Extraction Page 10

  Jayne pursed her lips for a moment. "What do you mean they ripped their straps off? You had them secured, you said…right?"

  "We d-did!" he hissed, leaning forward into the camera. His eyes bulged, showing bloodshot vessels. The poor nan definitely had not gotten much sleep lately. "All of their brainwave patterns suggested they were in deep comas. It shouldn’t have been p-possible for them to wake up, let alone rip off the reinforced straps. The manufacturer specially modified the restraining straps to withstand a chimp’s strength. But they ripped through the like…like p-p-paper.”

  Even more curious, Jayne leaned forward. “How?”

  “After the autopsies, we discovered that the installation process inadvertently activated their adrenal gland during sleep, and w-whatever inhibitors were naturally present to keep the animals—and I presume humans as well, as we share most of the same systems—from d-damaging their muscles through operating at greater than 100% capacity…those natural f-f-f-fail-safes were bypassed. In a blind rage, the chimps used all their possible strength, and we were forced to t-terminate them.” He shook his head. “They had to shoot them several times before the poor things dropped. It was like they didn’t even care t-they’d been shot.”

  "Really?” Jayne asked, pursing her lips. “I like the sound of that. Do tell."

  Myles gave her an odd look, but continued. "It was our handler," he said, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. His voice sounded muffled. "He was the only one b-brave enough to step in there and shoot the poor things in the head. One nearly g-got him as well. The damn thing threw a chair through half-inch thick bulletproof glass!"

  "Now that's interesting…" Jayne murmured, dreaming of a way to give her operatives super strength. It sounded like they might be destroying their own muscles in the process, but if it got a mission accomplished... I wonder what Dr. Salcotti could make of this information?

  “Send me all the details you have on this failed experiment. I want everything.”

  "What do you mean?"

  “I have someone in mind who might be able to help…he specializes in…shall we say, enhanced biotics.”

  Myles looked curious. “Who?” he asked, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Is it someone I know?”

  Jayne shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, and I’m not at liberty to say. Trade secret, you understand.”

  “B-but—”

  "Like I said when I introduced you to the Consortium, we’re in this for the greater good, Jared. This failed experiment is a significant detriment to your AI program—no one's arguing that—but I'm going to help you overcome it. You’re part of Jaynesway, now. The information you possess may help one of my biotech firms, working on…"

  Her mind raced, trying to come up with a lie he would believe. "It's all rather complicated,” she said, her eyes touching on an aerospace report on her desk. “…but we landed a lucrative contract with NASA. They're looking to go to Mars in the next couple years, and you already know my goals for asteroid mining. We want to research methods of…enhancing…astronauts to allow them to survive high-gravity situations. If what you're saying proves true, this could be the linchpin to leapfrog years’ worth of work."

  "Oh…okay…I guess." He stared at her for a moment, then nodded.

  You don’t really have a choice, dear…the quicker you realize that, the better for everyone. Especially you.

  Myles sighed, then tapped some keys, and an alert flashed on Jayne's monitor. "You should have the files now. T-that's everything."

  "Thank you, dear,” she said, confirming the transmission. “Now," Jayne added, leaning forward again and steepling her fingers in front of the camera. “Let's talk about how I can help get you a human test subject—”

  “Donor,” Myles insisted, adjusting his glasses.

  Jayne smiled. “Whatever…”

  A soft knock at her door drew her attention. “Ma’am, they’re ready for you in the operation room. It’s time.”

  She barely heard the muffled words through the door. The operation room. Jayne took a deep breath. It was time to go under the knife, time for the surgery that would transform her—permanently—into Lisa Melton, CEO. Thankfully her AR gear would also allow her Council contacts to still see her as Jayne, while to the rest of the world, she appeared as Lisa.

  A shiver of anticipation rippled through her belly. Discarding one’s identity had become a habit of hers through the years. But altering her own body to do so…this was a first.

  “Jared, darling, I’m afraid I’m out of time. We’ll have to continue this conversation later.”

