t recall hearing before.

Then again, he couldn’t recall much of anything at the moment. God, his head hurt.

He dug his thumb into one eye socket. It didn’t help. “What?”

“How many people were you playing?” he demanded. “Who did you manipulate?”

“Everyone.” A flat answer.

“Why?”

Simon was too tired to mince it. “Because Lauderdale’s a psychopath, his daughter doesn’t have the sense God gave a kitten, the bishop’s a tool, your little witch team moves like goddamned molasses, and Parker’s too fucking good to sacrifice on the bloody altar of Church politics.” He took a deep breath. “And I’m fucking tired, Jonas, so what the
fuck
do you want?”

Silence. And then, in quieter tones, “I won’t hold this against you on one provision.”

Simon wasn’t in any sort of condition to make promises. Jonas didn’t wait for him to agree.

“Director Adams—I mean, Parker.” Even her name sent a shaft of anger through Simon’s gut. And something worse. Something he didn’t deserve. “You’re right, there. She’s a good woman. Get her out of this.”

“I plan to.” And as the words left Simon’s mouth, bypassing his brain entirely, he knew he meant it. Anger or no. “They’ll take her in to the jails. You have access to your usual stuff from there?”

“Sort of,” Jonas replied, but slowly. As if he wasn’t sure. “At the very least, I can figure it out fast.”

“Good.” Simon collected his boots, dropped them by his pile of clothes. “Get me the whereabouts of every known missionary on the roster.”

“Easy.” Keys clattered, but as the pain faded from Simon’s head, he realized it wasn’t the same sound he’d gotten used to in the past two weeks. Different keyboard. Different tone.

He hoped to hell the man was in good hands.

“The orders went out about an hour ago. All missionaries are directed to muster topside.”

“Fuck.” Simon stabbed the button to transfer the call back to the smaller speaker, raising it to his ear. “This is not good. It’s too soon.”

“Too soon for what?”

“They’ve moved on the whole Mission. Okay, Jonas, listen to me very carefully. We need to know who the hell is on our side and where they are. You need to make this happen.”

“Done.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a bullet,” he replied, but his voice strained. “Parker had me working on it days ago. Simon . . . Man, I have to tell you. The only reason I’m trusting you now is ’cause you saved my life.”

Simon frowned at the bedroom. His eyes settled on the rumpled bedcovers. The bloodstain he’d left on the sheet.

Saved Jonas’s life? Not intentionally.

“You may have
risked
it, but I think I see what you’re getting at.”

“Fine.” Simon spoke over him, and didn’t realize until he’d started that he borrowed a note from Parker’s frigid repertoire. “Get to those missionaries, get the word out.”

“What should I say?”

“Your call, Jonas.” Simon turned his back on the bed. And the memories made there. Too late for that.

He had one more shot at this. It had to start with a shower.

“Hey, wait. There is one more thing I can do.”

Simon would take almost anything. “What?”

“If you can get her out, then I can get you safe.”

Simon stepped into the bathroom, made a face at his reflection—he looked like shit with a serving side of raw meat. “How?”

“I know a few people.” Cryptic as hell. “And I’m told we’ll have a certain amount of, um, sanctuary. So I’ll be in touch as soon as I can pinpoint them.”

“Better find a different comm. It’s only a matter of time before they lock you down from mine,” Simon warned.

The tech’s crystal laughter labored, but the smug edge to it made Simon shake his head. “It’s me,” he said lightly. “Already got it covered. You go get Parker.”

At this point in the game, Simon didn’t care about anything else.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

P
arker’s eyes opened slowly.

Lights. Stifling silence. The strange, clinging filaments of her subconscious faded to bleary awareness. Of pain. Of uncertainty.

Of restraints.

She raised her head, bit back a groan as her neck muscles cramped with the effort.

Damn, she hurt. The dull echo in her head slammed in time with her heart, centered right over her left temple. If this was the kind of headache Simon battled, her sympathy had just ratcheted up by about a thousand.

“Good. You’re up.”

