Chương 8
Harper’s voice went colder. “My father was working with you?”
“For eleven months.”
She said nothing.
Mercer watched her carefully. “He didn’t tell you.”
“No.”
“He said you’d stop him.”
“He was right.”
“He said you’d make it sound reasonable.”
“He was right again.”
A sound came from outside. Mason’s voice, too low to distinguish.
Harper kept her eyes on Mercer.
“What is the Twelfth?”
“A person.”
“Who?”
Mercer’s gaze shifted toward the camera.
“Someone Vantage is more afraid of than either of us.”
“I need a name.”
“You know it.”
“No.”
“Yes, Harper. You do.”
A light came on in the far corner.
A woman sat bound to a steel chair. Her head hung forward. Blood darkened one sleeve of her gray sweatshirt. Close-cropped black hair hid most of her face.
Harper recognized the boots first.
Then the stillness.
Nora Venn had been Iron Twelve, the last member assigned to the Meridian recovery cell. She had vanished three days before the blast that supposedly killed Mercer and Harper. Official records listed her as a foreign defector.
Nora raised her head.
One eye was swollen shut.
“You look terrible,” she said.
Harper’s jaw tightened.
Nora’s mouth moved in something that was almost a smile. “That’s better.”
Harper took in the room again. Mercer wired to a bomb. Nora bound. A camera transmitting. No visible guards.
“It’s staged,” Harper said.
Mercer nodded. “A negotiation.”
“Where are they?”
“Close enough.”
Nora said, “They want the index key. Your father stole the archive, but he separated the index from the files.”
“The lockbox.”
“Yes.”
“What files?”
Mercer looked at Nora.
She answered. “Every unauthorized extraction Meridian conducted under civilian contracts. Payments. Casualty substitutions. False death certifications. Names of local partners left behind after promises of evacuation.”
Harper’s throat tightened despite her effort.
“How many?”
“Three hundred and fourteen.”
The number landed harder than any dramatic phrase could have.
Harper looked at Mercer. “You’ve seen it?”
“Parts.”
“And Dad kept copies?”
“He kept the only complete set.”
“Why him?”
Nora’s good eye remained on Harper. “Because Thomas Reed wrote the original indexing system.”
The rain on the roof grew louder.
Harper thought of her father correcting the labels on kitchen drawers. Her father saving receipts in dated envelopes. Her father arranging canned food by expiration month and pretending it was not because chaos frightened him.
“He was an Air Force communications specialist,” Harper said.
“He was Meridian’s records architect after he retired,” Nora replied. “Compartmented contract. He built the archive because he believed documentation prevented abuse.”
Mercer gave a dry laugh. “Then he met people.”
Harper’s anger came slowly, which made it more dangerous.
“My father helped create Meridian.”
“He helped create accountability,” Nora said. “Meridian removed it.”
“And he let me join.”
“He tried to stop your recruitment.”
Harper looked at her.
“Your psychological screening was altered,” Nora continued. “The field assessment was moved outside his review. By the time he found out, you were already deployed.”
“You expect me to believe he had no way to contact me?”
“I expect you to ask him.”
A speaker hidden somewhere in the warehouse clicked on.
A man’s voice filled the building.
“You always did waste time on family history.”
Harper recognized Owen Sloane.
He had been Meridian’s operations director during her final two years in the cell. He spoke gently in briefings, remembered birthdays, and never raised his voice when ordering someone into a place he would not enter himself.
Harper turned toward the sound.
“Sloane.”
“Welcome home, Ten.”
She disliked the way the designation sounded in his mouth.
“What do you want?”
“The key.”
“And then?”
“Mr. Mercer’s pulse monitor is disarmed. Ms. Venn receives medical treatment. Your father is released.”
“Where?”
“Once the archive is recovered.”
“You already searched his house.”
“Your father remains more creative than his résumé suggests.”
Harper looked at the camera on the table. “You can see the key?”
“I can see that you have something in your sleeve.”
Mercer closed his eyes briefly.
Sloane said, “Place it on the table.”
Harper approached.
The wire beneath the table remained taut. Mercer’s pulse registered on a small display: 104.
She removed the transparent strip and laid it beside the lantern.
“Good,” Sloane said.
A small compartment opened in the table with a click.
Inside lay a document scanner.
“Insert it.”
Harper picked up the strip.
Nora said, “Don’t.”
Sloane’s voice remained pleasant. “Ms. Venn is in pain and therefore inclined toward impractical heroism.”
Harper looked at Nora. “Is the key unique?”
“Yes.”
“Can it be copied?”
“Not from a photograph. The ink layers create optical interference.”
“Destroyed?”
“Heat.”
Sloane said, “Enough.”
Harper held the strip over the scanner slot.
Outside, a vehicle engine started.
Sloane paused.
The camera turned slightly on its motor, angling toward the warehouse entrance.
Harper heard Mason shout.
Then two gunshots.
She dropped the key, grabbed the lantern, and hurled it at the camera.
Darkness swallowed the table.
Mercer’s pulse monitor began chirping.
“Slow down,” Harper said.
“You throw things at cameras, I get excited.”
The security light outside flashed once.
Then twice.
Maddox had understood.
A burst of white light filled the open doorway as the rental’s headlights swung across the warehouse. Tires spun in mud. Hollis had gotten the car moving.
Harper dropped to one knee beside the table.
Nora shouted, “Left!”
Harper moved as a suppressed shot cracked through the place where her head had been.
A man emerged from behind a support column. He wore dark clothing and clear safety glasses. His pistol tracked toward her.
Mercer kicked the folding table.
The wire snapped tight.
The bomb unit on the column emitted a warning tone.
The gunman hesitated.
Harper closed the distance.
She struck his weapon hand against the table edge, turned with his momentum, and drove her shoulder into his chest. The movement was compact, almost unimpressive. His wrist broke with a small sound. The pistol fell.
She caught it before it hit the floor.
May you like
The bomb warning accelerated.
Mercer’s pulse read 127.
