Mercy's Chase Page 9

  A woman stepped forward into Salem’s line of sight. Her thick black hair was piled on top of her head, clasped in a ponytail. She was strongly built, curvy on the bottom and lean above, just like Salem.

  Salem recognized her as the same woman she’d locked eyes with in the bar. The shock of the situation jarred loose a memory of why she looked familiar back at the Mayflower: she had also crossed the street in front of Charlie’s car earlier today.

  The dark-eyed woman had been following Salem.

  And, apparently, was now rescuing her.

  She held two more knives in her left hand.

  She flicked one of them into her right hand and released it in a move so liquidly efficient, so coolly automatic, that it looked like a heartbeat. The blade hit the leader dead center in his stomach, angling down. His suave exterior fell away in the face of deep distress, his mysterious eyes gone wide and terrified. Gurgles escaped his mouth as he dropped.

  The female knife-slinger stepped toward the second man, the ape from the bar, the one who moments earlier had been taunting Salem. His face had gone slack with fear.

  She held up the third knife, her voice velvet. “I appreciate the invitation, daddy. You might not like what comes of it, though. See, this pussy has teeth.”

  14

  Russia Dock Woodland, London

  She strode toward the third man with the confidence of an Amazon. Her knife rested in the palm of her hand, its sinister blade pointed toward the ground.

  “Please,” the third man said. He dropped to his knees between his partners, who were writhing in pain. He held up both hands like a supplicant.

  The woman stopped and cocked her hip. She held the knife up like a finger testing the wind. She waggled it.

  Salem remembered how to breathe. She sucked in air with such force that she pulled up half the street.

  The woman turned with a jaunty smile. “Don’t worry, sweets. I’m not gonna hurt this one.” She made a shooing motion in the direction of the man, like he was a raccoon she’d discovered in her garbage. “Off with you.”

  He dragged himself to his feet, sparing a last glance to his pals. They were alive and in deep pain. He turned and ran toward the alley, disappearing into the darkness.

  The woman spun on her heel. Salem fought the urge to raise her hands defensively.

  “Who are you?” Salem asked.

  The woman studied her, unblinking. “Name’s Alafair.” The knife disappeared under her coat and behind her back. She held out a hand, her voice melodic. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Salem shook it, pointing toward the alley with her free hand. “You let him go.”

  Alafair shrugged. “It’s best. He can get help and all three can spread the word like the plague dogs they are. Infect the pack with a healthy fear of women.”

  Salem’s neck creaked as she turned toward the two squirming men on the ground. Men who’d meant to rape and possibly kill her. Her stomach heaved. She caught the bile before it left her mouth. They brought this on themselves.

  “I need to call the police,” Salem said, directing her focus toward her phone.

  Alafair stepped forward, her face dominated by huge brown eyes. “Wrong. We need to get out of here, Salem Wiley.”

  Salem had been dialing. She froze mid-gesture.

  “Don’t look so fearful. You’re famous. In my world, in any event. You had to see me following you the last few days?”

  Salem tried to disguise her surprise. She’d only made the woman today. “Why are you tailing me?”

  “It’s better I show you. Come on, then.”

  “I shouldn’t go somewhere with a stranger.” Salem recognized how silly her words sounded too late.

  “You’ve got a tracker on your phone.” It was not a question. “Turn it on.”

  It was on, always, but while Alafair removed her knives from the men, cleaning them with a handkerchief from her leather jacket, Salem took a photo of her location and wrote a brief email on a timer: Bel, this is weird, but I’m in London with a woman who says her name is Alafair.

  She looked up at Alafair, who had casually shoved down the shifty-eyed man as he tried to get to his feet, using her boot to hold him in place. “Can I take a photo of you?”

  Alafair shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

  I’ve attached a picture of her. If I disappear tonight, look for her.

  She set the message to send in two hours. “If I don’t follow up on that in a sixty minutes,” Salem lied, “they’ll look for me.”

