Operation Sea Mink (4 page)

He looked at her dark eyes and her frayed, frizzy ponytail, and wondered why the hell he hadn’t shot her the moment he’d laid eyes on her. What the hell was she talking about? Was she implying that Stockman’s siege was actually orchestrated by Jimmy Swift?

“Of course I want the killing to stop,” he snapped.

This wasn’t Samantha, he reminded himself. It wasn’t the woman he’d known.

She reached up and touched the buttons of his uniform, and his chest clenched.

“We want to thank you,” she said, voice almost a whisper. “You’ve done an amazing job with the Bishops. You need to keep it up.”

“I don’t make my own orders, Sam,” he told her.

Her head tilted to one side and as she did, the group surrounding him and du Trieux did the same. A chill ran up his spine.

“And here we thought you were your own man,” she said. With that, she pressed her palm against his back and lightly shoved him toward the empty market.

The Infected surrounding them parted. The frontmost two walked a few meters ahead, then dropped the M27 and Gilboa at the market’s sliding glass doors.

“It was nice seeing you again, Alex. Keep up the good work,” Samantha said.

One of her Infected knocked on the cracked glass. Then like a pack of spooked gazelles, they sprinted off in the other direction.

Du Trieux ran forward, snatched up her Gilboa and the M27, and tossed it back to him. She took aim at the backs of Samantha’s herd as they scattered, but didn’t take a shot. She lowered the rifle and glared at Miller so fiercely, he actually blinked.

“What the fuck...” she began.

Just then, the market doors slid open and there stood three more Infected. It took a matter of seconds for Miller to realize these were different from Samantha’s group. Their eyes were wider, glassier, even more distant; and they had a rash of fungus growing up each of their arms and veined across their faces.

With a violent surge the Infected thrust forward, reaching with their fungal-infested hands toward du Trieux’s face. With a quick burst, Miller opened fire and shot them down.

At the noise, three more spilled from the opening. Du Trieux used the butt of her rifle to knock them back, trying to get far enough away to open fire. Without their hunting knives or sidearms, they pulled back quickly, shooting at will as a horde of Infected spilled from the building.

Only after the Charismatic entered the street and returned fire did Miller realize that Samantha had led them straight into a trap.

Shouldering his M27, Miller aimed and fired, hitting the Charismatic between the eyes, and sending the surrounding horde into a panic.

“Trix!” he bellowed.

“
Oui
!” she answered at equal volume.

And, together, they turned on their heels and ran.

3

M
ILLER PACED THE
confines of his cell, spun around, and stalked back in the other direction.

What utter and complete
bullshit
.

He did not punch and shoot his way out of an Infected commune and come all the way back to the compound—
on foot
—through the wilds of New York City, fighting terror-jaws and slapping away packs of hungry rat-things, just so they could throw him in quarantine like a dog that had gotten off its leash.

He was so angry that when they came to take a tissue sample from his mouth, he almost bit the swab in half.

Not to mention the way they had treated du Trieux.

It made his fists clench to think of it. How they wrenched her arm behind her and pushed her off and away from him as soon as they’d crossed the compound’s threshold. As if she were under arrest. As if she were resisting, which she wasn’t.

He understood they thought they’d been infected. He got that. But didn’t they understand that if he and du Trieux had been infected, they wouldn’t have been
able
to come back to the compound? They would have already communed with the others and the pheromones would have kept them with the Infected.

Did they really not understand how that worked by now?

Of course, there had been that bomber. He’d been an Infected inside the compound. Why hadn’t the pheromones kept him with his commune? But still, he was an unknown refugee, a stranger amongst the masses. Miller and du Trieux were members of the security team—a part of the inner workings of the compound—and shouldn’t have been treated like common terrorists.

Miller shook his head at his own logic. There was no sense in spinning his wheels until he knew what they wanted, or why they were putting him on ice.

The only explanation that made any sense to him was that they must have known how they’d been held by Samantha, and they wanted to know what he’d said to her, and vice versa.

