Illusive (7 page)

The job that Daniel told Kit about.

“Do you think the FBI can shut down the UAI?” Aristeus asks. “You think they can control us?”

Daniel glances over and sees the two FBI agents; their expressions are torn between panic and shock.

Daniel slumps forward onto the table.

“I did offer to make you a deal,” Aristeus says, chiding.

Daniel cannot bring himself to reply—he’s too busy dragging breath after breath into his lungs. A small line of saliva escapes his lips and pools on the table’s metal surface.

Aristeus rests his chin in the palm of one hand. It’s a casual pose, one usually reserved for friends conversing with one another. He says, almost lazily, “You were recently contacted by a woman called Frieda Fuller, one of the leaders of the terrorist group called TATE.
I’d like you to tell me about it.
”

Daniel’s lips crack open. They’ll overflow with secrets, he realizes. In a moment, he’ll be telling this Aristeus whatever he wants to know.

Daniel is an eludere. He is supposed to be able to escape anything.

Except his own mind.

M
agnus rises to his feet in one graceful movement, getting to the window in two strides. His fingers twitch the blinds open. “Well,” he says, “there is no chance I’m meeting that accountant at five, is there?” He grinds his cigarette out on the windowsill.

Ciere is already moving. “I think this is our cue to run.”

“They’re after you?” Magnus says, but he sounds more surprised than accusatory.

Ciere blinks. “What, you thought they were after you?”

“Maybe,” Bellevue says in a faint voice, “they’re not after any of us.”

“Maybe.” Magnus moves away from the window. “But we should still leave. Call the agency. Warn them that if there are any coworkers in the area, they should evacuate now.”

Bellevue looks desperately glad for something to do; she
fumbles in her pocket and withdraws a small tablet, unfolding it with trembling fingers.

Already, Ciere can hear the shuffling feet, the cries of alarm, and then a siren screeches to life. “And there it goes,” Magnus says, satisfied. “Someone’s already pulled the fire alarm. That’s why I love this hotel.” He moves out into the corridor and gestures for the others to follow. Ciere immediately swerves to their left, but Magnus grips her arm. “What are you doing?”

“Escaping,” she says, incredulous. “What are you doing?”

Magnus’s long fingers encircle Ciere’s wrist. His fingers catch on the tracker bracelet. “You ever dealt with SWAT before?”

Once. Just once. A long time ago.

“No,” Ciere lies.

Magnus draws her back against the wall, out of the path of two businessmen, who nearly flatten each other in their haste to get to the stairs. Magnus says, “The back exits are the first routes they’ll cover. Men will already be in place before they allow the main team to be seen. They’re smoking us out. Like rabbits from a hole. Whoever goes running out the back will be taken into custody.”

It’s a frightening prospect, even more so because Ciere would have done exactly that. Sure, she could have shielded herself from sight, but Devon would be visible. And if there were any cameras, she’d be spotted.

“But,” Ciere says, “where are we going?”

Magnus’s eyes are drawn tight. “Where any really good criminals would go—through the front doors.”

Clamoring shouts and raised voices drown out anything else Magnus might have wanted to say. Words like “smoke,” “fire,” and “stairs” ring out above the din. Obviously, not everyone has realized exactly what’s going on, but they do know something is wrong. The tide of bodies flows in the direction of the stairs, and Magnus glides in amid them. He still grips Ciere’s wrist, and she grabs for Devon’s arm. She will not lose him in the chaos. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Devon clasp hands with Bellevue.

The stair doors swing open before them, and it’s all Ciere can do to keep her feet. They are rushing, stumbling, flying down the stairs. If this swell of people resembles a river, then this is white water. If anyone falls, they’ll be trampled. The air is thick with fear; all it will take is one spark to start something that might turn deadly. Ciere is suddenly grateful for Magnus’s firm grasp, and she clings even harder to Devon. They’re a human chain, linked by their crooked status, holding on for dear life.

Getting out of the lobby is easier said than done. The crowd bottlenecks at the front doors, but Magnus leads the others through the bar and out the restaurant entrance into the parking lot.

There are at least two hundred people in the lot, all of them fenced in by cops. The crowd’s instinct is to huddle together. They
clutch at one another—parents’ fingers twined with those of children, couples with arms around each others’ waists, friends who stand so closely that their shoulders touch; even people who have obviously never exchanged a word find themselves bunched together. Ciere finds herself watching a family with a girl about her age. The girl stands between a man and woman. She looks safe, sheltered by family. It sends a pang of yearning through Ciere. She can’t remember the last time she felt that secure.