  “We better hurry then.” Alafair turned and began jogging back the way Salem had come, blending into the night as if she’d been born to it.

  15

  Russia Dock Woodland, London

  “This area used to be a pier,” Alafair said, pointing at the sign that read Russia Dock Woodland. “It mostly took in shipments of cheap wood. The jetty was infilled in the seventies and turned into a park. The Thames is a half mile on each side of us.” She pointed due west. “The Mayflower Pub is a twenty-minute walk that way—unless you wander like you did—and the Campus a two-hour walk past that, if you’re feeling foolish.”

  Salem’s pulse twitched. Unless the woman was FBI, she shouldn’t know about the Campus. “Who do you work for?”

  By way of answer, Alafair tipped her head toward the thick woods that defined the city park. Salem had to squint to make out anything other than the trees. The tent was the same shadowy black as the tree line, a camouflage so successful that Salem’s ears had identified it before her eyes. It emanated a clicking sound, reminding Salem of Chinatown mah-jongg under the cover of dark, a soft clacking as ivory tiles were shuffled and stacked. A step closer and she felt the heat, smelled the ionized electricity.

  Salem realized what the dark tent contained before Alafair drew back the curtain.

  People typing on at least a dozen computers.

  No one glanced up when Alafair and Salem stepped inside. Salem counted fourteen people sitting at Frankensteins—desktop processors cobbled together from various parts and models. They wore street clothes. The heat of the server magnified their smell in this small space, sour sweat and unwashed hair.

  “We’ve been following your career,” Alafair said. She indicated the workers. “We all have.”

  This was the first time this evening that Salem had a chance to examine Alafair in the light. She guessed the woman was a decade older than her, maybe mid-thirties. She had the coloring of a Roma, a dispersed group originating in northern India that history incorrectly labeled gypsies.

  Everyone in the tent had the same coloring.

  “Are you MI5?” Salem asked.

  Alafair threw back her head and laughed. The sound was deep and raspy, rolling up from her belly. “You hear that, brother? She wants to know if we’re MI5.”

  The man nearest the tent opening nodded, a smirk at his mouth, but he didn’t look up from his screen. He shared Alafair’s black, glossy hair and sharp features.

  “We’re independent,” Alafair clarified. “Cryptanalytic freelancers. We work as needed, move as necessary.”

  Salem nodded, the idea thrilling her. The fourteen computers dominated the center of the tent. The perimeter contained stacked bedrolls. What looked like a food station stood near the flap, a stack of water bottles, dry goods, and a hotplate.

  A crackle at her neck told her Alafair was watching her. “We have everything we need to live in here,” Alafair confirmed. “Outside the tent, behind it and out of sight, we park our trailer. We can have this whole operation shut down and packed up in under twenty-two minutes. It’s quite a sight.”

  Salem bet it was. She’d seen a similar operation in Chinatown. It wasn’t just the sounds that had reminded her of San Francisco, it was the energy. “Are you part of the Underground?”

  Alafair arched an eyebrow. “We are part
of an underground.”

  Salem didn’t know if she was deliberately avoiding answering the question. She decided not to pursue it. She unzipped her coat, the heat of the enclosed space making her lightheaded.

  “Stop there.” The woman pointed at Salem’s belt, her voice incredulous. “They’ve got to you.”

  Salem glanced down at the flowered sachet Mrs. Molony had given her. For the third time that day, she found herself thinking about the Stonehenge replica and its mercy stone. “I got this from … from a friend in Ireland. It was a gift.”

  Alafair pinned Salem in place with her eyes and scoured her up and down, as if looking for more sachets. “The ‘friend’ who gave it to you. She didn’t say what it meant?”

  “She said it was for protection.”

  The mirth bubbled in Alafair’s eyes, but she did not throw her head back this time. “I’ll say it is.”

