Skin Game

Chapter eleven Dying to meet you

After what seemed like hours in snarled Seattle traffic, Logan Cale finally pulled up to the well-worn seven-story brick structure that was the Armbruster Hotel — at one time, the place to stay in the Emerald City... of course, those days had ended not long after the Gold Rush of 1896. The canvas awning over the front door, once forest green, had long since faded into a limp pastel pup tent, while the grand entrance — wide smoked glass that had at one time been clear — was attended by winos, not liveried doormen.

Logan punched numbers into his cell phone.

Asha picked up immediately. “Yes?”

“It’s me. I’m finally here — with the price of gas, you wouldn’t think traffic jams would be a problem. How’s our guest?”

“He’s been a very good boy.”

“I wonder if he’s for real,” Logan said.

“If he isn’t...”

“Asha will spank. Okay, start the clock. If you haven’t heard from me within half an hour, you know what to do.”

“Roger that,” she answered, and the line went dead.

Entering the lobby, Logan was greeted by an aroma that was a cross between one of Mole’s cigars and a YMCA men’s locker room. Ratty carpeting and shabby furniture were overseen by an elaborate cut-glass chandelier that loomed like a reminder of better days; and, off to the right, the front desk remained impressive, too: it looked like an oak bar from a western movie. When this place was torn down someday, the chandelier and that oak piece would be about all that anyone would bother to salvage.

Behind the counter, seated on a high stool, was a lumpy-faced sixtyish guy so white that Logan would have mistaken him for an albino Manticore experiment, if the man’s eyes hadn’t been so dark, like a couple of raisins adorning a dish of ice cream. The desk clerk was hunkered over a magazine — Barely Legal Teen — which, Logan realized as he drew close enough to get a look at the cover, was neither about the law nor aimed at a teenage audience.

The white-haired clerk made no effort to hide the porn mag when Logan got to the counter, nor did he look up.

“Excuse me,” Logan said.

Finally tearing himself away from the photos of naked girls, the clerk glanced up at Logan with eyes that were deader than rap music.

“You have a guest here named Thomas Wisdom. Could I have his room number, please?”

“No.”

“No?”

“We don’t just hand that information out to anybody who asks. Don’t you think our guests deserve their privacy?”

Logan glanced at the magazine. “How much is a subscription to that fine periodical?”

The clerk’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a monthly. Cover price is eight ninety-five.”

“But you save money when you subscribe.”

“Still... probably run fifty bucks.”

“I see. And it’d come in a plain brown wrapper?”

The clerk got Logan’s drift and nodded. “Sure. Nice and discreet.”

From his billfold, Logan withdrew a crisp fifty dollar bill. “Which room did you say my friend Mr. Wisdom was in?”

“417, sir.”

Logan placed the fifty-dollar bill over one of the nude photos. “Enjoy,” he said.

A tiny yellow smile appeared in the lumpy white face.

Then Logan reached out and grabbed the clerk’s wrist. “You know what I hate, though, when I subscribe to a magazine?”

The dark eyes were large now. “No — what?”

“When they call up and ask me to resubscribe. On the phone?”

“Why don’t I hold all of Mr. Wisdom’s calls for you?”

“Would you? You’re a dear.”

By way of contrast with the lobby stench, the elevator smelled like urine. As the floors dinged by, he wondered if he was walking into an Ames White trap. Though tracking Thompson had been tough, the computer techniques he’d used could easily be anticipated by White, who knew of Eyes Only’s techno bent. If Otto Gottlieb was either lying, or a pawn, then...

As the doors slid open on the fourth floor, Logan decided the pistol snugged behind him should stay put — if he approached Thompson with gun in hand, the wrong signal would be sent, and things could go violently awry. Anyway, no point letting his paranoia get the best of him. On the other hand, paranoia had kept him alive more than once, in the Eyes Only game...

