Played: An Altered Saga Novella, Page 2

  I needed to identify whether there was any sign of the Branch nearby. If you knew the signs, you could spot their presence easily enough.

  They liked their black Suburbans, and usually several of them in a procession. But that was the easiest evidence to spot, and I didn’t think Riley would be stupid enough to follow such a pattern when he needed to keep a low profile.

  I studied the faces of the passing pedestrians. Typical Branch agents either wore business suits or black tactical gear. The latter would be too conspicuous in a place like this, so that was definitely out.

  Clover Hill was the site of some long-ago battle and there were hotels and B&Bs all over that claimed one historically significant attraction or another. A lot of the pedestrians had the marks of tourists—sun visors, baseball hats, khaki shorts, shopping bags from tourist traps. Most traveled in packs, or at least in twos and threes.

  A guy across the street, baseball hat tugged down low, shopping bag hanging from his left hand, caught my attention. He was alone, for one, and there was a cell phone glued to his ear, held in place by a shrugged shoulder. Except he wasn’t speaking to whoever was on the other end, only listening, and he wasn’t using his free hand like someone usually would when using their shoulder to hold their phone in place, which gave me the impression he was trying to keep both hands free.

  As a truck rumbled past, I crossed the street and fell in behind a group of rowdy tourists. Ten feet from cell-phone guy, I straightened my back, keeping my weight well distributed between both feet. That way I could move quickly if I had to.

  But just as I was about to pounce on him, consequences be damned, someone grabbed my wrist, whirled me around, and shoved me into an alley. I brought my elbow up, intending to clock the attacker on the jaw, but my tall adversary caught it with his open palm, deftly swatting me away.

  I jackknifed a knee to his groin, but he blocked that, too, one second before he slammed me into the brick wall of the alley. All my breath rushed out of me, emptying my lungs and I gulped to get it back.

  It took me too long to reorient myself, giving him the opportunity to establish an inescapable hold on me. He leaned his weight in to me and pinned my wrists between us.

  I could probably escape, but it’d take a lot of energy to fight his strength, and I wanted to preserve what I had until I absolutely needed it.

  The guy shifted, chuckling.

  It was mystery guy.

  “You son of a bitch!” I said. “Who are you?”

  “Calm down, Chloe.”

  He knew my real name. He knew my real name.

  “What do you want?” I bit out, silently castigating myself for the sharp tone of my voice. Anything other than cool and even would give away an emotion I didn’t want him reading.

  “I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of Harbor Drive.”

  “You know, they have tourist maps for that.” I tested his hold on my arms and his grip tightened.

  He chuckled. “When they told me you were fearless, I didn’t believe them.” He shifted as I wiggled beneath him, and pressed a bony hip into my stomach. “But wouldn’t you know, your heart rate isn’t even escalated.”

  I realized his thumb was pressed against the underside of my wrist.

  “Who are ‘they’, exactly?” I asked, although I had a pretty good idea. “And who are you?”

  There were only a few people in the world who knew what I really was, who knew it was possible to be truly, biologically, psychologically, fearless. It was a side effect of the Angel Serum the Branch had given me. Fear had left me a long time ago, about the third time the Branch killed me just to see if I’d rise from the dead.

  The absence of fear was a side effect the Branch hadn’t counted on, but it was one I embraced. Fear made people weak. It made them doubt their gut instincts, cower from those stronger than them, and avoid doing what needed to be done.

  A lot of the people I’d met in the last few years thought of me as a cold-hearted bitch. I liked to think it was because I was capable of doing and saying the things they couldn’t. But my fearlessness also affected other emotions. For instance, it was hard to feel guilt when you didn’t fear the consequences of your actions.

  So yeah, maybe I was a cold-hearted bitch. But it wasn’t my fault. And the list of people who knew why was short.

  1. The Branch: I could deal with the Branch, and with Riley, because after all my time with them I knew how they thought. Know thy enemy, and all that garbage.

