dropping gracefully to one knee. Soria made room for him, stepping over Karr to work on freeing his other hand. He was a big man, nothing but sinew and hard, lean muscle. She felt small beside him, practically Lilliputian.
Thousands of years old,
she thought.
Impossible.
Just as shape-shifters were impossible. Or mermen, gargoyles, psychics, and magic spells. Or women who could speak any language in the world.
“Why are you here?” she asked Robert, flinching as more gunshots rang out down the hall. “Serena said nothing about you.”
“And my contract said nothing about her. I was paid to be here, just as I was paid to intercept you at the airport.”
Soria stared. “I told you, Roland wouldn’t do that.”
“Not when he has an agency full of able-bodied men and women at his disposal? Interesting quandary, isn’t it. Maybe you should ask your esteemed boss what he’s so afraid of the others knowing.” Robert undid the bolt on Karr’s wrist, tossed it away, and then quickly reached behind his back, beneath his suit jacket. He pulled out a small pistol and slid it across the floor to Soria. “For you, fully loaded. Roland said you’re trained.”
“Roland’s quickly becoming a jackass,” Soria replied, staring at the gun like it was poison. “I’m not touching that.”
“I told you not to think too much about the arm.” Robert left the gun on the floor and backed toward the door. Ku-Ku glanced inside, pigtails bouncing, then disappeared again. “A gun is a gun. Not a reflection.”
Soria remembered what it felt like to hold a gun in her hand. The weight, the smooth slide of the trigger beneath her finger. The kick and roar.
“Who are those men?” she muttered.
“Mercenaries. Well trained, expensive. Good equipment. They came by car, probably from Beijing.”
“You think the Consortium sent them?”
Robert said nothing, and pulled the mask off one of the dead. Soria did not want to look, but found herself staring into the face of a middle-aged man of indeterminate race; perhaps Asian, maybe Latino. A bit like herself: a mixture of different things. His features had not softened in death, but retained a coarse harshness; the brow lines were deep, the mouth twisted in a grimace.
“No,” Robert finally replied, staring thoughtfully at the corpse. “I don’t think these men belong to them. Someone different is running this show.”
“How can you tell?”
A brief, sardonic smile touched his mouth. “Professionalism precedes itself. These men were not psychotic enough to be Consortium.”
Nausea climbed Soria’s throat. She looked away, and focused on the bolt beneath her fingers. Karr, watching both her and Robert through narrowed eyes, worked loose his other hand, shaking off the chain mail wrapped around his fist. Soria held her breath as his immense hand flexed—and then forced herself to start breathing again as he sat up and reached over to where she was fumbling with the other bolt.
Their fingers brushed. Karr rumbled, “Who is that man?”
It was easy for her to understand him, his language crystalline in her mind, rich with nuance, though it was still difficult for her mouth to form the right words to reply. Different muscles made unique sounds, and the rolling growl of some vowels made her feel as if she were imitating Eartha Kitt’s Catwoman.
“He is no one,” she told him.
“More a wish than the truth, I think,” he replied, and then, “How did you loosen the others?”
“Turn it, like this.” Soria showed him how to handle the bolt, still taken aback every time he spoke with calm and thoughtfulness similar to the restraint he had initially shown in the video, so at odds with his bursts of rage.
She looked up and found Robert watching them, smiling faintly. “I’ll be close,” he said, and stepped out of sight into the hall.
Close, my ass.
Soria gritted her teeth and started working on Karr’s ankle restraints.
He freed his other hand, and sat up
Thousands of years old,
she thought.
Impossible.
Just as shape-shifters were impossible. Or mermen, gargoyles, psychics, and magic spells. Or women who could speak any language in the world.
“Why are you here?” she asked Robert, flinching as more gunshots rang out down the hall. “Serena said nothing about you.”
“And my contract said nothing about her. I was paid to be here, just as I was paid to intercept you at the airport.”
Soria stared. “I told you, Roland wouldn’t do that.”
“Not when he has an agency full of able-bodied men and women at his disposal? Interesting quandary, isn’t it. Maybe you should ask your esteemed boss what he’s so afraid of the others knowing.” Robert undid the bolt on Karr’s wrist, tossed it away, and then quickly reached behind his back, beneath his suit jacket. He pulled out a small pistol and slid it across the floor to Soria. “For you, fully loaded. Roland said you’re trained.”
“Roland’s quickly becoming a jackass,” Soria replied, staring at the gun like it was poison. “I’m not touching that.”
“I told you not to think too much about the arm.” Robert left the gun on the floor and backed toward the door. Ku-Ku glanced inside, pigtails bouncing, then disappeared again. “A gun is a gun. Not a reflection.”
Soria remembered what it felt like to hold a gun in her hand. The weight, the smooth slide of the trigger beneath her finger. The kick and roar.
“Who are those men?” she muttered.
“Mercenaries. Well trained, expensive. Good equipment. They came by car, probably from Beijing.”
“You think the Consortium sent them?”
Robert said nothing, and pulled the mask off one of the dead. Soria did not want to look, but found herself staring into the face of a middle-aged man of indeterminate race; perhaps Asian, maybe Latino. A bit like herself: a mixture of different things. His features had not softened in death, but retained a coarse harshness; the brow lines were deep, the mouth twisted in a grimace.
“No,” Robert finally replied, staring thoughtfully at the corpse. “I don’t think these men belong to them. Someone different is running this show.”
“How can you tell?”
A brief, sardonic smile touched his mouth. “Professionalism precedes itself. These men were not psychotic enough to be Consortium.”
Nausea climbed Soria’s throat. She looked away, and focused on the bolt beneath her fingers. Karr, watching both her and Robert through narrowed eyes, worked loose his other hand, shaking off the chain mail wrapped around his fist. Soria held her breath as his immense hand flexed—and then forced herself to start breathing again as he sat up and reached over to where she was fumbling with the other bolt.
Their fingers brushed. Karr rumbled, “Who is that man?”
It was easy for her to understand him, his language crystalline in her mind, rich with nuance, though it was still difficult for her mouth to form the right words to reply. Different muscles made unique sounds, and the rolling growl of some vowels made her feel as if she were imitating Eartha Kitt’s Catwoman.
“He is no one,” she told him.
“More a wish than the truth, I think,” he replied, and then, “How did you loosen the others?”
“Turn it, like this.” Soria showed him how to handle the bolt, still taken aback every time he spoke with calm and thoughtfulness similar to the restraint he had initially shown in the video, so at odds with his bursts of rage.
She looked up and found Robert watching them, smiling faintly. “I’ll be close,” he said, and stepped out of sight into the hall.
Close, my ass.
Soria gritted her teeth and started working on Karr’s ankle restraints.
He freed his other hand, and sat up
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