She squinted through the light, testing each limb cautiously. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Brilliant.” Kayleigh Lauderdale stepped into Parker’s field of vision, her hair pulled back into a high ponytail and her features set into grim lines. She’d forgone the suit this time, settling for gray slacks and a cap-sleeved blouse in butter yellow, but she carried her ever-present digital reader in one arm.

“Do you know the date?” She caught Parker’s face in her free hand, held it straight. Searching her eyes. For what?

Brain trauma, probably. Parker managed a thin smile.

She knew where she was. Where they’d tied her up and dropped her.

The interrogation cells in the Mission weren’t elegant things. Plain gray walls, plain gray floors. Typically one chair, and whatever else it took to get the job done.

Parker didn’t pretend not to know what kind of confessions unfolded in rooms like this. And now it was her turn. She occupied the only chair, and a heavy table beside Kayleigh was the only other piece of furniture.

Parker blew strands of her hair out of her eyes, wincing with the effort. Her temple throbbed steadily. “I hear I’m accused of being a witch.”

A flicker. The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever it takes to get the quarry in, right?”

“Wrong.” Parker jerked her face away from the woman’s grip, her tone sharpening. “That’s the difference between a good director and a bully with a mandate.”

“And you’re a good director?”

“No.” Parker’s smile edged. “I’m an accused heretic strapped to a chair in an interrogation room with the daughter of the man who just betrayed the Mission.”

The digital reader dropped to the table, a clatter that echoed sharply through the small room. “Let me be clear,” Kayleigh said, her voice tight. “You’re obviously not a witch. Your blood lacks all the markers.”

“Obviously,” Parker replied coolly. “But the public wouldn’t know that, right?”

“Exactly the point.”

“Bully.” Parker’s mouth twisted as she met the woman’s fog-blue eyes. They narrowed again. “This isn’t the first time your people have screwed with lab results, is it?” The woman had the grace to look away. “I knew it.”

“I knew you’d figure it out.”

Small comfort. “I trusted you,” Parker said quietly.

“No,” Kayleigh retorted, raising her chin. “You never did.”

And how. “So you tell me why my Mission is now in your father’s hands.”

The woman stared at her. “You have a lot of confidence for someone tied to a chair, Miss Adams.” She pulled the reader closer to her, flipped it over, and keyed it on. “How long have you been working against the Church?”

Parker almost laughed. “Are you serious?”

“You’ve been stealing classified information,” the doctor said, dragging a fingertip across the screen. Parker watched her, the set to her shoulders and rigid line of her back.

Kayleigh didn’t want to be here.

Well, great. Neither did Parker. So what?

“Where is the Wayward Rose folder you stole?”

Parker raised a spiteful eyebrow. “What’s wrong? Your pet not checking in with you?”

“He checked in,” she snapped, clearly stung, “but he says the folder was stolen from him. Did you arrange that?”

“Arrange . . . ?” Parker couldn’t help it. Her laugh broke on a sudden, painful surge of disbelief. Of . . . of pain so deep that it twisted all the way inside her heart.

He’d never said a word. Hadn’t once indicated that he hadn’t turned in that folder, hadn’t even hinted that someone else had taken the data.

Who?

She had one guess. And if they were interrogating Danny now, Parker wouldn’t be the one to turn him over.

“Did I
arrange
to have my home watched around the clock
just in case
Simon ever broke in to steal from me?” she queried, weary humor strained to the point of breaking. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Exhaustion filled her; resignation.

Regret.

She bent one hand back as far as she could, quietly testing the manacles locked around her wrists, but nothing so much as shifted.

Think, Parker.

“You aren’t a missionary, Dr. Lauderdale.” Parker strove for calm. Forced herself to breathe—through the fear, the anxiety riding her chest. The anger. “You’re a scientist. Why are you here?”

The woman looked up, her pale brown eyebrows furrowed. “Do you even understand that this is your funeral? Do you get the importance of this?”