  2. Nick and Elizabeth, and their little kumbaya group: Nick had been a Branch test subject for a different program, as had the rest of his ragtag group. Elizabeth had been the origin test subject for the Angel Serum. It was her blood that was used to create it.

  3. The Turncoats: They were the wild card. I didn’t know them, and I didn’t know their leader, which meant I couldn’t predict their movements. It was like playing chess blind.

  The Coats and I did have the same goals—kill Riley and destroy the Branch.

  But while I obviously supported the mission, I wasn’t into team sports.

  The question was, which group did this guy belong to? I felt fairly certain I could eliminate group number two from the list. It didn’t seem like he and Nick would get along. Call it a hunch.

  “Who are you with?” I asked. “Branch or Turncoats?”

  “Do I look like Branch to you?”

  “You move like them.”

  “That’s because I’ve trained. But I have a proposition for you,” he went on, and leaned in closer. His breath spidered down my neck.

  “I have a predisposition to rejecting propositions,” I said before he could continue.

  “Join the Coats.”

  So there was my answer. He was with the group behind door number three.

  “Why? What do I get out of it? Besides dead.”

  It was a trick question, and part of me wanted him to get the right answer. I wasn’t sure why.

  “Come on,” he said, and canted his head. His mouth wasn’t smirking, but his eyes were. He’d given me the same look last night, like he knew a secret. If only I’d read between the lines then.

  “You and I both know dying isn’t really your thing, Chloe.”

  Vague answer, but answer enough. He knew I couldn’t be easily killed.

  “Yeah, but it hurts like hell,” I said.

  “We know how to reverse it.”

  My breath stopped short, and I froze.

  I’d died twenty-six times, in twenty-six different ways. And I always came back. I was beginning to wonder if I had the ability to survive a bomb, or a beheading. If the apocalypse came, I was in for a long, solitary life. Sometimes, when I let myself really think about it, about my immunity to death, my ability to quickly heal, I felt achingly, irritatingly, alone. I’d long ago learned to be self-reliant, but there was something about touching another human being, the nearness of skin, even if only sexually. It made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time—long before the Branch and the Angel Serum.

  I would never admit it, but deep down, I was afraid of being alone. I’d been by myself for too long, and being invincible seemed to stretch the aloneness out for an eternity.

  It left me empty inside. Not just fearless, but vacant of that thing that made someone human.

  I’d never given much thought to being cured of the effects of the Angel Serum, because I didn’t think I could be. But if it were possible, would I feel whole again? Would I suddenly start caring?

  Deep down inside, I worried that the fearlessness was an excuse: Maybe I was just a bitch. A product of my environment and my history and the absence of anything even remotely close to family.

  Maybe the cure would do nothing other than make me vulnerable.

  Of course, it was possible he was lying just to hook me.

  “Say I believe you, then what?” I asked. “What would I have to do?”

  He grinned and eased off, giving me some breathing room. I could kne
e him between the legs now and escape if I wanted to.

  “Help us kill Riley.”

  He released his grip and straightened. The sunlight caught his face, highlighting his cheekbones and perfect nose. I watched him lick his lips and wondered if he’d done it on purpose, trying to draw my attention to his mouth, reminding me of last night.

  “Maybe I don’t want to be cured,” I countered. “And I can kill Riley on my own.”

  “That’s not all I have to offer.”

  “I’m listening.”

  I couldn’t think of anything else he’d have that I’d want. I’d never been big on material possessions anyway. I wasn’t sentimental, and I needed to be able to grab my things and bolt as quickly as I could, at any given moment.

  “You can find us at the warehouse on the corner of 7th and Hart,” he said, ignoring my question. “You might find what you’ve been searching a long time for, Emily.”

  Emily was my real name, my first name, and I cringed whenever I heard it. I usually went by Chloe, my middle name.

  I scowled at him and he laughed.