  A wave of exhaustion washed over Salem. It must be nearly four in the morning. Today had been one of the longest days of her life. She was hungry, stumbling around in that dry-mouthed, headachy land between drinking and hungover, and emotionally spent. “What is it you want from me?”

  She assumed they were after her research. Or maybe they wanted her to update their ancient computers. She wasn’t good at hardware, but she’d help if she could, as long as it didn’t interfere with her work at the FBI or break any laws.

  Alafair placed her hands on her hips, intelligent, striking, and deadly. She reminded Salem of a superhero. “We want you to help us track down Rosalind Franklin’s code.”

  Salem’s forehead crumpled. She and Charlie had driven by a King’s College banner with Franklin’s name on it earlier today at about the same location she’d first spotted Alafair. Salem had only the most distant awareness of who Franklin was. “The X-ray scientist?”

  “Yes. She’s best known for Photo 51. You’ve heard of it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “It’s the diffraction X-ray that first revealed the basic structure of DNA. Franklin parlayed what she learned from that image into groundbreaking stem cell research. I suppose you’re not familiar with that, either?”

  Salem shook her head.

  Alafair’s brother glanced their direction. His expression was sad. Salem saw he was closer to her age than Alafair’s, his face beautiful in its symmetry. While he shared Alafair’s skin and hair coloring, his eyes were the startling ice blue of a husky.

  “Not surprising,” Alafair said. “Most of the research has been lost. Some say it never happened, others claim it was stolen. We have reason to believe that neither is true. Rosalind Franklin completed research and then she hid it herself, leaving a code trail to find it.”

  Salem’s brain matter was spinning. She came at this from every direction and decided there was one question that needed asking above all others. “Let’s say all that is true—why do you want to find the research?”

  The man who Alafair had called her brother separated from his computer and rolled toward Salem. Her eyes widened as she saw what his workspace had hidden. His wheelchair was not as nice as Bel’s, but it served the same purpose.

  “If we find it, he can walk again.”

  16

  Queens Inn, London

  The hotel room smelled of pear ginger shampoo and carpet cleaner. It could have been any of a hundred suites Jason had stolen into, silent as a revenant, watching his target sleep. His routine had always been the same once he entered the room.

  Slip inside. Stand with his back to the door. Scan the perimeter.

  Once sounds have separated—cars outside, the breath of sleep inside—pad toward the bed. Study target. Choose a location to plunge the blade. He usually preferred the soft hollow of the neck, the indent where the heart beat like velvet butterfly wings.

  Stabbing it choked blood and speech.

  Other times, the Order requested the knife go directly into the heart.

  Jason didn’t ask questions.

  In any scenario, his final act before selecting the insertion point was to unsheathe his knife. He carried the set in the inside left pocket of his suit coat, cradled in galuchat leather, an ensemble of metal and glass blades, all of them mounted on a bone handle and sharp enough to slice between cells.

  His daggers were his only extravagance.

  This night called for a different plan, however, and it was throwing him off. He wasn’t here to kill. He was here to kidnap.

  He observed the child sleep, her hair a mess of snarls suggesting she had gone to bed with it wet. It wasn’t the first time he’d watched her slumber. She’d been a different child then, wild and more bone than muscle, curved in Salem’s arms. Bel had slept in the bed next to them, all three crammed into a cheap roadside motel, on the run. Thinking of Bel inflamed the familiar heat of sexual arousal. He’d sliced a lock off her strawberry hair that night.

  He no longer possessed the hair. Anger at the memory snuffed his growing erection. The past would stay where it belonged.

  This moment was all there ever was.

  Vida Wiley snored in the bed opposite Mercy. Both were gripped in the muscular arms of jet lag, sleeping deeply. His gaze lingered on Vida, something like fondness easing his chest. The woman was a survivor. A fighter, like him. He’d sliced her, broken her bones, whispered terrible words in her ear, and she’d never bent. Her seeping, swollen wounds had been allowed to fester, and still, she’d kept her head. The echoes of his work were visible in the twitches and moans that bothered her sleep, but he’d watched her walk into the hotel earlier in the evening, her head high, her eyes fierce.

