The Lethal Agent (The Extraction Files Book 2) (2 page)

CPI-PQ1-RL, NEW YORK

SEPTEMBER 1, 2232

“Come in, child.”

“Sorry to bother you so early. I wasn’t sure if you’d be up,” Silas answered as he entered Ramona’s room. She sat in bed, her hands folded in her lap. A grey-and-white braid fell over her the shoulder of her vintage nightgown. “I can come back later. It’s not important.”

“Oh, please. Sit down.” Silas pulled her green lounger over, careful not to damage its antique wood frame.

“Rough morning?” Somehow she could always tell when he’d overindulged.

“Not anymore.”

“What’s troubling you?” How many times had she asked him that exact question? Hundreds at least.

Silas rubbed a hand across his chin, still rough with stubble. “Maggie’s back.”

“We knew she would be. What else?”

“Kaufman was pretty beat up. Looks like he had a run in with someone he couldn’t handle.”

“No, that’s not it.”

Silas cursed silently. “I think Nick is starting to get out of line.”

“You knew he would.” Ramona smoothed a wrinkle in her bedding.

He sighed. “Yes, but this is different. He’s questioning the way we run things, threatening to inform Masry of our practices.”

“You mean he’s thinking for himself?”

That was one way to put it. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Did you expect any less? You taught him too well.” Ramona tilted her head back and laughed.

“Even so, I can’t risk Masry getting involved.”

“You’re ashamed.” Scholars would always look down on him, despite his doctorate. He wasn’t born into their class. He was less than them. No matter what he accomplished, he would never be accepted. Silas knew that was their problem, not his. “No—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I think she won’t understand. I think Nick, Masry, all of them. They won’t understand the kids.”

“Because you’re not a Scholar?”

“I think they’ll blame my background for my interactions with them. They’ll think I’m not refined enough to properly run a facility like this.”

“They’ll be wrong. You’re exactly what this place needs.”

“I know. They won’t understand the kids need this place as much as it needs them. I’m afraid they’ll take it away from me.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” she offered, though Silas knew she didn’t mean it. CPI was the last home either of them had left. Ramona founded the program. She couldn’t walk away, even now.

“It would be bad for the kids. What would Nick do with this place? He’d turn it into a Scholar’s paradise. He’d micromanage them until they suffocated. Osip would blow a gasket in a heartbeat.” Ramona laughed so hard Silas couldn’t help but smile.

“He’d throw a fit,” she admitted between laughs.

“And the teams that are already on assignment? He’d pull Abby from LRF. I know he doesn’t approve of her placement. She’d be crushed.”

“Is Abby’s happiness the most important factor?” Ramona’s tone was serious again.

Silas thought for a moment. “It is to Abby.”

“Then you’ll have to make sure to keep your position here.” She said it like it would be easy. “They’re depending on you.”

That was the worst part. Silas had known failure. He had watched so many fall ill or die on his watch. But now, he would take down so many others with him. Good kids who didn’t deserve to lose what little peace they’d carved out for themselves.

“You’re right. As always.” Silas stood and bent over the bed to kiss her cheek. “Can I do anything for you?”

“Oh no child, you have plenty on your plate as it is. Well, would you send in Knox?”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“No child. Come see me when you can.” Ramona smiled, gracious and understanding. He used to visit her every day, seeking her advice and offering her some reprieve from her arthritic isolation. But lately, he hadn’t had time. He didn’t need her in the same way he had ten years ago. But he would never let her down. He didn’t have it in him to disappoint the only person who believed in him.

Silas would find a way to deal with Nick, if for no other reason than Ramona.

CPI-AO-302, NEW YORK

SEPTEMBER 1, 2232

The prospect of finding brain-dwelling bugs in a stranger was hard enough, but without the option of interviewing the person or evaluating them in any way, Dasia found bug hunting to be downright impossible.

How the hell were they supposed to be able to do this?

Hopefully, Nick was about to tell them.

They sat in Nick’s office chairs and waited for him to pull up whatever files he needed.

“How are you settling in so far, Dasia?” Nick asked. His eyes remained on his screen.

“Oh, uh, it’s fine.” She looked at Osip, unsure of what she should say. He smiled his easy, warm smile as if he understood, though she was sure he didn’t.