  I hated that he knew I hated being called Emily. I hated that he knew more about me than I did about him, which was virtually nothing.

  “If I come,” I said, as he turned away, “who do I say sent me?”

  “Ask for the Rook.”

  He rounded the corner onto the street. I jogged out of the alley and looked left, the way he’d turned, but he was already gone.

  Despite the soft, clean sheets of my hotel room bed, I didn’t sleep well that night. I was too keyed up, too anxious about the mystery guy—or the Rook—and Riley, and the decision I had to make.

  After waking for the third time in less than two hours, I realized it was pointless to try to sleep. I crawled from bed and made a cup of coffee on the one-cup maker on the desk. It was weak, but it’d do.

  I flicked on a desk lamp and dug inside my bag for the journal I’d kept over the last few years. I’d been involved with the Branch long enough to know that memories aren’t always reliable, and not always permanent. They’d experimented with the art of erasing memories over six years ago, and had even developed a way to implant fake ones in the void. By now, they were probably certifiable pros at it.

  Just in case they ever got to me, I liked to document what I thought was important at the end of each day.

  I flipped toward the back of the journal, looking for a blank page, but the book opened on a picture I’d taped in. It was of Elizabeth and me, taken at Merv’s Bar & Grill, where we’d worked together as servers.

  In it, she was smiling, genuinely happy. It was such a rarity to see her like that, I’d stolen the picture from the mirror behind the bar and added it to my journal before I left town. I might not be sentimental, but I could appreciate the beauty of a moment like that.

  Elizabeth’s mother, Dr. Turrow, had been the lead doctor on the project dedicated to developing the Angel Serum. She’d used Elizabeth’s altered genetic makeup to create the serum.

  The whole thing was beyond fucked up. If my own mother had done something like that to me, I would have killed her a long time ago.

  I flipped to the beginning of the book, to the second page, where I’d glued in a picture of my family. My mother, my father, and my older brother, Lukas.

  We were never perfect, but we were happy.

  I’d gotten more of my father’s looks. His dark brown hair, his blue eyes pinched in a feline point. My brother had gotten more of our mother. Black hair, and gold-flecked brown eyes.

  After the funeral, I’d started seeing a therapist regularly. It was recommended I talk to someone about the trauma in my past, to get it all out. I didn’t know it then, but my therapist happened to be on the Branch payroll. She was screening her clients looking for someone for a new program. They’d wanted an orphan who was so dead inside that killing her repeatedly wouldn’t affect her overall state of mind.

  My brother had been my best friend. Losing him had felt like losing all of myself. I’d definitely been a fit for what the Branch was looking for.

  Sometimes I wondered if I still had Lukas, if I’d be who I was today, if any of this would have happened. My brother had kept me grounded, and he’d always looked out for me. He never would have let me get involved with the Branch. Of course, if he’d been alive, I wouldn’t have been what the Branch needed in the first place.

  I tried to imagine what he’d tell me to do now. He’d probably tell me to work with the Coats, because they were the good guys. He’d tell me that the cure would bring me closer to the girl I used to be, and that that was more important than revenge.

  I guess my dead brother was now my conscience.

  At the very least, I decided, I could hear what the Coats had to say, and what else they had to offer me. The Rook hadn’t given me a time to show up at the warehouse, so I left the hotel just after six AM. It’d give me enough time to grab a proper cup of coffee and to stake out the warehouse for a while before going in.

  The corner of 7th and Hart Street was in the business district, three miles from my current location. A lot of the surrounding buildings had been converted either to boutique hotels, or apartment buildings. The place belonging to the Coats was still under construction, and metal scaffolding covered most of the front.

  Across the street was the Revived Arts Hotel, so I paid for a room that afforded me a clear view of the warehouse, both its roof and its front door. Since I was technically paying with a stolen credit card, I didn’t mind the extra expense, considering I’d only use the place for a few hours. It’d be worth it in the long run.