  “Oh. Uh, okay,” he mumbled, crestfallen.

  “I’ll be in touch, dear,” she promised with a wink, before killing the transmission.

  A message appeared as soon as Myles’ face vanished. It was from MacTavish, marked urgent. She glanced at it and the blood in her veins ran cold. The timing couldn’t have been worse, with her about to be out of commission—and communication—for several days.

  Cover blown: POTUS just announced death of Jayne Renolds. They have evidence.

  15

  Good News

  Moscow, Russian Federation

  Mikhailovich sat in brooding silence for the first few minutes in his big, black, up-armored Mercedes. His driver took him to where his men had pinned down the ambassador. Despite botching the ambush he’d set for the American operative, his men had redeemed themselves—somewhat—in Mikhailovich’s eyes by hunting down the ambassador’s motorcade, separating the security detail, and running the politician to ground. His men were even then picking the ambassador and his wife out of the wreckage.

  Mikhailovich pondered the bodies in the ambassador's residence and what it meant. He'd underestimated the American operative. He wouldn't do that again. Echoes of what Voroshilov had warned him flickered through his mind. He frowned. Voroshilov would just love to say “I told you so.”

  He glanced at Petroval, looking out the passenger window on the opposite side of the luxury sedan. "I'm thirsty, Sasha. Are you thirsty? Let’s go have a drink."

  "A drink?" repeated Petroval. "Now? I have work to do.”

  "Why not? The ambassador’s not going anywhere." Mikhailovich laughed at his own joke. "Besides, that new place I bought last month? It’s just around the corner. You hear that?" he said, to the driver. "Take us to The Magic Bullet!”

  “Of course, sir,” the driver replied, as he shifted lanes and prepare to turn.

  “I don’t want—" Petroval began.

  Mikhailovich held up a hand. "Hold that thought." He pulled out his buzzing phone and checked the number. It was Voroshilov.

  "Nice work. You caught the ambassador," the sly Council rep said by way of greeting.

  Mikhailovich remained silent for a moment. "How could you possibly know that? I just found that out myself."

  Voroshilov laughed, the sound tinny over the phone’s speaker. "Trade secret, my friend. Listen, this is not a friendly chat, Yevgeny Mikhailovich. I need to give you a warning.”

  "About Braaten? I told you, I will take care of him."

  "I hope you do it better this time. The Ambassador’s residence was…was messy. Very unprofessional. We try to avoid messy, remember?” Voroshilov sighed, as if giving a lecture to a child. “To that end, I wanted to let you know that he has a pair of NexGen AR glasses. You know what those are?"

  “Da. Augmented reality. I've had my eye on a pair for a while. Next generation, you said?" Mikhailovich grunted. “Pricey.”

  “That's right, bleeding edge, state-of-the-art. Tactical heads up display, AI targeting computer, the works. You may have superior numbers, but his technology will make things even. Remember.”

  Mikhailovich smirked. "He's not the only one with fancy toys."

  Voroshilov wasn’t impressed. “As long as you're aware."

  "Tell me this, how do you know he has these glasses?" asked Mikhailovich.

  "Trade secret." The line went dead.

  The car pull
ed up outside the curb in front of The Magic Bullet, Mikhailovich’s newest acquisition. The Cyrillic font was split down the middle by a bullet, zig-zagging through the words. A line of would-be club hoppers stretched around the corner, impatient to get into the controversial club decorated with memorabilia from the 1963 Kennedy Assassination. It was incredibly popular with anyone who disliked America, anyone who disliked government in general. The private area was more traditional, but a lot less exciting.

  Mikhailovich sat in the idling car a few moments, watching the guards let pretty girls in without bothering to check IDs, but carded every single male that came forward, turning away many who were too old, too young, or not wealthy enough.

  "I never understood the attraction of these places," Petroval grumbled. "All the noise, so many people. Bah," he said, with a dismissive wave. "A waste of time."

