Ruthless (9 page)

“Matfey,” Leonid said grandly, arms expansively wide. Yes, Leonid could play his role, the eccentric, the comrade academician of old. “It is good to see you this day.” He said it every day, and every day it was voltage to Natasya’s nerves.

“Today we have six interview requests,” Matfey said, straight to business—his business, Natasya thought. She was good at looking at people through half-lidded eyes while smiling politely. It had been a vital skill for a woman in the Kremlin. “A few emails of interest as well.”

“Of interest?” Natasya asked. She let her inflection go flat; it was as close to open dissent as she could imagine going.
Of interest to whom?
she left unspoken.

“Yes, several,” Matfey said, sitting down on the couch next to her, unasked. She could break his neck right now, but beyond immediate satisfaction, what would be the point? It would be like snapping the neck of a field mouse or a bunny. She wouldn’t eat him, so it would simply be good fun. Fun could wait for a more opportune time.

Matfey set up his little laptop computer, his little wonder of Western corruption. She watched with a thinly veiled disgust all the while, him in his little monkey suit, staring at the screen. It made its little boops and beeps while it started up. Natasya watched it all proceed with a studied disinterest. She caught Miksa watching carefully, though. He always watched carefully, though he hid it well.

A harsh trilling filled the air just as Matfey’s little device finished its—what did he call it?—boot up? It sounded like something fun to Natasya, the prospect of ramming hers up his soft, bourgeoisie, rich-boy ass, over and over as he screamed in the night. She’d done worse to better men. He reached into his coat pocket—such a lovely, heavy coat. It looked fine and new.

“Yes?” Matfey asked. She could tell by his tone that the caller was important, was deferred to by the little weasel. “Of course. I can be there immediately if it’s as important as you say—of course.” He was nodding along like a limp-necked thing, like he had no spine of his own. “I was just going to catch them up on their current—it’s that urgent?” He stared longingly at his little love, his little computer. She’d seen Miksa and Vitalik, men in prison thirty years, look less amorously at their first woman than this shit looked at his technological marvel. Perhaps it had an attachment to make love to, as well. “I will be there immediately.” He stood without preamble, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “I must go,” he announced. “I must—” He started to move for his computer, and then his phone trilled again. He glanced at the screen and seemed to make a decision. “I will be back later to attend to our business,” he said, and broke into a girlish run toward the door, slamming it behind him.

Natasya stared at the machine in suspicion. She did not trust these things, nor the men who used them. “I thought he’d never leave,” she breathed.

“It took some doing,” came a calm female voice out of the little box. Natasya had too much self-control to yelp, but she did let out a might exhale of sharp shock at the sudden, disembodied voice.

“What devilry is this?” Volkov said, circling around to look at the screen. Miksa held his place, staring at it from behind the couch upon which Matfey had sat while setting up his little machine. Vitalik merely stared, slightly agape.

The screen rippled and blurred, a dark silhouette appearing in the dots and static. “I needed him out of the room so we could talk,” it—she—said, as cool as a fresh spring snow. Natasya just stared at the computer, the little technological evil, and watched it with her half-lidded eyes. This time, there was no smile.

“Who are you?” Leonid asked, “and what do you want to talk about?”

“I want to talk about you,” she said. “About what you want. About what you need.”

“Aren’t you the generous sort?” Natasya asked, never taking her eyes off of it. Leonid had been ready with a reply but he silenced himself as she spoke. “Worrying about us.”

“I don’t mean to suggest some sort of one-sided arrangement,” the voice said, calmly. She sounded … weak. Labored. As though she were having trouble breathing. “I want to hire you to do a job for me. And I will pay you … whatever you want.”

“Perhaps you haven’t heard,” Leonid said with a half-smile, “but we are not that interested in money. Much of it has been offered to us already.”

“That’s why I asked what you want—and need,” the voice came again. “Perhaps it might be … asylum on friendlier shores? Perhaps … Cuba?” Natasya stared hard at the screen. “Don’t worry. No one else can hear us right now. I’ve blotted out the sound on the government’s listening devices, diverted it to me. Unsophisticated things, their devices. Limited People’s have much more modern ones.”

“Meet the new boss,” Natasya said under her breath, “same as the old one.”