But how could they know that, though—that’d he’d seen her? The security forces at the gate had ‘arrested’ them seconds after their return. Miller and du Trieux hadn’t even had the chance to tell them what had happened.

Had Morland or Hsiung seen them get taken by the Archaeans?

Maybe, but unlikely. Neither of them would have left the doctors to go after Miller and du Trieux in the first place—but if they had, they’d surely have intervened.

Losing steam, Miller unclenched his fists and sat on the floor, resting his back against the concrete wall of his cell.

There was no sense in guessing. He just had to wait and see what they wanted. Either that, or he had to wait for Gray to spring him. He knew there was no way in hell Gray would let this fly for long.

Miller blinked, closing his eyes against the glare from the lamp that hung from the ceiling over a table and two chairs. He couldn’t bring himself to sit there. Not yet. It felt as if sitting in one of the chairs was admitting they’d been right to quarantine him—that they had a right to question him. He couldn’t concede that.

The cement felt cold against his back as he rested his head. God, he needed a shower, and for more than just to get clean. A shave would feel great, too. There was a bucket of filth in every pore of his skin.

Images of angry, starved, thrashing Infected flashed in his mind’s eye, and then Samantha’s hands stroked her long braided hair and he popped his eyes open, lifting his head from the wall to blink away the memories.

He didn’t want to re-live that escape. Not yet, probably not ever.

Where was Doyle with his magic paper when you needed him?

He got back to his feet with the intention of continuing his pacing when the door unlocked and a man entered.

Miller knew him as Paul Kimball, a leader from Shank. Short and broad-shouldered, Paul struggled to find a uniform that fit. His biceps were so large they bulged against the seams of his shirtsleeves. He eyed Miller up and down, then nodded toward the table and chairs.

“Miller,” he said.

“Kimball.”

Kimball sat at the table and waited for Miller to do the same.

Begrudgingly, he did. He rested his hands on the table and glared directly into Kimball’s eyes.

The man’s face barely moved. If Miller wanted to intimidate the captain, it wasn’t going to be easy.

“Why am I in quarantine?” Miller asked. “I’m not Infected.”

“We had to be sure.”

“And?”

“You’re clean.”

“Of course I’m clean. What about du Trieux?”

“She’s clean, too.”

“I could have told you that. Have you let her loose?”

“Yes. But she won’t leave until you are.”

“So?” Miller’s eyes widened. “Why am I still in quarantine?”

“We have a few questions. Things we’d like you to explain.”

Here it comes
, Miller thought. The third degree. The proverbial thumb screws about Samantha, about his loyalties, about what he knew of the Archaeans. He braced himself while simultaneously trying to appear calm. “What questions?”

“We found some odd behaviour in your search at the refugee processing office.”

Miller rubbed at his earlobe and fought back the urge to laugh in Kimball’s face. What the hell was this now? What searches? Miller wracked his mind, filtering through memories of battles, blood, and bombs and tried to recall anything to do with the refugee processing office—and then it came to him: when he thought he’d seen Samantha.

A few weeks back, after the bomb explosion, he’d gone to the refugee processing office and searched their mess of unfiled, random stacks of forms to see if she’d been brought into the compound. She hadn’t—at least, not as far as he could tell. But he’d asked several of the staff if he could browse through their paperwork, and apparently he’d made an impression.

Fuck
. If he’d known they kept records of who looked through the files, maybe he would have kept his suspicions to himself.

Were they asking him because they knew about Samantha and the Archaeans? He doubted it. If they did, they’d probably be shooting him in the head for treason after having met up with her again, or ripping out his thumbnails for information.

This had to be about something else. Sometimes the best defense was a good offense. He clenched his jaw. “Yeah. So, I checked the records? What of it?”

“We want to know why. What were you looking for?”

“Who is
we?
Is Lewis asking why I accessed the refugee paperwork? Is Gray? I have a feeling if either one of them knew you were asking me this, they’d rap your knuckles like a Catholic nun.”

Kimball’s eyebrow twitched. He wasn’t taking the bait, yet, but Miller’d struck a nerve. “Why did you access confidential files?” Kimball asked. “For what purpose?”