Every surface in the hall appeared to be some shade of gray, from the cheap carpeting to the peeling paint on the walls; even the wall-mounted lights, hung every six feet or so, seemed to be covered with a patina of age-old smoke. As he walked down the corridor — the room he sought was down around the corner — the urine smell gave way to Lysol.

Logan approached the door marked 417 cautiously, then stood to one side and reached over to knock.

No response — and no noise within the hotel room, either... not a radio or TV, or someone getting up from a chair; nothing.

Logan really needed Thompson to be home — and his gut told him, despite the silence, the man was on the other side of that door. Thompson was hiding out, burrowed in; damnit, he was here — he had to be...

Stepping closer, Logan knocked again. Still nothing. A third knock was also answered with silence.

Or maybe his gut was wrong. Logan wondered if the porn-loving desk clerk had known Thompson was out when he sold him the information...

In frustration, Logan spoke to the door, loudly: “Mr. Wisdom — Mr. Wisdom! I need to talk to you.” Then he leaned in and listened to nothing at all. Finally, he nearly shouted: “Mr. Thompson—”

The door snapped open, to a wide crack, and Logan found himself staring into the gray snout of a Glock barrel.

“Keep your voice down! Do you want to get me killed?”

Forcing himself to look past the barrel of the gun, Logan saw a skinny, pasty-faced white man only a few years younger than himself, with matted dark hair, an untrimmed beard, and eyes that looked both exhausted and terrified.

“No, Mr. Thompson — I want to help you stay alive.”

The hand holding the gun was trembling; Logan realized the man with the weapon was seconds away from blasting him into eternity...

“Until about three months ago, Mr. Thompson,” Logan said as calmly as he could manage, “you worked for the NSA, where your supervisor was a very bad egg named Ames White.”

Thompson cocked the gun, and the barrel continued to tremble; but Logan knew he’d bought himself some time.

Thompson demanded, “Who are you?”

“My name’s Logan Cale. I’m a journalist. I was sent by Eyes Only — I think you should recognize that—”

The barrel waved an invitation. “Get in here!”

Logan did as he was told, and as soon as they were both in the room, Thompson shut and locked and night-latched the door.

The room was a mess — bedclothes scattered, pizza boxes and fast food cartons littering the floor, the scent of stale sweat permeating everything. A portable TV perched on a scratched-up dresser — news on, sound down — a worn-out armchair occupied a corner, and a nightstand next to the bed held a pitiful table lamp that at the moment supplied the only light in the room — even though it was mid-afternoon, the curtains were pulled tight and scant light made it in from outside.

The former NSA agent wore a sleeveless white undershirt, black suit pants, black socks, and no shoes. Logan wondered if the guy had been out of this room at all, since checking in.

Glock at the ready, Thompson peered quickly through the peephole into the hall. Satisfied, he turned back to Logan.

“Clasp your hands behind your head.”

“You will find a gun,” Logan said, as he complied, and Thompson patted him down and found the pistol.

“Since when do reporters go packing?” Thompson asked, an eyebrow raised in the bearded, skeptical mask of his face.

“Since they linked up with Eyes Only,” Logan said. “The authorities consider what we do to be cyber terrorism — you should know that... you were with the NSA.”

Thompson slipped the clip out of Logan’s pistol and ejected the shell in the chamber. He stuffed the pistol in his belt; the ammo he slipped in a pants pocket.

Then he pressed the snout of the Glock to Logan’s temple, eyes wild as he said, “How do I know White didn’t send you?”

“If White had sent me, you’d probably be dead right now.”

“Or you would.”

Logan — hands still clasped behind him, cold snout of the nine millimeter still kissing his temple — managed to shrug. “Or I would... White does want you dead, right?”

Thompson’s mouth dropped open. “Why the hell do you say that?”

“Pieces are falling together. Otto Gottlieb told me—”

The pistol pressed harder into Logan’s flesh. “Otto’s one of them.”

“No. He’s bolted the NSA too. And anyway, he was never on the inside of White’s schemes — he was like you, just a good little NSA soldier... Can I put my arms down?”

“No. But keep talking.”

“Gottlieb thinks that what happened to you and your partner — and some other off-kilter things that have been going down — are somehow White’s doing.”

“A transgenic killed my partner.”

“That’s the party line, isn’t it? Whatever the case, Gottlieb finally realizes White’s gone rogue. And part of what White’s up to has to do with some... some friends of mine, who he’s trying to hurt.”

Thompson wasn’t keeping up. “Rogue? Friends of yours?”

But the Glock had lowered; the bearded former agent had let it slip away from Logan’s head...

“Yeah,” Logan said. “Several of my friends, actually.”

Eyes flashing with the abruptness of it, Thompson changed subjects. “How the fuck did you find me?”

“People hiding under an assumed name often do so under a variant of their real name — helps them fight the loss of identity that comes with going underground.”

“Shit,” the ex-agent said, knowing.

Logan went on: “I started with your mother’s maiden name, names of people you went to school with, any name that you’d come in contact with, then I put every anagram of your name into the computer; after that, I listed synonyms for ‘sage’ and fed in Tom and Thomas, under various spellings, for Thompson... and waited for the computer to spit something out.”

Even hotels like the Armbruster had to list their guests with the government’s database; the Travel Security Act dated back pre-Pulse, one of many repressive laws born out of a fear of terrorism.

“Shit,” Thompson said again.

“Now,” Logan said, hands still behind his head, “I have a question for you.”

Thompson — gun in hand but not pointed at Logan — just looked at him, obviously still pissed at himself for picking a name that could be traced to him, a pro who should’ve known better.

“Why didn’t you run?” Logan asked.

“I didn’t know, at first.”

“That you were set up, you mean.”

“Yeah. I mean, I knew I was being railroaded out of the NSA; but I was healing up from a broken arm—”

“Your file says you took early retirement on full disability pay.”

“That’s right... which, frankly, made me even more suspicious. It was almost like—”

“You were being paid off.”

“Yes! But finally I knew White and his people would be looking for me, and after I sent my family away, I knew they would think I ran too. So... I didn’t.”

That made only vague sense to Logan, who said, “Look — could I put my hands down?”

“Yeah... yeah... sorry.”

“Why don’t we sit and talk about this?”

Logan took the chair and a dejected-looking Thompson sat on the bed, the Glock in his hands, draped between his legs. He looked like a man trying to decide whether or not to kill himself.

“Your arm looks like it healed fine,” Logan said conversationally.

Flexing his left arm, Thompson said, “It’s still sore sometimes.” His face changed, curiosity overcoming fear. “Why are you here? Why come looking for me?”

“Surely you know about what’s going on at Terminal City?”

Thompson nodded. “About all I do is watch the tube — I see the news. What about it?”

“Those people are the friends I was talking about — and I’m trying to help them. White’s putting the squeeze on, to get the federal government to invade and kill all the transgenics. Total genocide.”

Thompson shook his head. “Can’t help you, then. After what one of those... those freaks did to my partner, killing ’em all is fine by me.”

“Are you sure that a transgenic killed your partner?”

Thompson nodded so vigorously he bounced on the edge of the bed. “Listen, Cale — before the NSA, I did time in the Army and was a cop in Los Angeles. I’ve seen the evil shit that people can do to each other... but I’ve never seen anything like what happened to Hankins.”

“He wasn’t the last, either.”

“No — I mean, skinned! No normal person could do that — only a monster bred to do atrocities, trained to kill—”

“Bred by the government. Trained to kill by men like Ames White.”

“Even so, these transgenics need to be put down — whether it’s out of getting even for victims like my partner, or just to put the bastards out of misery — I don’t really give a damn. As long as those monsters are wiped out.”

“And yet... you still believe you were set up by Ames White, right?”

The two men locked eyes, and Thompson said, “We were sent into combat with rubber bullets, Cale. Look — Hankins was a son of a bitch, but he was goddamn good at his job. We were using those new portable thermal imagers—”

Logan held up a hand. “Whoa — I don’t know what a... thermal imager?”

Thompson nodded.

“I don’t know what a thermal imager is.”

The agent explained the devices and how they worked; the new devices were under White’s personal lock and key. “Anyway, that night last March, in that warehouse — the imager would have shown Cal something if it was working right. Mine too — only it showed nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That’s how I got my arm broken! The thing at first gave me a hot reading, then farted out on me. It should have read hot for that homeless guy in that office — he just wouldn’t have come up as hot as a transgenic. But it didn’t show shit! The imagers don’t lie, and yet this one told me that room was empty. And Hankins wasn’t up against some homeless mook — he was facing a transgenic.”

“I’m sorry about your partner,” Logan said.

Thompson shrugged. “Thanks. Funny thing is, I never even liked the guy. He really was an asshole... but nobody should have to die that way...”

Logan watched the man’s face tighten in remembered horror as he relived the moment of discovering his mutilated dead partner.

“Nobody,” Thompson repeated, “...’cept maybe Ames White...”

“Do you still have the imager?”

Thompson shook his head. “Company property. Like my gun and my badge. Your buddy Agent Gottlieb took it all when he hauled me to the hospital. Having my partner killed, being injured — plus I shot a civilian — I was put on immediate administrative leave. Last I saw my imager, it was in Otto’s hands.”

Logan made a mental note to ask Gottlieb about that. “What happened after that?”

“Agent White was livid that one of the imagers had been stolen by the transgenic. He said if the transgenics — and some of them are very smart — figured out the technology, they could also figure out a way to beat it. He expected us to guard those things with our lives. Anyway, after Agent Gottlieb took my gun, my badge, and the imager, I could see the writing on the wall. My career was over.”

“How did they manage that? You don’t go on full disability for a broken arm.”

“They had me talk to an NSA shrink — that was the excuse. I shot that homeless guy, remember. Isn’t any of that in the file? That my disability is mental?”

“Not what I saw. But it sounds like you had a free pass — why are you in hiding?”

“That first night, at the hospital — while I was waiting for them to cast my arm — I started thinking about those imagers, and how they couldn’t possibly have been working right. Agent Gottlieb had already left — there was no reason for him to babysit me, so he was gone.” Thompson sat forward, his eyes haunted. “But the more I thought about it, the more I thought these two imagers were defective and, so, were dangerous... and someone else could run into the same fatal snag we did.”

“So you called Agent White.”

“A few days later, finally I called him. He told me he’d meet me at my house later, to talk about the problem. Then he asked me if I’d talked to anyone else about the defective equipment. When I said no, he said, ‘Good,’ and then told me not to mention it to anyone until after I talked to him. Man, my hackles rose — him wanting me to meet him, alone. At my house!”

“And you ran instead.”

“I ran instead.” Thompson shivered. “There was something cold in his voice, almost... inhuman. My gut told me that if my family and I didn’t bolt, we’d all end up dead.”

“You took this extreme action, based on a gut reaction?”

“That, and, well — I believed... and I believe right now... that the only way those imagers could be defective, both of them, was if White arranged it himself. He sent me, and my partner, into that warehouse, to die.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But I worked with White long enough to know that people around him had a bad habit of dying when they got in his way. And I wasn’t about to take any chances with my family.”

“When do you plan to join them?”

“When I... finish what I have to do.”

Suddenly Logan understood. “You’re lying low... waiting until you think you’ve dropped off White’s personal radar, and then...”

“And then I’m going to kill his evil ass.”

Logan could well understand the impulse. “Agent Thompson, there’s only one problem with your plan...”

“Yeah — ‘Thomas Wisdom.’ If you could track me, he’ll be able to.”

Logan shook his head. “No — a bigger problem than that. White’s not just with the government. I can’t explain it all now, there really isn’t time. But he’s involved with a... subversive group that is bigger and more dangerous than the government.”

“Cale, I don’t share your sympathies with the transgenics, nor do I go for Eyes Only’s wild-eyed conspiracy theories. I’m a cop — or I used to be. I stick with the facts. And the fact is — Ames White sent me into that building to die. I believe that — but that doesn’t make my partner’s killer any less a monster.”

“White is the monster. Surely you see that.”

“I’m not helping you, Cale. We share a common goal where White is concerned, but your transgenics can go to—”

“Forget that,” Logan said. “Think about your family’s safety. White’s operation is not just in this country — his group has operatives everywhere. They’ll find your family... just like I found you.”

“You don’t scare me, Cale. I know my family is safe.”

Looking into the man’s eyes, locking onto them, Logan said, “For now, probably. But White will find them... and Kleena Kleene, British Columbia, is so small, he shouldn’t have any trouble.”

Thompson leaned back on the bed, aghast, springs squeaking. “How...?”

“One of the anagrams my computer spit out — an anagram for your wife’s maiden name. She left the night Hankins died and flew to Bella Coola, then rented a car and drove to Firvale. From there she and your kids went through Anahim Lake and took Highway 20 to Kleena Kleene.”

All the blood had drained from Thompson’s face, making his beard look so dark it seemed black.

“The truth is, Sage — you said it yourself — if I can find that information, so can White.”

Thompson brought a hand up to his face; he was trembling, seemed about to weep. “Oh... oh Christ...”

“I can have your family out of there within twelve hours and have them safely relocated. Eyes Only has a network White has never been able to penetrate — and never will.”

“You’re saying...?”

“I can get your wife and children new identities, and you too... and eventually you’ll even be able to rejoin them.”

“But White—”

“A gun is only one way to stop White. A better way is through Eyes Only — and all you have to do is tell the truth... tell what you know about White.”

Tears had streaked down to glisten in his beard; there was something strangely beautiful about the effect of it, the teardrops catching the dim light of the lamp. “What do you want me to do?”

“To start with, get your stuff. We’re getting out of here right now.”

And five minutes later they were in Logan’s car; traffic had eased and he was able to speed toward Terminal City, unhindered.

As he drove, Logan phoned Asha. She picked up on the second ring.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“A-okay.”

“Good. I’ve got the other package.”

“Cooperative?”

“Very. Meet me. You know where.”

“Half an hour,” she said, and the line went dead.

Bobby parked the stolen car near the abandoned building that served as an entrance to the exit tunnel. Once inside, Original Cindy led him down the passage toward where it interesected with the main shaft. Blackness surrounded them, only the thin beam of Bobby’s pocket flash piercing the dark.

Cindy thought about running, but the transgenic still held the stun rod in his other hand and she didn’t trust her achy body and throbbing skull.

They reached the intersection — to their right lay Terminal City; to the left, Logan’s building. Automatically, she turned right.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

She turned back to face him. “Terminal City. Isn’t that where you wanna go, Bobby?”

He tossed the beam of the flashlight down the corridor to the left. “What’s up there?”

“How should I know?” she asked, her tone bitchy. “Do I look like a freakin’ tour guide? You wanna join your brothers and sisters, or what?”

On the ride over, Original Cindy had decided that the best course of action was to simply march this freak into Terminal City and let Max kick his sorry ass.

The bland face stared her down. “I think you’re lying to me. I think you know what’s down that direction. Do you think I’m stupid?”

She gave him the finger. “I think you should sit and spin.”

Bobby took a step closer to her and raised the stun rod. “Would you like to sit and spin on this?”

Though designed to stun, those rods could be lethal — she knew — if application was prolonged. And how long was too long, well, that was an issue she didn’t particularly want to research.

She smirked sourly. “Leads to a pad Logan’s got.”

The kid-on-Christmas-morning smile on Bobby’s otherwise blank face told Cindy that she had just revealed the piece of information that Bobby most wanted to learn...

She had to get away from this sick fuck and warn Max, and tell her Logan might be in danger.

So she took the right turn and started running, fleeing into the blackness of the tunnel...

... making it only a few steps before the pain in her head distorted her balance, and she went down.

She was about to scream for Max when she saw a blue spark in her peripheral vision, and white hot shards of pain shot through her every fiber.

She couldn’t talk or move.

Original Cindy just lay there, shaking violently, an epileptic having a hell of a fit, the pain greater than any she’d felt in her whole life. She only hoped that she would die soon.

Eventually, gratefully, she passed out.

When she came to, Original Cindy found herself tied to a straight-back wooden chair in Logan’s apartment. Bobby had lashed her wrists and ankles to the chair and run a strip of duct tape over her mouth. She tried to scream, but all that came out was a muffled “Mmmmmm!”

He had placed her so she faced the door that opened to the staircase below. Turning her head as far as she could in either direction, she looked for Bobby but couldn’t see him. Either he was gone or he was directly behind her. She listened as closely as she could, but all she heard was the pounding of her own heart.

Trying to break free was useless.

Though she strained against her bonds, she made no progress. Finally giving up, she stared at the doorknob and waited. It didn’t take long before she saw the knob turning. She tried, but the tape over her mouth kept her from screaming for help.

Terrible elongated seconds passed before the door opened, and she was surprised to see the federal agent she’d seen at Jam Pony a few weeks ago. She hadn’t really caught his name — Gott-something?

Whoever he was, now he stood in the doorway, his hands behind his back, his mouth open in surprise as he saw her rocking from side to side in the chair. Over his shoulder she could just make out Logan’s freedom fighter friend, Asha.

They both came into the room, Asha with a pistol drawn and when she saw Original Cindy, the gun seemed to leap up in front of her face, both arms outstretched.

Then Bobby stepped forward from behind Asha. He’d blended into the wall and when Asha turned back to face Original Cindy, he made his move.

Sticking out her chin, gesturing with her eyes, Original Cindy tried to signal Asha that Bobby was behind her... but to no avail.

Cindy watched in horror as the stun rod touched Asha’s back. The gun leapt from her hand and she wilted to the floor in convulsions. The fed turned and tried to kick out at Bobby, but he succeeded only in providing the transgenic with an easier target. Hitting the agent’s leg with the stun rod, Bobby sent him writhing to the floor as well.

Bobby shut the door and dragged the wriggling figures off and out of sight.

And, minutes later, the door opened again.

Logan led the way inside this time, a bearded, wasted-looking man in a black suit trailing behind him. They both froze when they saw her...

... and again Bobby struck!

He touched the man in the black suit with the stun rod and he went down whimpering, doing the electric dance.

Logan dodged the first thrust of the stun rod and backed into the room, trying to put distance between himself and his attacker. Almost immediately, though, he started talking to Bobby in a cool, calm voice, and Original Cindy was reminded that one of her favorite things about Logan was his courage.

“Whoa — what’s the problem here?” Logan held his hands up, palms out in a stop gesture as he backed away.

“I have to remove you.”

“Remove me?”

Bobby moved closer but Logan kept backing away, keeping the distance about the same.

“I have to replace you.”

“Remove or replace me?... Who are you? What did I do to you?”

They wove around furniture in a slow, deadly cat-and-mouse game.

“I’m Bobby Kawasaki, Logan — you used to see me at Jam Pony... or maybe you didn’t notice me.”

“Can’t say I ever did. My bad.”

“The name they used to call me at Manticore was Kelpy.”

“You... you’re a transgenic?” Logan asked.

Seizing the doubt in the moment, Bobby lunged at him with the stun rod, just missing as Logan pitched to the right, the rod sparking angrily when it banged off a table.

“Bobby — I’m trying to help the transgenics...”

“You’re not helping me.”

“I’m not?”

“No! You stand between me and Max.”

Tipping over her chair, Original Cindy fought to get loose. She saw the look of confusion on Logan’s face.

“Between you... and Max?”

“I need your face!”

“My...?”

Bobby lunged again, and this time Logan tripped on a rug and fell; but it still served the purpose, the stun rod missing him.

“Logan!” someone yelled.

On her side, on the floor, still bound to the chair, Original Cindy turned to see Joshua piling through the door, Alec and Sketchy right behind him. Hope swelled in her chest and she thought that maybe they might get through this all right, after all...

Spinning, Bobby hurled the stun rod at them. Joshua went right, Alec left, and Sketchy stood stock-still as the rod handle hit him in the chest and dropped him to the floor in a quivering mass.

Whirling back, Alec picked up the stun rod and turned toward Bobby. Original Cindy looked back too and felt her newfound hope drain away. Before them stood Logan, and Bobby, who had a knife to Logan’s throat, Bobby partially crouched behind him, using the taller man as a shield.

“Move and he dies,” Bobby said, his voice raspy with emotion.

“All right,” Alec said. “Just stay calm.”

Bobby said, “Fuck calm — we’re leaving. Try to stop us, he dies.”

Motionless on the floor, Original Cindy watched as the transgenic pushed Logan slowly toward the door; something was strange, really weird — Bobby was changing, sort of morphing, but gradually, so subtle you almost didn’t notice...

Bobby’s back was to her now, as he kept Logan between himself and the others. A trembling Sketchy was sitting up, hands to his chest where the rod had struck. Between the intertwined legs of Logan and Bobby, Original Cindy had the perfect vantage point to see that Sketchy was moving his camera up ever so slowly.

“Can’t we talk about this, Bobby?” Alec asked. “We should all be friends — you’re our brother...”

His back to the door now, Bobby held Logan tighter, a tiny ribbon of red oozing out from where the point of the large knife touched his throat.

Original Cindy could see Bobby’s face clearly now, and to her astonishment, the guy she’d thought had Afro blood in him now looked whiter than Hitler, and his hair seemed sort of spiky and blond.

Shit, if he didn’t look something like Logan now!

Joshua had finally roused. “Kelpy — don’t do this! Max wouldn’t want you to—”

“Max will love me,” Bobby said, at the doorway now. “You’ll see.”

“Kelpy—” Joshua said, moving forward.

“Don’t follow me — I see one of you down in that tunnel, I slit Logan’s throat, then and there.”

Damn, Cindy thought. Once he’s outta here, who’s gonna save Logan?

A few minutes prior to the confrontation in Logan’s apartment, a small council of war was under way.

For what seemed like hours, Max and Mole had been going over contingencies that they hoped would turn their defensive position into an offensive one.

The idea was to turn the disadvantage of being surrounded into an advantage. Their strategy was strikingly simple in nature. When the Army piled through the gates and started going building to building, Max, Mole, and a few others would remain behind to distract them as the rest of the inhabitants took to the tunnels and sewers. As the Army and National Guard came in, they would go out, then come up behind the invaders. Once the tables were turned and it was the Army that was surrounded, maybe they could talk.

When they had gone over the plan for the umpteenth time, Max stretched and said, “All right, break time.”

Mole sat back and rolled his head on the column of his neck. “You know, this shit just might work,” he said.

She nodded. “Oughta give ’em a hell of goose, anyway... Look, I’m supposed to go meet Logan — he should be back by now.”

“Cool,” Mole said, and blew a cigar smoke ring. “Young love inspires us all.”

“Bite me.”

“Have you had your shots?”

“I hang with Joshua, don’t I?”

They both laughed — and the levity was a good sign after all the doom and gloom of recent days.

“Go on,” Mole said. “We’ll hold down the fort.”

Then, as she started to walk out, he added, “And see if he got my damn cigars! He forgot last time.”