The SWAT officers begin separating the crowds. Batons in hand, the black-clad men and women direct everyone into orderly lines. It’s a shuffling mess, and only fear of the officers brings order to the chaos. Ciere finds herself in the third line back, with Magnus on her left and Devon on her right.

Once the lines are established, a man with a tag scanner begins at the first row. He holds out a hand, fingers twitching in a silent question. A moment later, the first set of tags is produced and then run through the handheld machine. Ciere’s eyes narrow. If the feds are scanning tags, it means one thing.

They’re looking for someone.

Devon shifts nervously from foot to foot. “They’re FBI,” he mutters.

Ciere shoots him an incredulous look. This is a whole new level of ignorance, even for him. “Please tell me you didn’t just figure that out. It’s written on their vests.”

“No,” Devon retorts, then pauses. “Well, yes, but that’s
not what I meant.” He turns his attention back to the officers, his brows knitting together. “What I mean is, they’re FBI and they’re working with a SWAT team. SWAT do hostage situations, riots, terrorists. They take on only the most dangerous tasks.” He clears his throat significantly and lowers his voice to a whisper. “What are they doing in the tourist district of DC?”

Her stomach sinks. His meaning is all too clear.

“They also,” Ciere adds, “take down immune threats.”

Abruptly her tags feel heavy around her throat. She cups her hand around the two slips of metal and weighs them in her palm. Could these feds be looking for her? Could Guntram have already gone through with his threat to inform the feds of her crime? He couldn’t give them her name—he doesn’t know it—but the feds’ facial-recognition software is easily capable of tracking her movements through the CCTV network. Those cameras are how most criminals are caught. Could they have tracked her here?

Don’t let anyone see what you are, understand?

The urge to break out of the line is nearly unbearable. Ciere wants to pump her legs, sprint away from this crowd and throw an illusion around herself. She wants to disappear. But the moment she takes a step out of line, she’ll draw attention. And to run would be to invite chase.

Anxiety forms a lump in her throat that she desperately tries to swallow. A hand falls on her shoulder and she looks
up. “Kit should’ve taught you how to hide in plain sight by now,” Magnus says quietly.

She forces a shuddering breath into her lungs. “He has. Tried, anyway. I—I’m not good at that.”

“You want to run, to change your face, and hide where no one can find you,” he says.

She rolls her shoulder, dislodging his hand. “Are you reading my mind?”

Magnus laughs, but it’s a rueful little sound. “Your face speaks quite well on its own.”

It takes a few minutes for an officer to get to Ciere’s row. She isn’t dressed like the SWAT officers, and it takes Ciere a moment to see the letters embroidered on the woman’s bulletproof vest:
FBI—ADVERSE EFFECTS DIVISION
.

Ciere clenches her fists, feels her bitten nails dig into her palms, and tries to ready an illusion. Just in case.

The fed gets to Devon first. Wordlessly she holds out her hand for his tags.

“Officer,” Devon says, giving her one of those flirty smiles.

Can’t hit on a fed, my ass
, Ciere thinks.

Unfazed, the woman takes his tags and passes the scanner over them. Ciere can see the information flash on its screen—an official headshot of Devon, his name, birth date, current address, passport, and other information. Above all of it, three lines are bolded.

Translation: while the government knows Devon was vaccinated, they have no proof that he has an immunity. They don’t know if he’s one of the 0.003 percent. Since he’s been vaccinated, he’s required to undergo an annual physical and fill out a questionnaire. It’s a system put in place to supposedly weed out those who have immunities, but there’s an inherent flaw: everybody lies.

Devon’s used to pretending. It’s one of the few times Ciere’s seen him lie flawlessly. It’s a skill drilled into him by his own father—or so Devon has said, with an edge of bitterness. Now that skill comes in handy; Devon grins unabashedly at the pretty officer. He looks just like any teenage perv, not a guilty eidos.

The officer takes a note, scribbling something down before shoving Devon’s tags back into his hands. Ciere doesn’t have time to breathe a sigh of relief—the fed is gesturing for her tags. She shakily holds them out. The chain is yanked from her hand and the officer brings the tags to the scanner’s glittering surface.

A red light winks and the tags spell out one of Ciere’s many aliases.

Translation: according to these tags, Sarah Graves was never vaccinated. No Praevenir, no immunity. What follows is a dummy address and other false information. In fact, the only truths on those tags are her height and weight.

