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Thia took a drink, then shrugged. “Maybe I can talk to some people.”

  “Come back as what, your subcontractor? No way. I’d want full reinstatement.”

  “That might take time. In the meantime—”

  “What the hell is it you want, Thia? Just come out with it.”

  Thia thought over her next move. The job of recruiter was a delicate one, a task to be finessed. Push too hard and a potential spy might bolt; too soft and one wouldn’t know what she was talking about. Although she didn’t have to worry much about the latter with Neer.

  “You’re looking handsome as ever, Neer.” She smiled as she reached over and ran her finger along the edge of Neer’s glass.

  Neer threw his head back and laughed out loud. “So that’s it. Seduce me and promise my old job back, in return for what—information? How predictable I must be,” he said.

  Thia suppressed a smirk. Men like Neer might protest, but would jump at the chance to work for intel again. Corporate senior developers no longer had automatic access to top secret information, no opportunity to prepare briefs for high-ranking government officials, no occasional jaunts on Air Force Two. Probably just meetings, corporate propaganda, and production mandates from the higher ups. Not a glamorous prospect.

  “Do I at least get dinner first?” he said.

  “I know a great place.”

  b

  Thia and Neer walked arm in arm into the restyled Au Pied de Cochon. The aroma of the restaurant’s signature dish, emincé de volaille sauce Roquefort, greeted the pair at the door. Dim lighting lent an air of secretive conversation, perfect for the evening’s agenda.

  “Ah, Mademoiselle Michaud, bienvenu,” the host, Michel, said. He stepped forward from the front desk and spoke in a low voice. “Aimeriez-vous la pièce privée?” Would you like the private room?

  “Oui, Michel. Merci.”

  Michel reached for two menus and motioned for the pair to follow him. With Neer in tow, she walked past the row of tables populated with Georgetown veterans and decorated with white tablecloths, votive candles, and yellow mums. Michel seated them and left.

  Neer studied the dark cherry wood paneling. “Nice place. You have a reserved private room?”

  Thia thought the ambient lighting softened Neer’s eyes.

  “Oh, let’s just say it pays to treat staff well.” She tapped her foot three times, initiating a continuous sensor sweep that would download the results to her node. A green light flashed in her periphery. The room was clean of bugs. At least the ones she knew about. Technology improved every day. One’s enemies—or a neutral party looking to sell information—could be listening in with some new device. It paid to be paranoid.

  The waiter entered after knocking and took their orders: the signature dish for both, a bottle of strong wine for dinner, and Green Chartreuse liqueur with dessert to help lower Neer’s inhibitions. When the waiter left, Thia kept the conversation light, choosing to wait until dessert to make the offer and close the deal. She hoped Neer was a fast eater.

  By the time the crème brûlée arrived, the wine was taking effect, to Thia’s satisfaction. She’d managed to maintain her one glass, while Neer had polished off the rest of the bottle, all the while pontificating on his technological prowess.

  “He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about anyway. He’s a finance manager, for cryin’ out loud. He barely knew Cog was a trapped ion quantum computer, and he’s got the nerve to try to tell me—ME—about decoherence. Ha!”

  As her eyes began to glaze over from boredom, she slid closer to Neer, slipped off one of her black leather pumps, and rubbed her foot against his leg. Her fingers brushed the back of his neck, raking through his hair.

  With her other hand, she spooned her dessert into her mouth. The savory warmth of the brûlée curled around her tongue. Neer finally stopped talking and looked at her with a wicked grin. Pieces of broccoli stuck in his teeth; green dots crowned his gums. She did her best to ignore it.

  His hand shook as he poured the last of the Green Chartreuse into his glass, spilling some onto the white tablecloth. The stain spread, reminding her of a gunshot wound, and she imagined Wills Ryder lying on the floor in front of her, bleeding to death, his life slowly ebbing away. He had stolen information from her, and it had been her ass that had gotten chewed out. She didn’t even know he had stolen the secrets until the rumors started. But if she didn’t bring him in, there would be hell to pay. Bastard.

  “You know, you never told me exactly what you wanted,” Neer slurred. The cold, sharp intelligence in his eyes had dulled to a hazy obtuseness. She’d seen that look too many times in too many bars, hashhouses, and pakz joints.

  “Well, besides Wills Ryder himself, you know more than anyone about Cog, n’est pas?”

  “Wills Ryder. Puh! Bastard took the money and ran. Had nothing to do with day-to-day management. And with the old man in a coma and his thieving sister on the run, I predict the company’s gonna go down the fema hole.” He pointed a shaky finger in Thia’s face. “Mark my word.”

  “Nicholle Ryder, curator at a holographic art museum, acting president of a large corporation, now a suspected felon.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, but we got a new VP, Perim Nestor. Maybe the Board will appoint him.”

  She’d heard Wills had cut and run with a large percentage, but that didn’t sound like him. His mantra was power, not money. He was controlling the company from behind the scenes. Somehow.

  Neer’s face turned down into melancholy anger. “I was one of the best, wasn’t I?”

  “The best damned research scientist Homeland Intelligence ever had.” Thia raised her glass in mock tribute.

