When She Woke (22 page)

They reached the apartment complex just after sunset and found Kayla’s car. It was a converted Honda Duo so old it had no smartfeatures, but the solar panels had done their job, and there was enough of a charge to start the engine and get them on their way.

“Good girl,” Kayla said, patting the car’s dusty dash. “This is Ella. She’s seen me through a lot.”

“Why Ella?” Hannah asked.

“After the First Lady of Song, of course.” Hannah gave Kayla a blank look, and she said, “Oh, come on. You telling me you never heard of Ella Fitzgerald?”

“Nope.” The only music allowed in the Payne household was the kind her parents considered inspirational: classical, gospel and, when her mother was in a tolerant mood, Christian rock.

Kayla plugged her port into the dock. “Well
that
is a tragedy we’re going to rectify right here and right now.”

Ella sang for them all the way to Plano. Her voice made Hannah think of satin, lustrous and rippling, with unexpected hues that changed with the angle of the light; yet at the same time, it had the purity and weightlessness of white tulle. “It’s like she’s never known pain,” Hannah said.

“Oh, she knew plenty of it. She was orphaned, sent to reform school, divorced twice, diabetic. At the end of her life she had to have both her legs amputated.”

“Wow. How do you know all that?”

“We’re related, a few generations back,” Kayla said, with quiet pride. “I grew up listening to her music.”

The traffic on Central was unusually light, and they arrived in Plano half an hour early. They stopped at a DuraShell to juice the car. Hannah paid with her NIC and was astounded all over again by the six-digit balance in her account—more money than she’d ever had in her life. She was still spending her own money, but she knew it wouldn’t last long. One day very soon, the balance would dip below a hundred thousand, and she’d be officially in Aidan’s debt. And the fact that he was wealthy and had given her the money freely, out of love—or guilt—didn’t make the pill go down her throat any easier.

When they reached the mall, they found the lot packed with cars and holiday shoppers. Lights in the store windows illuminated a host of robotic elves, drummer boys and reindeer prancing in bioplastic snow. A group of carolers dressed in Dickensian costumes sang “Good King Wenceslas,” while nearby, a Salvation Army volunteer in a Santa suit rang a handbell. The two women observed this happy pandemonium from a parking spot at the rear of the lot. Ella kept them company.
“Someday he’ll come along, the man I love...
”

“Surreal, isn’t it?” Hannah said. She felt so remote from the people hurrying past, absorbed in their mundane errands and thoughts—
Must find something for Uncle John. Maybe a tie, or did I give him a tie last year?
—she might as well have been watching them from the moon. She pointed to a young woman in a 3-D Frosty the Snowman sweater, laden with shopping bags. “That was me, a year ago. Well, minus the tacky sweater.”

“I don’t guess we’ll ever get back to that place,” Kayla said in a clotted voice.

“Hey, you might. Your sentence is only for five years.”

“He’ll build a little home, just meant for two,
” Ella sang.

“Well, one thing’s for certain, I’m not gonna make it five more minutes if I keep listening to this.” Kayla brushed the back of her hand across her eyes and said, “Track nine. Volume high.” Ella launched into a more upbeat song, and Kayla sang along. She was wobbly for the first few bars, but her voice grew stronger as the music took her out of herself.

The innocence of the lyrics made Hannah wistful. She was thinking that if people thought the world was mad back then, they should see it now, when suddenly both doors to the car were yanked open, and two figures in dark clothing grabbed hold of her and Kayla.

“Get out of the car,” said the man on Hannah’s side. She fought him—she and Kayla both did—but their assailants were strong, and they wrestled the women out of the Honda. Hannah started to scream, and the man clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Listen to me,” he said. “The Fist is coming for you. They’ll be here any minute. If you want to live, be quiet and come with us.”

Hannah stopped struggling. The man was behind her, so she couldn’t see his face, but his fingers smelled faintly of garlic and basil.

“How do we know you’re not Fist yourself?” demanded Kayla.

“Tabarnak!
We do not have the time for this,” said the tall figure holding her. The voice was a woman’s, nasal, with an angry edge and a foreign—French?—accent.