“Maybe you’d like to put a little egg on their face?” The voice was wheedling, searching out motive. “Humiliate your government? Your new friends?”

“Perhaps we’d like both,” Leonid said quietly, “and more.”

“Name your price,” the voice said, soft, smooth, and with a slight gasp. “I can get you almost anything.”

Natasya stared at the machine—the box—and wondered if she should even trust it. What would the old KGB do, if this were them at work? Those men always thought the same, worked the same, acted the same. Horned dogs, all the way down to the bottom floor of the subbasement at Dzerzhinsky Square. “What do you want us to do?” she asked.

The screen changed from its dark and splotchy view to a news program. It was an abrupt intercut, and a face appeared from a distance, a girl—nothing more—with dark hair bound back, a thick coat, hurrying down a city street while the cameras followed her. The scene cut again, and the same girl was shown—this time blurrier, as by a lower quality camera—kicking the chair out from underneath a man who was cuffed hand and foot.

“Do you know who this is?” the voice asked. Now it was filled with cold and loathing.

“Sienna Nealon,” Vitalik said, his voice filled with a little interest. Natasya gave him a look and he explained. “She is the head of the United States’s metahuman policing unit.”

Natasya felt her jaw settle back uneasily. She’d heard the name. “What do you want with this girl?”

The screen froze on the picture of this Sienna Nealon hitting the man in chains. “I want her dead,” the voice said coolly.

“So hire an assassin,” Natasya said, waving off the voice. “Plenty of those to be had for cheaper than the quartet of us.”

“That’s not all I want you to do,” the voice said, and something spilled out onto the screen, something black and white, with lines straight and curved, and English words all over.

“What the hell is this?” Natasya said, staring at the bizarre picture. It looked like—

“Blueprints,” Miksa said, speaking up at last.

“The Hungarian gets it in one,” the voice said, almost crowing. “It’s a set of blueprints. But not just any blueprints … they’re the maps and details for the construction of Sienna Nealon’s metahuman prison, where she’s keeping almost twenty of our people in restraints day and night, under the ground.” There was a pause, and Natasya stared at the computer shrewdly. Now, this was interesting. “I want you to kill the warden.” There was a pause, and Natasya could almost hear laughter, faint, digital, over the line, “Then I want you to do for these people what was just done for you.

“I want you to set them all free.”

I walked into my office to find it really wasn’t my office anymore. That was strike one.

My bonsai tree—lovingly cared for by me—was carelessly placed on top of a box of my stuff right by the door. Strike two.

The man sitting in my chair was a little overweight, had sandy blond hair that was combed to one side, and probably the least engaged expression I’d ever seen. His eyes were intelligent but damned cool, and he watched me walk furiously through the door without a hint that he cared.

I’d say that was strike three, but I’m not a bear, so staring me down in the middle of what had been—until hours or minutes ago—my office wasn’t a capital offense. Let’s call it strike two and a half.

“Sienna Nealon,” he said, leaning back in my damned chair. He didn’t exude any smugness, which was a lifesaver for him. He was just cool, collected, almost uncaring. I’d never met anyone quite so placid in my presence.

“Well, you’ve got my name,” I said, letting my gaze hang on my box o’ stuff. “How about tossing me yours?”

“Andrew Phillips,” he said. “I’m the new Director of the—”

“I know the name of the agency I head.”

“Well, you don’t head it anymore,” he said. “You’ve been given a new post—Head of Operations.”

“Well, that’s bullshit,” I said hotly. Of course. How else did you think I’d respond to an affront like this?

“Interesting way to look at it,” he said, readjusting himself to fold one leg across the other knee. He was pretty flexible for a big guy. “Have you watched the news at all today?”

“No,” I said, “I’ve been a little busy stopping a heist at the Federal Reserve and transporting a meta prisoner back here.”

“Hrm,” he said, and picked up my remote control—
mine
—and turned on
my
TV.

I hate cable news.

The video footage was not good. Someone had snuck a camera into the train tunnel, and they had lots of roll of people being helped out of the subway station at Canal Street on stretchers and hobbling.

Oops.

“Wait,” he said, not a trace of amusement. This guy sounded like he was serious about a problem. “It gets worse.”