  "You have any idea how much money these places bring in?" asked Mikhailovich, still watching the bouncers. A pair of AR glasses at the front door to his clubs might prove beneficial, he mused. They could spot weapons, tag troublemakers, and provide a secure communications link with the bouncers, his first line of defense. “Christ, you sound like one of those stuffy vorya—always prattling on about work. You need to learn to loosen up and play, if you want to work for me, Sasha Petroval.”

  Mikhailovich needed a drink and a minute to think. He’d have to give Voroshilov’s warning some serious thought. Current-gen AR glasses were relatively affordable, but none of them came with advanced targeting AI, so he'd have to launder the money and funnel purchases to avoid scrutiny by the FSB. Not that he was truly concerned about the federal police—they could be bribed just as well is the local cops—it was just one more hassle he'd rather avoid.

  His phone buzzed again, signaling another incoming call. Mikhailovich frowned. It was the brigadier Petroval had assigned to capture the ambassador.

  "This better be good," he said, holding the phone to his ear and glancing at Petroval. His eyes wandered to a particularly nubile, tall redhead in line, gyrating to the music that spilled out of the club as the doors opened. She danced in place as the line shuffled forward. Every male within ten feet had their eyes locked on her hips as they swayed back and forth in time to the bass-heavy, electro-house music.

  "We got the ambassador, and he's relatively uninjured. The wife, too."

  Mikhailovich couldn't help but smile as he watched the girl dance. She’d caught the eyes of the bouncers. “And the security team?" he asked.

  "Eliminated."

  Mikhailovich nodded. "Excellent work. Did you drug them?" One of the bouncers pushed a few guys out of the way, and led the dancing girl to the door, her long, red, hair swirling around her head as she continued dancing in time with the music.

  “Da, just like you said, Yevgeny Mikhailovich."

  “Good. Take them to the dacha. I'll meet you there as soon as possible. Don't take any risks—we don't need the FSB poking their noses in anything right now. Get away from the crash scene as fast as possible, yeah?”

  “Already on it. I'll meet you there. "

  “Excellent.” Mikhailovich ended the call and dropped the phone back in his pocket. “Your people got the job done this time. How about that drink?"

  Petroval frowned. "I'd rather we head to the dacha and get this over with."

  "I'm buying,” Mikhailovich persisted. “Come on, Sasha, loosen up! I might throw in one of the new girls, eh?” He glanced at his watch. Maybe he could find a minute to talk to the tall redhead. "Even stopping for a drink and a girl,” he said with a leer, “we’ll still beat them to the dacha. What do you say?”

  Petroval shook his head, glowering. “I am in no mood for this foolishness. I will wait here."

  Mikhailovich laughed and clapped his most trusted lieutenant on the shoulder. "You’re too serious, Sasha! If you want to be my spy, you need to learn to relax—stress will be the death of you one day!” He sighed. “Very well, suit yourself. I'll be back in ten minutes." He opened the door and caught the attention of the bouncer, then pointed at the redhead, dancing through the open door to the club. Her lithe body was silhouetted by the garish blue and purple strobe lights from inside. The bouncer nodded and had a word with the girl, whose eyes went round as he pointed at Mikhailovich.

  Mikhailovich turned and leaned into the car. "Might want to make that twenty minutes,” he said, laughing as he shut the door.

  16

  Hostage

  Location unknown

  Kyrsten woke and blinked several times to clear the fog from her mind. Had it all been a dream? The crazy gunfight in the ambassador's residence, the car chase, the bullets flying, the accident?

  She checked her body to see if everything was in place and uninjured. As soon as she thought about her hands, an intense stinging exploded from through her fingertips and snaked up her forearms. She glanced down, expecting to see the satin formal gown she’d wore to the party. That had been just before they’d arrived home to find thugs waiting for them inside the residence and their security killed or captured.

  The dress was still there, a light sky-blue—to offset her brown hair and call contrast to the faint copper highlights. But it was torn and stained with blood.

  My blood, or John’s?