Miller tipped back his chair. Stretching like a cat, he forced a yawn. Then, with a slam, he tipped the chair forward and let the
crash
echo throughout the cement cell. “I’m the fucking leader of the Cobalt security squad, Kimball.
That’s
why. A bomb had just been detonated in my face. I had concussion, for Christ’s sake. And who the hell are
you
to demand answers from me? Do
you
even know what’s in those files? Do
you
have security clearance to access them? And since when do I not? When did you outrank me, Kimball? I must have missed that memo.”

“Who is Samantha Hernandez?” Kimball asked sternly. His face had turned red and he looked about ready to bash Miller’s face in. “Why were you searching for her records?”

“I’m not sure you have security clearance to know the answer to that question. Maybe you should get your superior officer. Oh, wait. I’m sitting right here.”

“If I didn’t have clearance, I wouldn’t be asking. Quit dodging the question.”

“Which question? You’ve asked three, and I can’t remember which one was first.”

Kimball’s left eyelid twitched. Miller suppressed a smirk.

“You think this is funny?” Kimball asked, his eyes bugging slightly.

“Not at all. Funny would be if you were wearing a clown costume instead of your uniform. Of course, the way yours fits...”

Kimball stood abruptly. “You son of a—”

Miller grinned as Kimball reached forward and snatched his uniform collar with his fist. His first instinct was to head-butt the asshole, but over his shoulder, the door opened and in walked Harris.

Kimball whipped around, Miller’s collar in one hand, the other hovering in the air.

“Put him down, Kimball,” Harris said, looking only mildly concerned.

Kimball dropped Miller back into his seat. The veins in his massive arms were visibly pulsing.

Harris pointed his finger in Kimball’s face. “Do you have any idea who he is?”

A flash of confusion flickered across Kimball’s brow, but he said nothing.

“How dare you speak to him in this manner? Or lay hands on him? You’re dismissed.”

With an angry flash, Kimball stalked out of the cell, leaving Harris and Miller alone.

Harris turned and faced Miller, his face a façade of concern. It was so artificial that Miller almost smiled.

“Are you all right? Did Kimball hurt you in any way?”

Reaching up, Miller adjusted his uniform. “I think my collar may need ironing.”

“What happened? Why was Kimball so angry?”

“Like you don’t know.”

Harris’s demeanor shifted slightly. His concern morphed into an expression of concern and friendship.

Miller sighed. Did he truly think he was this stupid?

“I apologize on Kimball’s behalf,” Harris said. “As I’m sure you understand, our security forces are under a tremendous amount of pressure. I want you to know that if any of the men give you any further problems, you can come see me straight away. After all, you and I—we want the same thing, don’t we? We’re in this together.”

Miller pursed his lips.

Harris blinked in orchestrated confusion. “Miller?”

Standing from his chair, Miller walked toward the door. “Mr. Harris,” he said, as if saying good-bye. He twisted the handle, which was unlocked.

“Miller? I hope you see how sincere I am,” Harris said, stopping him in his tracks. “I think you and I could work well together, and I would hate for something as silly as an unauthorized search of classified information to tarnish a record as exemplary as yours.”

Miller’s smirk faltered as he felt himself flush. “I thought you didn’t know why Kimball was upset?”

Harris’s façade cracked. “Are we understanding each other, Mr. Miller?”

Miller pulled the door open and stepped out into the hall, but thinking better, he leaned back inside and glared at Harris. “What I
understand
is that we have a mutation amongst the Infected due to some asshole experimenting on them with secret air bombs full of anti-parasitics—and I
understand
that by playing God, this jerkwad has made things worse. That’s what I understand,
Bob.
”

Miller slammed the door before he could hear Harris’s reply.

Du Trieux stood a few feet ahead in the hallway. She’d obviously heard every word, given her expression.

“Making enemies?” she asked, waiting for him to catch up so they could exit the cell block together.

“Only when I have to,” Miller grunted in reply.

4