The man holding Hannah let go of her. “You’ve got five seconds to make up your minds.” She risked turning her head to look at him. She saw dark, disheveled hair, olive skin, solemn, intelligent eyes. She couldn’t see his companion; Kayla was in the way. She was looking at Hannah:
What do we do?

“I say we trust them,” Hannah said. “The Fist doesn’t admit women.” And ruthless vigilantes didn’t make pesto.

“Hurry,” the man said.

They were hustled to a van parked in the next row, facing the Honda. The double doors in back were open, and the four of them clambered into the cargo area.

“Close doors. Privacy mode on,” the woman said. The doors swung shut, and the windows darkened ever so slightly. The man scrambled up to the driver’s seat but made no move to start the van. The woman remained crouched beside Hannah and Kayla, eyes fixed on her port. It bathed her face in faint bluish light. “They are here,” she said.

“Why aren’t we moving?” Hannah asked.

“Quiet.”

With mounting panic, Hannah said, “We can’t stay here, they can track us.”

“The van has a jammer. It blocks the nanotransmitters,” the man said. He was pointing a small vidcam out the windshield.

“But what if—” Kayla began.

“Ta yeule!
” Hannah didn’t speak French, but the woman’s meaning was unambiguous, and her tone that of someone who absolutely expected to be obeyed. Hannah heard a vehicle approaching, coming fast. Another van jerked to a halt near the Honda. Two masked men jumped out and strode briskly up and down the row, peering through the windows of all the vehicles. As the shorter of the two neared the van, Hannah’s limbs quivered with the overpowering urge to run. Fingers dug into her arm. “Be still!” the woman hissed in her ear.

The man outside pressed his masked face against the driver’s-side window, inches from the camera, then turned to his partner. “No sign of her. You got anything?”

“Nada,” said the other man, looking at his port. “Signal’s gone.” He shoved it in his pocket and hitched up his jeans. Hannah saw a glint of metal: a belt buckle, as big and round and shiny as a hubcap.

“Looks like we lost another one.”

“Shit,” said Cole.

A
S THE TWO
men got in their van and pulled away, Hannah leaned weakly against the wall. Her bravado of yesterday now seemed ludicrous. The thought of being at the mercy of her brother-in-law and his friends was terrifying.

“He has not yet killed,” said the woman.

“How do you know?”

“Interior lights on.” The lights revealed a tall, lean woman in her thirties with an angular face and a shock of cropped, white-blonde hair. Her eyes were disconcertingly pale and fierce. “It is a new Hand. None of them have killed, they are still working up to it. Your Cole is a follower, he will wait for one of the others to go first.”

“He isn’t
my
Cole,” Hannah said disgustedly.

“Hang on a minute,” said Kayla. “Cole, as in your brother-in-law Cole? He was one of them?”

“Yes.” To the other woman, Hannah said, “How do you know all this? About Cole and the Fist, and me and Kayla? Who are you?”

“Friends of Raphael’s.”

Kayla looked at Hannah, bewildered. “Who the hell’s Raphael?”

“The doctor who did my abortion.” Hannah remembered how inexplicably rattled he’d been after he told her why he’d remained in Texas.
Saw myself as a revolutionary, let them talk me into staying here.
Them: these people, whoever they were.

“We’ve been tracking you since you left the Chrome ward,” the man said. “I’m Paul, and that’s Simone.”

“Why would you be interested in us?” asked Kayla.

“Not you,” Simone said. The
you
was more of a
yeu
—like the sound you’d make spitting a piece of gristle into a napkin. “You are not a part of our mission.”

“What mission?” asked Hannah.

“Enough!” Simone made a brusque chopping motion with her hand.
“Enwaille.
” It was clearly a command, and Paul started the van at once and pulled out of the space.

“Wait, I’m supposed to meet my father here,” Hannah said.

“And I need to get my stuff from the car,” Kayla said.

“This will not be possible,” Simone said.

“But my father’s bringing my port and my clothes. And he’ll worry if I’m not here.”

“You cannot keep your ports,” Simone said. “The police can track you through them.”

“But we’re not wanted by the police.”

“You are now,” said Paul. “They were alerted when the signals from your transmitters were interrupted.”