  He allowed himself a moment to consider what his life would be like if he’d been reared by this woman. His own mother had been beautiful and wicked, dedicating her life to ascending from her swamp roots to the gilded arms of the New Orleans aristocracy. He had been an unwelcome hitch in her plans. Subsequently, she alternated between using him as a best friend or a whipping post, depending on her mood, and she looked the other way when her boyfriends used him, as well.

  He’d never met his father. The sentient Sharpey’s fibers had likely been inherited from the man, though, as Jason’s mother had never evidenced the gift. Maybe his father had possessed even more talents?

  Jason would never know. His mother was his only family, at least until Carl Barnaby had recruited him for the Order, training him in psychology, physical combat, spycraft, marketing.

  And now Barnaby was gone.

  He guessed his mother was too. For the last several years, he’d kept her tied to a chair and hooked up to an IV, a box of kitty litter poised below the chair’s special opening. He’d had to leave her when he was recently assigned overseas. He’d propped a photo of him as a child, before he knew how to change his face, next to a glass of water, both just out of reach of her bound hands. She might make it until his return. She might not.

  Relationships with mothers were complicated.

  For this moment, he would imagine Vida Wiley as his own mother. No one would know. He stared at her, tasting the shape of the word on his lips: mother. It felt right. Foundational. He would neither wake her nor hurt her. It would be easy to remove the child without a struggle.

  He glided toward Mercy, leaned over her.

  She radiated the drowsy warmth of sleep.

  His right hand covered her mouth at the exact moment the edge of his left hand snapped her Stomach 9 pressure point, near where most people were taught to check their pulse. The pressure to her carotid sinus’ baroreceptor would render her unconscious for two to three minutes, a generous amount of time.

  He laid the note on her pillow: Solve the Stonehenge Train for the girl. You have until midnight 24 September.

  He hoisted her up so her head rested on his shoulder, much like he imagined a loving parent held their child. She was light. He moved backward toward the door, eyes on Vid
a. His tonight-mother moaned but did not wake. He stepped into the brightly lit hallway and strode toward the elevator at the north end.

  He pushed the “L” button.

  The “Up” arrow lit up, the elevator humming toward him.

  Its doors opened. A loud man and women were hanging off each other inside. They stumbled out.

  Jason glared at them. My little girl is sleeping.

  The female widened her eyes and nodded while the male giggled and hurried her along.

  He continued the ruse as he walked out the lobby.

  The kidnapping would have gone just as well without the Grimalkin, he thought sourly, opening the passenger-side door and strapping Mercy in. Their meeting had turned out to be a tremendous annoyance. Jason had come to talk business, to relay the Order’s plan, but the Grimalkin had been unfocused, almost childlike, intent on planning ways to play with Salem like a goddamned cat rather than follow her according to protocol. There was no talk of knifework or anything of interest to Jason.

  After the unsatisfactory meeting, Jason had done his own recon on Salem, following her to the Mayflower Pub, watching her through the window. So uncomfortable, so out of her element. He verified—not that he needed to—that assigning the Grimalkin to work alongside him was overkill, no pun intended. Jason could do all of this on his own. He could stay close to Salem, record her results the moment she solved a section of the train, and kill her when she cracked the mystery of Stonehenge.

  The Grimalkin on board only mucked it up. Jason didn’t even know what role he was to play after he kidnapped the girl. He had to wait for instructions from his partner, who wasn’t a rule-follower, who cared nothing for structure.

  The only pleasure he had experienced during the meeting was the surprise at learning who the Grimalkin was. A smile twitched at the memory. It was clear why both the Order and the Grimalkin kept the assassin’s identity hidden.

  Such a delicious secret.

  17

  The Campus, London