  In my room, I pulled a cushy gray leather chair up to the windows, made sure all the lights were off, and grabbed my trusty binoculars. I kicked my feet up and began the stakeout, shoveling crackers in my mouth as I scanned the warehouse.

  For the first hour, there was zero movement outside the building, or within. I’d thought perhaps I’d see the Rook holding up a welcome sign somewhere.

  What kind of code name was that anyway? I wondered. And was he the chess piece, the bird, or the swindler? I hoped he was the chess piece. I was pretty good at playing games.

  Traffic picked up over the next hour as people headed out for work.

  By 11:00 AM my crackers were gone, and the Coke I’d bought from a vending machine down the hall was lukewarm.

  “Screw it,” I muttered, and tossed the binoculars in my bag.

  Outside the hotel, I slid big, dark sunglasses over my eyes, let my long hair fall forward over my face, and crossed the street. Music played from the Mexican restaurant just around the corner. Traffic was comprised mostly of yellow taxicabs and small sports cars.

  I entered the warehouse using a side door that was partially obstructed by scaffolding and loose plastic sheeting. The plastic gusted in the breeze.

  The door creaked when I opened it, and inwardly I winced. I’d expected to come in on a stairwell, or maybe some faraway hallway, so I could sneak in unannounced, but the ground floor of the warehouse was one wide-open space, with only support columns to break it up. The lighting was murky, and green-cast from the plastic covering the windows. The whole place had an underwater feel.

  My footsteps echoed as I walked. It was the only sound in the entire place.

  I was beginning to wonder if this had been some kind of joke when a figure silently stepped away from a support column twenty yards to my left. The man was at least ten years older than me, and two hundred pounds heavier. He had the stocky, bald-headed look of a bouncer. Despite the warmer weather, he wore a black leather jacket. Perhaps to hide the gun at his hip.

  The guy held up his hands. “I’m unarmed.”

  “Except for the gun at your side?”

  “I meant I’m not immediately armed.”

  “Semantics,” I said.

  “Are you Chloe?”

  “Presently.” I grinned. “I was told to ask for the Rook?”

  “This way.” The guy hitched a thumb ov
er his shoulder, indicating the stairwell in the far corner.

  I’d purposefully left my bag in my stakeout hotel room, but I’d made sure to bring weapons. There was a gun at my back and a knife in each boot. I’d also clipped a few barrettes into my hair that could double as picks. I hadn’t ever had to use them—I preferred the efficiency of a gun—but it was always good to have backup.

  Big guy went up the stairs first. I’d expected him to be winded after the first flight, but he kept a quick pace.

  “So what’s your name?” I asked.

  “Sasha,” he said.

  “Are you the Rook’s bodyguard?”

  “No. I’m his hairdresser.”

  His back was to me and I couldn’t see his face, but the even tone of his voice made me pause. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “You think when we’re done here, you could touch up my roots?”

  His massive shoulders shook when he laughed. “I could probably fit you in.”

  We went up three flights of stairs before Sasha finally led me out of the stairwell. The fourth floor’s renovation was complete, so all I could see was the hallway that stretched before us. Sasha started down it.

  “So what’s the Rook’s real name?” I asked.

  Sasha shrugged. “Can’t tell you. I don’t even know his real name.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “As serious as burnt popcorn.”

  “Oh, Sasha, I like you.”

  He shot me another wolfish grin before stopping at a set of double doors. He grabbed both handles and turned, pushing the doors in with a rather exaggerated spread of his arms, as if he were revealing the inner sanctum of some important holy figure.

  When I stepped around him to get a better look at the room, I realized it wasn’t an office so much as a penthouse suite. Two walls were constructed entirely of glass, giving the space a fishbowl feel.

  In the corner opposite the door was an L-shaped couch, upholstered in caramel-colored leather. A massive glass coffee table sat in the center, a stack of books perched on the edge.