Ciere holds her breath; if the officers are here for her, then this is the moment. They will arrest her now. While the officer’s attention is focused on the scanner, Ciere’s tags dangle between her fingers like an afterthought.

The officer looks up. Ciere feels her tags pressed back into her hands, but she doesn’t react fast enough. The chain slips and her tags hit the pavement. Immediately she drops to her knees and scoops them up, pressing them protectively to her chest. She chances a look upward and sees that the officer has moved on to Magnus. He hands his tags over with the slightest hesitation, and Ciere sees his fingertips lightly brush the bare skin of the officer’s wrist.

Once the officer is out of earshot, Magnus murmurs, “Bellevue was right—they aren’t here for either of us.”

“How do you know?” Ciere asks.

Magnus rubs his fingertips together. “Our faces weren’t in her head. It’s—”

A loud, wordless cry cuts him off. The quiet hum of the crowd dies in the wake of the shout. Ciere cranes her head and her eyes widen.

It’s an older man. He’s being dragged out of their line,
caught between two feds. He struggles, his face contorted with fear and anger, and as he fights back, Ciere catches a glimpse of something around his wrist.

A heavy silver bracelet.

The old man snarls curses at the two as they drag him to the SWAT van. As he nears the van, the man’s curses become pleas and he’s begging the crowd for help. He has a family, he says desperately. He has a wife. Grandkids. A life. A home. Please, can’t somebody—?

The van’s door slams shut, and the man’s cries are silenced.

The crowd watches, paralyzed.

Bellevue closes her eyes; Magnus stares on. Devon makes a move as if to step forward, but Ciere seizes his arm. He says something, but she doesn’t hear it. Her attention has narrowed, contracted to a pinpoint. All she can think about is that silver bracelet, heavy and seamless, just like the one encircling her own wrist. Her whole body feels heavy and cold, her muscles rigid with dread.

“Come on,” Magnus says quietly, tugging on her arm. She stumbles and just catches herself. Her legs feel numb, but she manages to follow Magnus as he walks away.

The feds let them pass. Magnus and company have already been IDed and released; there is no need to hold them.

Magnus strides ahead and the others fall into step; after ten minutes or so, he leads them into a graveyard, of all
places—one of the historic gravesites, complete with an informative plaque. Overhanging branches block out the sunlight and provide cover. The ground is lumpy and some of the headstones have begun to crumble.

“There are no cameras here,” Magnus says. “Mourners and tourists have little to hide.”

Bellevue slumps onto the grass, her eyes focused on her manicured hands. Magnus remains standing, with his arms loosely at his sides. “Another raid,” Bellevue says. “That’s the third this month.” She slides a calculating look toward Magnus. “What was it this time?”

Magnus looks more self-assured than before; all his earlier fragility has vanished, and he looks cold and detatched. “I didn’t get much out of that fed’s head, but I do know that the old man works—ah,
worked
for the Alkanov family. Racketeering, mostly. The feds were there because there was some anonymous tip. Someone planted a tracking device on him and then called it in.”

Devon and Ciere glance at each other, and Ciere sees her own dread echoed in his face. He looks like he might be sick. He begins pacing back and forth, his steps quick and jerky. “No one—no one did anything.”

“What were they supposed to do?” Magnus pulls his tablet from a pocket and hits a button. “Looks like no one else from the agency was in the area. Good.”

“They should’ve done something.” Devon sounds like he’s choking on his own words. “Someone should’ve—”

“Gotten shot?” Magnus says mildly. “An adverse effects FBI team won’t hesitate to gun down anyone who tries to stop them. I’ve seen it happen before.”

So has Ciere. But she keeps her mouth shut. The memory is too painful.

“They shouldn’t be able to just do that, just pull people off the street,” Devon says.

Ciere remains quiet. She isn’t one to rage against the way society works; she’s lived in this world long enough that its sharp edges have dulled for her.

“They shouldn’t,” Magnus agrees. “But there’s nothing we can do about it.” He checks his watch. “We should get going.” He fumbles in his jacket pocket for a moment before coming up with something. It’s the envelope Ciere gave Bellevue. Magnus pries Ciere’s hand open and wraps her fingers around the thick envelope. “Full refund,” he says curtly. He starts to pull away, but in a sudden flash of insight Ciere grabs him. She remembers his lingering handshake, the way he knew what the fed was thinking when she brushed his hand. If she’s right, then his mentalism is linked to touch. It’s the only time he’s seemed to truly know what she was thinking.