  “One little mistake,” he said. His eyes held a faraway look.

  Thia begged to differ with calling an entire career of back-stabbing and insubordination ‘one little mistake,’ but she nodded her head in agreement. “Bastards don’t know what they’re missing. But I’m giving you a chance to get back in, if you want it.”

  “Whaddoo I hafta do?” he slurred.

  “There’s a rumor that Wills was working on consciousness transference before he left. I just need you to poke around, see if it’s on the server. If so, share the wealth.”

  “Transference of consciousness? Why didn’t I hear about it?” Neer said.

  “Because you don’t have our resources. Do you think Perim or Nicholle knows?”

  “If anyone, probably Nicholle. Blood, you know, is thicker than water.”

  “I see. I don’t have to remind you that what’s said here is strictly between us,” Thia said.

  “I’m not an amateur,” he protested. His voice was noticeably louder, and Thia knew she would have to close the deal soon, before the management did it for her.

  “So, do we have a deal?”

  Neer raised his glass, the Green Chartreuse casting a neon glow on his pallid face. “To our deal.”

  “Excellent. We’ll have to work out a system of communication. But we can talk details later.”

  Neer had a blank look on his face. “Why can’t I just send it wiho?”

  “I don’t trust it.”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” He leaned over and breathed alcohol in her face. “What say we go to your place?” he whispered loudly.

  Thia refrained from rolling her eyes and waving her hand in front of her nose. “I’m in the purlieus. Get your coat.”

  b

  With the advent of fuel cells, people had moved farther out beyond D.C. than before, establishing towns in once-rural areas, now known as the purlieus. The suburbs were abandoned, left to whoever was left—usually the criminal element.

  Route 1994 was relatively empty, given that it was a weeknight. Most of the commuters had gone home on the Maglev, and were no
w ensconced in their cookie-cutter neighborhoods on the edge of nowhere, where pudgy husbands mowed their postage-stamp yards on Saturday mornings. Gossipy housewives walked their children to the park to talk to other moms about the best daycare, or which child had what second-grade teacher. Thia hated the whole scene. But it was the only place she could afford. At the moment, anyway. The rich still inhabited their enclaves in Kensington, Georgetown, and Potomac. The middle class were relegated farther out in the purlieus, while the poor were stuck in rundown isolation in the suburbs.

  The high-speed trains had allowed those middle-class earners who wanted the white picket fence to head out to the purlieus in search of good schools, low crime, and convenient shopping. The people had moved beyond the cities, but culture hadn’t. Ask a purlieu dweller when the last time was he saw a chamber orchestra and he would look at you as if you had sprouted a second head. Even if the orchestra was, literally, at his fingertips. Tap a finger, et voilà! A string ensemble.

  As the car sped past a blurred landscape at 250 miles per hour, Thia lounged in the driver’s seat. In her lifetime, auto-pilot reduced the role of the driver to mere observer, and the interior of cars changed accordingly. She tapped up a heated massage and sank into the blanket of hands that stretched under the ostrich skin seat. Fingers kneaded away stress-induced tension.

  A low snore emanated from Neer. His mouth hung open as drool leaked from the side. His self-aggrandizing charm had long since dissipated. She figured she would stash him in her bed until morning, tell him how great he was, then send him on his way.

  A blue light flashed three times in her periphery. Her corporate handler. He wanted an update. She tapped out the menu and wrote a message summarizing the night’s events. He would be happy to find out Neer had taken the bait. When the message encrypted, she sent it along. She felt more confident sending messages since they had built additional quantum repeater stations, but she preferred the dead drop approach, which she still used with her own informants. Or maybe she just liked the subterfuge. Skulking around in the bushes was more palpable than tapping a finger. But if she added another country to her list of employers, it’d be hard to keep track.

  To pacify her Chinese handler, she would have to make a stop.

  The car passed the service station where her own dead drop was, but she had to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Thia turned off at the second exit past the station and meandered through darkened neighborhoods with her lights off as she prepared the message for Wu Ji.

  Convinced no one was tailing her, Thia ordered the car back onto the highway, heading for the service station. Neer still slept peacefully. Must be getting old, Neer.

  At the station, she exited the car and opened the back door. She grabbed a stiff leash and activated the diode. A small white terrier appeared at the end of the leash, eagerly sniffing out its surroundings. She took the dog toward the wooded area in back of the service station.

  She walked about a quarter mile along a dirt path that led to denser underbrush, until it faded into brambles. The bare trees provided less cover and she decided it would be her last drop at this location. One of the telegraph poles along the old service road might do.

  A decaying bench sat off to the right, half hidden under brush. Several of its slats were missing and the scrolled iron edges had rusted. Thia surveyed her surroundings, then leaned over and loosened the arm of the bench, pulling it to one side. The dog sat and panted. She slid the message into a small hole. The Chinese, too, would be pleased to hear she was in a position to receive information on their shopping list. And she knew there would be a package waiting for her the next night.

  She stood up and sneezed. The spores from the evergreens always got to her this time of year. As her head bent, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as a searing heat rushed past her.

  Pulse weapon!