  Her heart raced, her breathing increased. A sense of panic rose in her like the swelling of flood tide. She swallowed, her mouth dry. Kyrsten tasted blood—the iron bitterness made her gag. Her eyes welled with tears as she looked around in an unfamiliar setting. She was in a small room that was probably, at one time, a bedroom. A fireplace set into the adjoining wall radiated warmth and an orange light that bathed the room in soft shadows. She squinted. Bookcases lined the walls, and the floor glistened with veined marble tiles. Heavy, red velvet curtains trimmed in gold cording bordered ornately carved window frames, in turn covered by sheer muslin curtains.

  Moonlight quartered the flooring tiles, creating a stark white in contrast to the fire’s warm orange glow. Kyrsten looked around, realizing for the first time she’d been tied to a chair, her wrists and ankles immobilized. She tried to move, but found herself completely restrained—not to the point of cutting off circulation, but helpless nonetheless.

  A rising panic filled her chest. "John?" she croaked, her voice squeaking. She swallowed again, closing her eyes to force herself to calm down.

  A low moan rumbled through her back. Kyrsten stiffened and tried to turn her head. A shadowy shape blocked her vision. She struggled against her restraints and the shape moved and groaned again. She recognized the back of John’s head. Her husband had been tied to a chair just like hers, directly to her back.

  "John?" she called again. "John!" Kyrsten said louder.

  He mumbled something incomprehensible, then slowly lifted his head, the shadow on the floor her only guide to his movement. She craned her neck, but still couldn’t see anything but the back of his head and one shoulder.

  "John! Are you all right? Where are we?"

  "Shut up for a minute…" he moaned. “God, my head hurts…"

  "What is this place?" she said, more to herself than her husband. "Hello?" she yelled.

  John hissed her quiet. "What the hell do you think you're doing? You want to bring those goons back in here?"

  "What goons? What’re you talking about—somebody was in here?"

  John laughed, a bitter, heartless sound that echoed in the room. "Oh my God, you were out the entire time?"

  Kyrsten felt the movement in the muscles of his back as he tested his own restraints. Her chair wobbled while he struggled in vain. "You really are as oblivious as everyone says you are…"

  "Oblivious?” She glared at the bookcase on the opposite wall, unable to turn her eyes on John. “I was the CEO of Orbital Dynamics and—”

  “You only had that job because your daddy convinced the board you were the only suitable heir.”

  Her eyes watered, she was so angry she couldn’t speak. Her hands shook with rage. Rage at being kidnappe
d, rage at being called oblivious by her do-nothing husband, rage at ever having left her family’s company—

  “Why are you saying this?" Kyrsten breathed, when she could control her mouth again. "This isn't the time—"

  "You want a divorce, remember? You were yelling that at me while we were being shot at, for Christ's sake." He snorted. "You think I'm going to argue? These guys came in here and beat the shit out of me, making ridiculous demands I can’t meet, and you were passed out the whole fucking time?" He laughed, a hoarse, bitter version of his normal guffaw. "Oh that's rich."

  Who are you? I don't even know you anymore!

  Kyrsten tried to calm her nerves, slow her heart rate. The more she thought about her husband and their spiraling relationship, the more she realized she should have seen everything coming. Maybe not the kidnapping and the attack on the residence, but the way he'd been treating her the past few months.

  John had been appointed by President Denton to be the ambassador to Russia. When that terrible bioweapon attack had forced Vice President Barron to take control, John had been all for it, and became a staunch ally of the new, embattled president.

  Kyrsten herself had severe reservations about a man who would authorize re-education camps for American citizens—while John wouldn’t admit anything about the widespread fighting between civilians back home, their Russian liaisons were all too happy to provide detailed intelligence to her.

  Some small part of her knew Ishanka—wife of John’s Russian counterpart—had been playing her against John in efforts to confuse the diplomatic situation between their two countries. At first she was upset, but then she realized it was all part of the game that had been played between the two superpowers since the end of World War II.