“Yes.” Parker raised her chin. “I absolutely do. Sector Three has officially taken over the Mission, marrying the two in a monopoly that gives your father the run of the Church. Nobody has to answer for anything now. Not for crimes committed against innocent people on the streets—”

Kayleigh’s jaw set.

“—or for crimes committed against innocent people in classified labs,” Parker finished flatly.

“My father isn’t like that.”

“Salem Project.”

Kayleigh’s mouth tightened. “So you do know the details.”

“Of course I know,” Parker replied evenly. “How many of my agents are Salem witches in uniform? Are any of my people still mine?”

“What?” Kayleigh shook her head, bemused. “Of course they’re yours, all but the few Salem subjects seeded in.” She hesitated. “Were yours.”

Parker stared at her. Studied the line of her mouth, the deep grooves at each corner and the furrow at her brow, and barely restrained a laugh. “You don’t know. You have no idea what your father’s been up to, do you?”

“It’s not like that,” Kayleigh replied sharply.

Such an echo of Simon’s denial earlier, shades of his inflection. Parker wrenched her shoulders. Winced as the restraints pulled. “Then explain what he’s doing.”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you. You’re a prisoner.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Kayleigh!” Parker’s chair creaked as she leaned forward, but she couldn’t go far. “Your father has been ordering innocent people—my agents—to be
murdered
. Don’t you think that matters?”

Kayleigh stepped forward, her fists clenching. “No, he hasn’t!”

“Then why was Jonas Stone’s name on your list? Where is Amy Silo?”

Kayleigh’s mouth compressed.

“The only people standing between you and the active witches in the city are on that list you sent to Simon. What do you think’ll happen when we’re all gone?”

“My father,” the woman replied, drawing herself up indignantly, “is going to save this city. He’s not
murdering
anyone.”

“Hannah Long,” Parker spit out, knowing the names wouldn’t mean anything to the doctor and desperate to try anyway. “Jonathan Fisher.”

There.
A flicker of an eyelash. A twitch. Guilt.

But Kayleigh shook her head. “Those aren’t innocent people, Parker. They’re subjects. Property of Sector Three.”

Parker’s mouth fell open. And as rage slid like poison into her calm, shattered it completely, she strained at her bonds. “
Subjects,
” she said from between her teeth, lips peeled back. “He’s killing people, but it’s okay, because they’re just
subjects
.” She spat the word. “You and Simon . . . Oh, God.”

“I don’t—”

“You were working with Simon the whole time?”

Kayleigh flinched, but her shoulders squared. “Simon owes us his life!”

“Simon owes Matilda Lauderdale his life,” Parker shot back. She blinked hard as Kayleigh reeled back. As if Parker had slapped her. A button?

A chink in the girl’s armor.

“Your father didn’t make Simon. Matilda did,” she pressed. “She’s Simon’s donor. I bet he didn’t tell you that, did he?”

Red climbed into the doctor’s cheeks. Her eyes crackled, filled with ice. “That’s enough,” she whispered. “Simon isn’t— He’s just another—”

“What? Test subject? Sure. One that carries your
mother’s
genes.”

White-faced, Kayleigh took a step closer, fists clenched. Parker didn’t care.

This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t kind.

But she wasn’t going to get anywhere with kind.

And hearing Simon’s name come out of that pretty mouth only dragged Parker’s sympathy further into the muddy depths of her anger.

“Simon’s your half brother, regardless
how
he was born,” she said, disgust twisting every word. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? He’s just a
subject.
”

The door swung open, and one of the men in black armor stepped inside behind Kayleigh, sans helmet.

Parker’s gaze flicked to him. Stubbled chin, square features, plain. Determined.

Cold.

No memory of his face. No visible tattoo.

“We’re going to try this again,” Kayleigh said, summoning a thin calm. She didn’t bend, didn’t crouch. Nothing to make the angle easier on Parker’s neck as her eyes darted back to the doctor. “Why did you steal the Wayward Rose file?”

“Because your operation risked my agents’ lives, and I wanted to know why.” The truth might not set her free, but what did she have to hide?