“Great. Well, you two are the only intel team we have this time around, so it should go pretty quick. There are four others offsite and working, Intel teams two through five. You two make intel team six.”

Osip asked the obvious question. “What happened to team one?”

“They were promoted to a recon team.”

Promoted? Dasia didn’t realize in the world of CPI, where class, past, and background didn’t matter, that she would somehow still end up at the bottom. Oh well. She deserved no better.

“Ah, here it is.” Nick enlarged a panel of profiles, each with a photo and brief description of the person. Almost all were outlined with blue, the Scholars. Two had the green of Craftsmen.

“This is our host matrix. You’ll be responsible for contributing profiles to the matrix and investigating those that are already here. Once a host gets your approval, a recon team will be sent in to extract the bug.”

Yeah, no big deal.

Dasia felt like she understood all the individual words he was saying, but put together, she had no idea what he was talking about.

Oblivious to her confusion, Nick continued. “Each Scholar contributes periodic reports to others in their field, whether a mentor or mentee, an advisor, or the vicereine herself. These reports constitute the basis for determining which Scholars are hosts.”

Dasia looked at Osip and saw him swallow hard, his eyes locked on Nick. He almost looked in pain.

“For Craftsmen, the process is a little more difficult. We have a lower percentage of detection in Craftsmen populations, which we are hoping to make vast improvements upon.

“The bugs affect an area of the host’s brain, so you should utilize their periodic reports to understand changes in their work schedule, data recording, and other aspects that greatly affect their work. If you have any questions, just let me know.”

Nick smiled and switched off the display.

Dasia remained locked in the chair, frozen. What the hell was he talking about?

“Okay, will do, Nick. Ready?” Dasia looked over to see Osip’s hand held out. She slipped her hand into his and let him pull her out of the chair and into the hallway.

“You know what he was saying?” she whispered, nervous Nick might hear and be disappointed in her.

“Not a clue,” he said with a chuckle. “But you’re really smart. I think you can figure it out.”

Dasia stopped in her tracks. She didn’t know why he would say such or thing, why he would have such confidence in her.

“Hungry?”

“Not really.” Breakfast had never been her thing.

“My room then?” Already in the elevator, Osip hit the two and waited to arrive, casual and relaxed where she was stressed. How was she supposed to figure this out?

He let her have the only chair as he cued up the same screen they’d seen in Nick’s office minutes before.

“What do you think?” His eyes were on the screen. His hands were in his pockets as he waited for her response.

“I don’t get it.”

“Okay, what don’t you get?” He didn’t ask with a negative tone, he wasn’t condescending. In fact, he was kind. He really wanted to know.

“I get that these are all possible people who have bugs in them, but how did they get here? How are we supposed to figure out which people could have a bug? I mean, there are ten billion people on the planet.”

“Don’t forget, there’s a few million underground and another few thousand on the moon.” Osip smiled and tossed a few loose strands of blond hair from his face.

“Right, so how do we get ten billion, two million and three thousand people to a list of twelve?”

Osip shrugged as if she’d just mentioned she’d eaten his lunch by mistake. “Maybe they have something in common.” He reached out his finger and tapped the first image.

A brunette woman with her hair in a bun filled the left side of the screen. She had crisp apple-red lips and deep blue eyes to compliment her porcelain skin and rounded cheeks. On the right, her information appeared.

DR. ANYA JAROSAVICH, PROPULSION ENGINEER

STOCKHOLM INSTITUTE OF ENGINEERING AND COSMIC RESEARCH

MENTEE OF DR. MITCHELL KERNS (LIMA ENGINEERING RESEARCH FACILITY)

MENTOR TO DR. SAMANTHA PAULING (TECHNOLOGY AND ENGINEERING LABORATORIES OF SHANGHAI)

CURRENT RESEARCH: LIMITING EMISSIONS OF INTERPLANETARY VEHICLES VIA REPLACEMENT FUELS AND REUSABLE DISCHARGE SOURCES.

Dasia didn’t know what she was supposed to learn from the pile of names and places. None held any meaning to her, other than being places she’d never visit. She didn’t know why a person would want to limit emissions of a vehicle between planets or what a discharge source was.

None of it made any sense.

She swiped back to see the profiles and tapped the second one. A woman with fire-red hair appeared on the left while a similar list of useless information filled the right.

DR. MILNA LUDWIG, PHARMACEUTICAL RESEARCHER

CENTER FOR GERMAN PHARMACEUTICAL RESEARCH, BERLIN

MENTEE OF DR. DIVYA PRATABAN (TORONTO INSTITUTE FOR PHARMACEUTICAL EVALUATION)

MENTOR TO UNASSIGNED

CURRENT RESEARCH: ANTHEZINE APPLICATION TO NEUTRALIZE ADDICTIVE PROPERTIES OF ANTHAMORPHINE

Anth?

Just reading the name made it call to her, whispers she had thought she would never hear again.

Everything’s fine. You can figure this out.

The memory of it was sharp enough to cut her.

Her eyes filled with tears and brimmed over before she could stop them. She hadn’t wanted to think about anth or what always followed—Cole.

“What’s wrong?” Osip knelt beside her a second later.

Even as she wiped her cheeks and removed all traces of her tears, he remained.

“I’m fine, just had something in my eye.”

Osip smiled, though not as warm as usual. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” She shrugged.

“Who’s Daugherty?”

Dasia stared in disbelief. “What, uh, I am. That’s my name,” she lied.

Osip swallowed. “No, you’re Dasia King. It was on your file when I picked you up from the shuttle dock.”

She’d forgotten all about that. She’d forgotten that he’d been the first person she’d known in this new life, that she’d been rude to him, that she’d abandoned him for Jane at the first opportunity.

He deserved better from her.

Dasia looked at her lap and ran her finger across the edge of her tablet. “His name was Cole.” She choked on his name but thankfully got it out on the first try. When her dark-red curls fell across her face, she didn’t move them.

“You were with him?” Osip asked.

Dasia nodded. “Engaged.” A fresh tear slipped down her cheek before she could wipe it away.

“And he’s the one that died? From the haze?”

She didn’t know how Osip had come by that information, but she couldn’t deny it. She nodded again.

“What was he like?” Osip reached out his hand a tucked her wayward curls behind her ear. When she didn’t answer, he prodded, “Smart? Handsome? Wicked charming?”

Dasia let out a small laugh. “I don’t know about wicked.”

Osip smiled at her. “Okay, so smart and handsome and charming. Sounds like a good guy.”

“He was.” She nodded her agreement.

“Good, you deserve a good guy, even if it was only for a little while.”

Dasia didn’t know what to say to that, so instead she said, “I’m sorry I lied. I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out and—”

“It’s fine,” he said, and she believed him. “If you want to be Dasia Daugherty, then you should be. It’s one of the few pieces of home you get to keep around here. Hell, Nick wanted me to go by
Joseph
.” He said the name like it tasted of vinegar.

Dasia couldn’t help but laugh—a good, hearty laugh.

“I mean seriously, you think I should be Joseph, or worse, Joe? Come on.” He pretended to be offended, though only a little.

“We could call you Joey,” she chimed in between laughs.

Osip shook his head. His blond hair swung with the motion. “I don’t care what you call me, as long as you call me.”

Dasia laughed at his cheesiness, but there was an edge of seriousness in his words, an intensity she hadn’t noticed before.

She realized how close he was, how she’d told him about Cole, how he’d made her laugh. Dasia was suddenly aware of Osip’s presence in a way she hadn’t been a moment before. Her pulse pounded in her throat.

As if he’d sensed her sudden onset of nerves, Osip leaned in kissed her. Soft, slow, nothing like she would have expected from a guy with so much confidence. He used his hand to pull her chin toward him, like he wanted to taste more of her. Before she could even think of what she was doing or why she was doing it, Osip pulled back and smiled.

Dasia didn’t smile back. She didn’t know what to do, what to feel, what just happened. She was crying, then they were laughing, then kissing.

In the absence of her reaction, Osip backed away and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Just, you were laughing and—” He looked at the hands as he wrung them together in front of him. He chewed on the inside of his lip. “I’m sorry.” Then he took one long step out the door.