  She dropped to the ground, falling through the white terrier, who barked in protest. Thia squeezed her hand underneath her, drawing her weapon from her inside pocket. Her mind raced. Who could have known? Did Neer betray her that quickly? She doubted it. He might be an arrogant SOB, but not a snitch. Wu Ji looking for direct access to her sources? Make himself look good for the Ministry of Security? Anything was possible.

  Another shot pulsed and she caught the direction. Two o’clock. Scrambling to her knees, she fired three wide-dispersal shots blindly into the dark woods, sizzling the air, then dropped to the ground. No return fire. Two more shots seared over her, this time from behind.

  Fema!

  There was another shooter. The dog growled in reply. She deactivated the leash and the dog faded into nonexistence. Thia crawled in the direction of the car. The thorny underbrush scratched her face and caught her hair. A hundred pinpricks needled her skin through her sweater as she pressed forward.

  Something rustled behind her and she wheeled her arm around and fired twice. Blue flare cauterized the air, setting the top of the underbrush on fire.

  “Aaaah!”

  Then silence. Thia waited in the underbrush, straining to hear movement. Her heart pounded in her ears. Pain welled up in her muscles as she tensed and she forced herself to relax and control her breathing. Breathe, breathe. Panic was of no use.

  She had to find out who was firing at her, which faction. Corporate? Chinese? Pissing off clients was something she tried to avoid, although at times it couldn’t be helped. Intelligence agencies were usually cautious when dealing with free agents. Provoking an agency into issuing a hit was just one mistake away.

  The shooter behind her was probably dead, but she’d have to check. She crawled backward, slowly, still listening for movement, until her foot felt something hard. A boot. She twisted around and fired. Burnt flesh. A large red hole that curled black at the edge filled the man’s chest. The nauseating smell of cooked bowels bloomed up.

  She kept crawling backward, training her gun on the unmoving form. Her toe tapped his plasma gun. She jerked her toe away, fearful of searing off her leg. She picked up his gun and checked the chamber. Enough energy for five more shots. Her own gun had seven. She crawled back farther, until the dead man’s face came into view.

  Kirill Genechko. A low-level mercenary. Ukrainian. The kind government agencies hired to do their dirty work. Or at least the agencies that hadn’t much experience in wetware, the agencies not involved in intel, like the Department of Agriculture.

  Thia crouched low and struggled to prop up the dead man. He had to weigh at least two-fifty and she had to strain not to grunt in exertion.

  Another shot scorched past, frying the man’s head, missing hers by inches. She let go and the man fell on her arm as she toppled over, face up. One more blast flew over her, burning her nose.

  I must be hot on someone’s ass for them to try this. She slid her arm out from under his lambskin coat. They must pay well, whoever they are.

  Deciding she couldn’t wait in the bushes forever, she readied the two guns and crouched. She stood and ran in a zigzag pattern back down the dirt path, toward the station. She had to get Neer to a safe location.

  Shards of blue pulsed past her, searing her coat. Four o’clock. She leveled her weapons and squeezed off several shots. Two shots answered back, one slicing her shoulder. She bit her lip through the pain and ran, firing behind her until she ran out of shots, then reached the edge of the woods. A vision of her car loomed up. She fell to the ground, shocked.

  Neer sat in the passenger’s seat, half his face gone. Burnt black, along with the door. Thia rolled left, behind a large garbage bin. More pulses fired. The station was deserted, patrons no doubt scared off by the gunfire. Footsteps. The gunman approached.

  There!

  A car sat idling, a beige Reno. One of the cheap imports from Kenya, but any port in a storm. She dashed for the open passenger-side door and slammed it shut behind her, keeping low a
s she slid in the driver’s seat. Hunching to the side, she engaged the reverse gear and screeched backward, then tore out of the parking lot as blue pulses slashed the air around her. She reached I-1994 and pushed the car to its 300 mph limit. Streetlights blurred past.

  She couldn’t even work out the identity of the second gunman, but he was definitely a pro. She had been stripped of her car and her source. A first. There had been more than one and they knew where she was going. The information Neer had access to must’ve posed a danger to someone. The question was, who? There was one place to start looking. Nicholle Ryder.

  Chapter 6

  Nicholle snatched a bag out of the closet and headed for the transport tube.

  “Where are we going?” Chris said.

  “Away from here. I don’t have any plans written in stone at the moment. We’ll make it up as we go.”

  “As we go?”

  They stepped out of the tube and Nicholle jogged to the back of the parking lot. Chris kept up.

  “Look, unless you happen to have access to a safe house, I’d suggest you hush.”

  She stopped at a small black car and pressed her thumb on the lock. It glowed green and she yanked the door open.

  “Manual doors?” Chris said.

  “Get the fuck in.”

  Chris slid into the seat, his face drawn up in wariness. Nicholle started the car and eased out of the lot.

  “With tinted windows, no one should be able to see us. And the car is registered in a foreign diplomat’s name.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “Couple of friends. Check the news, see what’s going on,” Nicholle said.

  Chris searched on their names and transferred the images to the car’s diodes. Scrolling text appeared on the passenger side of the windshield: