Codename: Night Witch (6 page)

Her PCM dutifully alerted her to this new danger as it flashed its warnings in large, bold letters before her eyes.

"I know!"

Sigrid stood on the brakes with both feet. The spiked tires dug in hard and the truck came to a skidding, juddering halt. The Thunderhawk
stopped as well. It sat there, hovering above the end of the causeway as if staring her down. A fireteam of four soldiers leapt from the gunship. They moved quickly, taking up positions along the far end of the bridge.

For a moment, Sigrid sat there, waiting, watching and clutching the wheel as her breath fogged up the windscreen.

None of them fired. What were they waiting for? They had her. All they had to do was take the kill shot.

No, of course they wouldn't kill her. Killing her wouldn't serve their purpose. They wanted her alive. They wanted her back.

They'd captured her on Bellatrix. That wasn't going to happen again.

With her foot to the floor, Sigrid gunned the engine, full throttle, and charged straight into their midst. Men and women scattered to the sides. She heard the chatter of small-arms fire. The windshield shattered, spraying her with bits of broken glass. A second salvo ripped through the door panel, tearing apart the seat cushion at her back. Her skin burned, grazed by hot lead. Sigrid plowed forward.

The Thunderhawk roared into the air ahead of her. Four missiles dropped from its side pods, arcing toward her. Sigrid braced, but the projectiles weren't meant for her, they were aimed at the road instead. The four rockets hit as one, blasting a wide gap in the causeway. The span heaved and collapsed, sending chunks of permacrete, rocks and ice skyward.

Unable to stop, the truck plowed into the gap. Its nose dipped sharply down while its back wheels bucked high into the air. For a moment she found herself floating weightless, but then the truck's nose smashed headlong into the far side of the gap. She barely had time to raise her arms before she was hurled through the shattered remains of the windscreen. She landed hard some twenty meters down the road, skidding, rolling violently across the graveled surface, only stopping when she tumbled into the guardrail.

The taste of blood was strong in her mouth. Her ears rang with a heavy low hum. Rising on unsteady legs, she did her best to shake it off.

Three of the soldiers hurried toward her, moving to flank her. And
still
they didn't fire. One of them held a weapon, something heavy and ugly. It was a riot gun, a weapon Sigrid knew all too well. It had taken
five
of them to take her down on Bellatrix.

One, she could deal with.

The soldier stepped forward and fired. It was a decent shot, not poorly aimed. But the riot guns were bulky, slow to aim and slow to fire. While perfect for dealing with unruly mobs, they were never designed for a single fast-moving target, especially one as fast as she.

Sigrid heard the
ka-chunk
as the electrified netting shot forward, spreading out to its full width of eight meters. Explosive pitons drove the edges of the netting into the ground, drawing the webbing tight at the very spot she'd been standing. But Sigrid was long gone. She didn't bother to shroud this time. She didn't need to. Her first two steps took her out of the path of the stun netting; her fourth and fifth had her at full stride, running, not away, but rather straight into their startled midst. She could sense the women and men around her, felt their adrenaline, their bloodlust. And when that bloodlust turned to fear and panic, she sensed that as well.

She reached the female soldier first. The woman's finger hovered over her trigger. She could have killed Sigrid, and they both knew it. But her orders were to take Sigrid alive, not kill her. In that single moment she hesitated. That was all the time Sigrid needed.

Sigrid stepped in next to her and snapped her neck. The woman collapsed in her arms. Her death worked like a trigger, snapping the other soldiers awake. Any thought of capturing her was gone. It was kill or be killed.

Sigrid held fast to the dead woman in her arms, using her body as a shield. Round after round barked out at her, tearing into the still-warm flesh of the body held against her. She grabbed two grenades from the woman's belt and hurled them toward the men. The flare from the flashbangs lit up the sky and filled the causeway with black smoke and blinding gas. The concussion from the twin blasts staggered one soldier unlucky enough to be standing too close by. Sigrid hurled the dead body of the woman at him, bowling him over and sending both of them over the barrier to tumble down the embankment.

More shots blasted at her. Glowing tracers whipped by her head. But it was blind fire. Panicked. Sigrid switched her optics to thermal imaging.

The dead woman's rifle lay on the ground only a meter away. Sigrid tucked, rolled, and came to her feet, rifle in hand, as more ordnance screamed her way. She wasn't bulletproof. Far from it. Her speed and her strength were the result of carefully selective genetic reengineering. Bionics helped her to see and hear at near superhuman levels. Years of merciless training taught her how to fight. But it was her control module and its libraries of tactical databases culled from centuries of warfare that gave her her true edge.

Outsiders thought the control module controlled her actions, but that was a mistake. It was her PCM's job to present her with the sensory and tactical data she needed—and
only
that data. Anything else was filtered out and discarded as background noise. This allowed Sigrid to focus on the task at hand. Her PCM guided her and prompted her. It presented her with hundreds of tactical scenarios and options in real time. It even alerted her to threats as needed, but the decisions to act were always hers.

The result gave her an unparalleled combat awareness. Sigrid was aware of each and every shell fired her way—even before the shells left their chambers. Every piece of ordnance was targeted and tracked, its trajectory fed to her. Sigrid knew when to move, where to turn—and when to duck.

The influx of data was incessant, relentless. And right now it was keeping her alive. But it could only carry her so far. It was time to end this.

Sigrid emerged from the smoke. The soldier with the riot gun wrestled with his weapon, struggling to reload another charge. He looked up, panicked. He wasn't going to make it and he knew it.

She blasted him first, then spun around as the last man in the fireteam all but barged into her through the smoke. She saw his eyes flare as her bullets ripped through him, fired from less than a meter away.

Only the Thunderhawk remained. Sigrid turned to face it.

The gunship
swept skyward, arcing swiftly around. It dropped its nose, floated for a second, then came diving down hard and straight toward her. Her communications module picked up and decoded the transmission: it was a kill order, end game. The chain gun swiveled forward as the eight Gatling cannons began to whir, spooling up.

But it was Sigrid who fired first. The heavy plated glass of the Thunderhawk
shattered as her bullets ripped into the flight deck. Something exploded in the aft of the gunship, one of the fuel cells rupturing and igniting. The craft bucked hard over, rolling 180 degrees before plunging toward the earth and straight toward her.

Sigrid dived backwards, scrambling for her life on her hands and knees. A second explosion lit up the sky as the rear of the craft
blew itself apart, and then a third as the doomed gunship
pancaked into the ice-covered road. The explosion sent the last of the fuel reserves roiling skyward—and Sigrid tumbling backside over heels. She scrambled to her knees, but only in time to see a large section of metal plating tear itself from the hull in the explosive blast. End over end, it flew toward her, accelerating, pushed along by the fiery ball of heated gas.

"Mother, freaking, son of a—" Sigrid said.

The hurtling wall of metal plating hit her full on, collecting her and sending her flying backward through the air.

Head over heels, she fell, tumbling backwards amongst the trees. Pine branches whipped at her arms and legs, another caught her ankle, sending her cartwheeling. Her short flight ended abruptly as she landed backside-first into a deep bank of snow.

Vacant eyes stared upward. Streams of blood seeped from her ears and from her nose. But Sigrid was aware of none of this. The impact had knocked her senseless and she was quite unconscious. The woods were quiet but for the burning wreckage of the gunship close by.

The short battle was over. For the soldiers, for the Thunderhawk, and for Sigrid.

CHAPTER FOUR
The Mistress

The chairman's inaugural gala was well underway when she arrived. She paused at the top of the small flight of steps while the footman in his scarlet livery announced her arrival.

Everyone noticed her. Women and men alike turned to stare, curious as to this new arrival. They didn't know her. No one did. She was an object of mystery for some, desire for others. Whomever she was, she knew how to make an entrance.

Some of the guests applauded. It wasn't that she was important or accompanied by a particular VIP, but all the guests agreed: it was impossible to ignore the woman in the clinging blue dress.

Some women gasped. Some appreciatively. Some envious. Others in complete disapproval. She ignored their haughty stares, the words spoken in hushed whispers.

She wasn't here for them.

She paused by the mirror long enough to check her hair and makeup. The mirror provided an excellent view of the gala and all its guests. She scanned each and every one of them in turn as she applied a fresh coat of scarlet lipstick. Everyone of importance was here, the wealthiest of the wealthy, the Federation's grand corporate elite. But why wouldn't they be? Who would miss the inauguration of the Federation's new chairman of the Council for Trade and Finance? Many deals and alliances would be struck tonight. A brand-new era of prosperity would be born.

A waiter walked past carrying a tray of champagne in slim crystal flutes. She helped herself to two glasses, downing one while hanging on to the second. Men nodded their approval, though she ignored their attempts at eye contact and favor.

A winding staircase led from the ballroom to the second floor. Two security men dressed in black tie stood by the golden sash that blocked her way.

She paused by the security men. When she dropped her pocketbook on the stairs, one of them hurried to pick it up. She politely declined his attempt at gallantry, bending to pick it up herself. She bent slowly from the waist. Her dress performed its function perfectly: the plunging neckline drooped forward to offer a tantalizing glimpse of her soft curves. And when she stood back up, her wide eyes were full of promise and so much more.

A guided, and very private, tour of the upper level was quickly arranged. The taller of the security men stepped in front of his partner to offer her his arm. She took it as they made their way upstairs.

The upper level was now open to her. It provided a grand view of the party going on below. The hallway was decorated lavishly; hand-painted portraits and landscapes by the great masters adorned the wall—all of them salvaged from Earth after the exodus. She oohed appropriately, taking in all of the portraits as she leaned against her escort, holding to his arm ever tighter.

The tour was over all too quickly. It ended at a broad wooden door. Her hand rested suggestively on the handle. Oh, but couldn't they go in? It would mean so much to her. Perhaps the room beyond would afford some privacy, too—a more
intimate
setting. What? The Chairman's chambers? Forbidden? Why, all the more enticing, didn't he think? She pressed herself next to him. Her wide eyes were demanding, the warmth of her body intoxicating.

The door was opened instantly. The private sanctum of the chairmen for the Council of Trade and Finance awaited.

She took the security man's hand and drew him inside. When he turned on the lights, she gasped appreciatively, marveling. Oh, to be here! The very nexus of power, a place only visited by the Federation's most rich and powerful.

She sat atop the chairman's wide desk and crossed her legs. She stared up at him as her hands brushed the polished grain, real wood. So rare. So exotic. And so valuable.

His hands reached around her, drawing her to him. His lips parted, inching closer, so eager for a taste. She waved a finger before him. Not yet. A moment like this must be savored, never rushed.

From her pocketbook she withdrew the capsule, presenting it to him. Something to spice up the mood? He nodded his eagerness. She snapped the capsule and he inhaled deeply, first one nostril, then the next.

The lustful gleam in his eye turned to one of confusion, then horror and pain. The toxin acted instantly. He didn't choke or struggle. He simply died.

With her toe on his backside, she rolled his body aside.

The door was closed. The lights switched off. In the dark, she waited.

She wouldn't have to wait long. She never did. For this dream—her only dream—was the same every night.

He came to her, just as he always did. The door burst open. The chairman entered first with four of his cronies in tow. He closed the door and switched on the light.

Startled gasps.

Turning, he saw her. She was seated behind his desk. What was she doing here? How did she get in? What was the meaning of this?

When he saw the body of the dead security man, the cigar dropped from his trembling fingers.

He stepped back, stumbled, only to be held up by his cronies.

The shuriken left her fingertips and skirted the distance between them, embedding itself deep within his skull. His knees buckled and he fell forward. The new chairman of the Council for Trade and Finance was dead.