Kayleigh’s eyes widened, her arms folding over her chest. “Curiosity? You risked everything for simple
curiosity
?”

“No.” Parker’s stare shifted to the man. His pale skin was freckled, but there wasn’t anything kind about the rigid line to his features as he watched her. “I risked everything because this kind of internal warfare destroys people. Someone was abusing his power.”

“My father—”

The operative shifted.

Parker’s glare jerked to Kayleigh again. Pinned with every scrap of anger and loathing and, hell, with fear she felt. “Your father is involved with witches, with the Coven of the Unbinding, and with human testing.”

Kayleigh paled. But her jaw set. “You don’t know that. He wouldn’t ever deal with witches.” When Parker only stared at her, incredulity warring with pity, the woman flinched. “I mean
actual
witches!”

“Dr. Lauderdale—”

Parker spoke over the dark-haired man with glacial emphasis. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. Your father is
butchering
people.”

Crack!
The pain of Kayleigh’s slap was nothing compared to fierce satisfaction at breaking the woman. Parker’s head snapped to the side, cheek burning, but her teeth bared in a hard, angry smile.

The man grabbed Kayleigh by the arm, pulled her physically aside. “Dr. Lauderdale, let me handle this.”

“I can—”

“It’s important,” he insisted. “Go wait in the viewing room. Now.”

Parker watched the conflict on the woman’s face. For a moment, a flicker, that sympathy stirred as anger and uncertainty warred with pride.

But it wouldn’t last.

For all Parker’s bravado, she knew she had no proof. Nothing to force Kayleigh to see what Laurence Lauderdale had done.

Would do.

Kayleigh herself had access to all the proof she could ever need, but the bond between father and daughter was a strong one. She’d never look.

Parker closed her eyes.

“I can handle this,” Kayleigh said quietly.

“No.” The door opened, and Kayleigh huffed something indignant as footsteps scuffed across the floor. “View from there if you want, but this is Mission business now.”

“What? You can’t be ser—”

The door clicked shut. Locked.

Parker’s smile faded, leaving behind a knot of fear, anger. Anxiety and resolve. She opened her eyes as the operative approached, his blue gaze empty.

“You’re a good little tin soldier, aren’t you?” she asked, but wearily. “So what part of all this do you come from? GeneCorp? Lauderdale’s pet projects?” Her wrists ached, shoulders mirroring the strain.

Shortly, this would be the least of her problems.

The man reached for his belt, withdrew a foot-long tube. It didn’t look like much, but she knew it for what it was.

The Mission used it for interrogations often.

Sweat bloomed across her shoulders.

“Make this easy on yourself,” the man—the missionary?—said as he thumbed the switch. A faint hum filtered through the stifling room.

Every fine hair on Parker’s arms lifted.

“Who else did you talk to about Sector Three?”

“So you can kill them?” she demanded, but it shook. “Please.”

“What did Simon Wells tell you?”

Her teeth clicked together as the man crouched in front of her. “I don’t tolerate anyone putting my people in danger,” she said, forcing herself to sound as calm as she didn’t feel. “Lauderdale will regret this.”

“What information did you have Jonas Stone pull off the mainframe? Who did he send it to?”

That got her. She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

The man studied her, head tilted. “Jonas Stone was in touch with someone else at the time you first ordered him to find the data. We have logs. Related, you met with an informant recently at his behest. Who was it?”

Logs, he’d said. As in . . . “You tapped my comm?”

He didn’t bother to answer. “He gave that data to someone else. Who?”

Phin Clarke.
It had to be.

The electric prod hovered. Her skin crawled. “Where did you get that syringe?”

She clenched her eyes shut. “Go to hell.”

S
imon strode through the Mission lobby as if he owned it.

Three guns leveled on him.

One lifted. “Let him pass.” It seemed telling that most of the Salem Project operatives Simon had met were men. He knew women were involved—hell, fully a third of the subjects were female—but Laurence Lauderdale didn’t seem to share Simon’s appreciation of the gender.

He nodded to the men guarding the front entry. “Where’s the party?”