She grinned. “Will do.”

Despite Mole’s good humor, the atmosphere around the compound remained tense. Max hadn’t expected any less. They were all getting ready for combat now. Her desire to check on Logan — and his efforts to find Sage Thompson — made her want to run; but she forced herself to walk. Behind the broken windows and cracked doors, citizens of Terminal City were watching her.

If she looked cool, maybe they would stay cool, too.

When the National Guard had cut the power to Terminal City, they’d gotten this end of the tunnel too. Dix didn’t have it hooked into the grid yet, but it was on the to-do list. In the meantime, she didn’t care. Feline DNA made the lights optional anyway.

Max actually enjoyed the darkness — it felt peaceful to her. But the silence that usually accompanied the blanket of blackness was disturbed — somewhere from farther up the tunnel, she could hear something.

Voices?

Trotting ahead, staying silent, she heard Alec’s voice from Logan’s apartment. “Can’t we talk about this, Bobby?”

Then other voices, including Joshua’s; but she couldn’t make out the words.

Something was wrong. Very wrong...

In seconds she was at the end of the tunnel and silently started up the stairs as she heard another voice.

“Don’t follow me...”

This one too was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

“I see one of you down in that tunnel,” the voice was saying, “I slit Logan’s throat, then and there.”

At the top of the stairs, she saw someone who looked vaguely like Logan, with an arm around Logan’s chest and his other hand out of sight. Without seeing it, she knew the other hand held a knife to Logan’s throat.

She still had five steps between her and them.

Normally, taking a guy like this would be no biggie: he had his back to her and all his attention was focused on those in front of him...

Four steps.

The fly in this ointment, though, was Logan. If, in tearing the attacker from him, she somehow accidentally touched Logan, even just brushed her flesh against his in the smallest way, the virus — which Manticore had infected her with, to make her touch deadly to Logan — would kick in, and instead of getting his throat cut, Logan would die at her own fingertips.

Three steps.

The timing had to be perfect, and nothing could go wrong.

Two steps.

One shot, that’s all she’d have. Her hand snaked toward the right elbow of the attacker. Just as she was about to grab him, a bright light — a flashbulb — went off in there.

The attacker yowled, and his right hand — the one with the knife — drew away from Logan’s neck as the attacker tried to turn away from the strobe. The action of turning had tipped the pair off balance — captor and hostage alike — and they teetered on the brink of tumbling down the stairs on top of Max.

In less than a second she visualized the whole thing: the three of them tumbling down the stairs, all tangled together, piling up at the bottom, her lying in the one place she longed to be more than any other — in Logan’s arms — Logan locked in her deadly embrace, any hope of a life together obliterated by a silly flash of light.

Then — just as Max clutched the attacker’s arm, his skin hot against hers — Alec launched himself at the pair and wrenched Logan from the grasp of the attacker. As Logan and Alec fell back into the apartment, she jerked the attacker’s knife arm...

... and the two of them rolled ass-over-teakettle down the stairs into the black tunnel!

They were both on their feet instantly, he still holding the knife, she circling, looking for an opening. In the apartment, someone hit the switch and the lights in the tunnel came on. The attacker winced at the brightness and gave Max the moment she needed.

She kicked the blade from his grasp, then swiveled and in one fluid motion kicked again, hitting him in the stomach, sending him flying into the stairs, hitting hard.

Max moved in, ready for her opponent to respond; and she got her first good look at him...

He looked almost exactly like Logan!

But an alarming change was in effect: the Logan look-alike was sweating profusely, red sores breaking out on his arms and on his face in a terrible sick blossoming, and he looked at her with shock and confusion in his blue eyes.

“Max,” he rasped, slumped against the stairs, a pitiful pile of hive-ridden flesh. “What’s happening to me?”

Her hand went to her mouth.

She knew she was witnessing the virus taking full-blown effect — whoever this would-be Logan was, he had taken on much more than just Logan Cale’s appearance.