The video flipped to cell phone footage of me abusing poor, helpless Eric Simmons, and I have to admit, I cringed. They showed what almost looked like a mug shot of me—taken from a still frame of that damned Gail Roth interview I did—and then switched to the panel discussion. Thankfully, the TV was muted, but I could tell by the look of the panel that it was like sharks being dropped into a freshly chummed pool.

“Okay,” I said as Andrew Phillips flipped off the TV, “this looks bad.”

“Oh, yes,” he agreed calmly, “it looks bad. It looks bad for you, it looks bad for this agency, and it looks especially bad for the president of the United States, who has backed your actions to this point and is now facing re-election later this year with this eating up the headlines.”

“Gosh,” I said, “I’m sorry I ate your headlines. I’ll go on a diet immediately.” He didn’t look impressed—he actually didn’t react at all to my comment. “Maybe you could spin it as being tough on crime—”

“There’s no spinning this,” he pronounced. “You’re not going to change minds on it. It’s just a big, stinking mess that could potentially hang around the president’s neck between now and the first Tuesday in November.”

“Hm,” I muttered, half under my breath, “usually it’s an albatross or a millstone around your neck, but a big, stinking mess? That’s—”

“I’m sure you’re really very funny to a lot of people,” Phillips said, folding his arms over his barrel-looking chest. He wasn’t fat, just … big. Bulky. Broad. “But I also know you’ve never had to clean up your own messes.” He was lecturing me, I realized at last. That’s why it was absent any anger. “Here, in England, wherever you’ve gone, you’ve had people behind you motivated to keep secret the things you’ve done. Well, the era of secrets is over.” He let a low breath that expressed disinterest more than exasperation. “The president is tired of trying to cover for you. You are the albatross—see, I can respect your metaphor—around his neck, and I’m here to either make it so you’re not, or we cut you free.” He shrugged. “Not a threat, by the way.”

“It sounded a little like one,” I said, feeling the tension in my jaw ratchet.

“Let me clarify,” Phillips said. “You’re either going to get on board with the new program, or you can find a new job. Either is fine.”

I snorted. “You’re gonna have a hell of a time running a metahuman policing program without any metahumans to help you.”

He didn’t even blink. “Not really.” He stood, arms still folded. “We’ll have to make some changes, though. The capture rate is going to plunge, for sure. We won’t be able to guarantee the security of the prison, either, so,” he waved a hand at something on the desk and I realized it was a report on the security measures, “at the first sign of an escape attempt we’ll flood all the cells to the top. After that, we’ll just fill it up with concrete and make sure it stays buried until after November. It’ll be easier to explain in a second term.”

I felt my mouth fall slightly agape. “You wouldn’t.”

“Do you think most people care what happens to those with powers that they don’t understand?” He stared at me evenly, apparently unconcerned that he’d just outlined a plan for murder that was predicated on political inconvenience. “Let me help you—they don’t. They don’t mind people like you that they perceive as helpful, but other than a certain vocal segment of the population, the civil rights of your people aren’t even in the top ten answers when they commission a poll on ‘the single biggest issue facing America today.’” His eyes honed in on mine. “But one meta issue makes the top ten. Care to guess which?”

I felt my eyes fall. I’d heard these poll answers before. “The one where they view us as a threat to ordinary society.”

He navigated his way around my—his—desk. “I’m not gonna pretend that killing everyone in the lower levels and giving up on the more humane capture method is our preferred option. But I think you know the president is in for a political fight.” He arched an eyebrow. “Against an old friend of yours, probably, if the current polls hold through the primaries. This department is going to stop being the loose cannon on this deck, right now.” He looked me in the eye, and I knew he was not bluffing. “You can either be a part of that … or not. Your choice.” He settled back on his heels. “What’s your answer?”

I blinked, looking at the floor, and then my eyes came up to find his. “Go fuck yourself,” I said. I grabbed my box and headed out the door.

I was halfway across the snowy field to the dormitory when Andrew Phillips caught up to me. “Really?” he asked, and he wasn’t all that much more expressive than he’d been in his office. It was cold; I was shivering as I walked. I could have flown, but I think it would have made it worse. He could run, though, give him credit for that. His complexion looked like he was gonna burn up in the sun, though, like a natural-born Minnesotan. I sympathized.