“But—”

Simone’s hand shot out and grabbed Hannah’s arm, hard enough that she winced. “Do you want to die, eh?” Her gaze was as pitiless as her grip. “Many Chromes, they want this, but they cannot admit it, or they do not have the
gosses
to kill themselves, so they walk around begging for someone else to do it. Is this what you want, Hannah Payne? If so, I am sure the Fist will be content to oblige you.” She let go of Hannah’s arm and grasped the handle that opened the back doors. “Well?”

“No. I want to live.” Hannah spoke without hesitation, feeling the truth of it sound deep within her. As bleak as her life had become, it was still precious to her.

“Me too,” said Kayla.

“Bon,
” Simone said to Hannah.

They pulled out of the parking lot. Hannah pressed her face against one of the van’s small back windows, trying to spot her father. She didn’t see him, but she knew he was there somewhere, scanning the lot with anxious eyes, searching in vain for the daughter he had lost.

S
IMONE HANDED
H
ANNAH
and Kayla black hoods and told them to put them on. They exchanged a wary glance but complied. What choice did they have? Hannah was full of questions, but she didn’t ask them. Whatever was in store for them, it was bound to be better than what the Fist had in mind. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She hoped there’d be food where they were going.

A port chimed.
“Allô,
” Simone said. A short silence, then, “Yes, but there has been a complication. She was not alone. Another Red. The Fist was too close to leave her.” She raised her voice.
“Yeu,
what is your name?”

“Kayla Ray.” Her voice was muffled by the hood.

“Spell it.”

Kayla did so. There was a pause, then Simone said, “Kayla Mariko Ray, age twenty-two, serving five years for attempted murder. No prior convictions.”

Kayla made a little sound of dismay, and Hannah was pierced once again by the utter loss of their privacy.

“Have you had your renewal yet?” Simone asked.

“No. I’m not due till January fifth.”

“Less than four weeks,” Simone said. “I agree. All right then, until soon.”

“Where are you taking us?” Hannah asked.

“To a safe house,” Paul said. “It’s shielded, like the van.”

“Then what?”

“That depends,” Simone said.

“On what?”

“On whether we decide you can be trusted.”

They rode the rest of the way in tense silence, broken only by the plaintive growling of Hannah’s stomach, which apparently didn’t know or care that she was a fugitive whose life was in grave danger. She found her body’s mundane insistence oddly comforting.

The van slowed, turned, went up a short slope and stopped. The motor cut off and Hannah heard a garage door close. Her hood was jerked off her head. Simone removed Kayla’s as well, then opened the back doors to the van and hopped out, gesturing for them to follow. They found themselves in a two-car garage. The walls were festooned with shovels, power tools, barbecue tongs and tennis rackets. Metal shelves held boxes with innocuous labels like S
NORKELING
G
EAR
and P
HOTO
A
LBUMS
. Paul was waiting for them by the door that led into the house. A welcome mat that said B
EWARE
: A
TTACK
C
AT
was flanked by a pair of muddy garden clogs and a set of golf clubs. Whatever Hannah had expected a safe house to look like, it wasn’t this perfect slice of ordinary Americana.

They entered a kitchen with the same homey feel as the garage. A handwritten note pinned to the fridge added to the effect:

GONE TO TARGET, BACK BY 9 LATEST. DINNER
IN OVEN, HELP YOURSELVES! —S
&
A

Paul and Simone read the note and exchanged a weighted glance, and Hannah wondered if there was another message embedded in the words.

Something rubbed against her calf, and she jumped. She looked down and saw a brindled gray cat. “That’s Emmeline,” said Paul. Another cat, this one ruddy-colored with large ears, appeared and made a beeline for him, mewing loudly. He picked it up and cradled it on its back like an infant, rubbing its belly. “And this is Sojo.”

Hannah leaned down and stroked Emmeline’s soft head. The cat purred, and the rumble of its contentment traveled through her fingers, up her arm and to her eyes, which prickled with tears. Whatever taint she bore, this creature couldn’t sense it.

“She likes you,” Paul said.

“She wants food,” Simone retorted.

“Well, that makes two of us,” said Kayla. “Is there really dinner in the oven, or is that secret code for something else?”

Simone gave Kayla a sharp look and Hannah smiled, proud of her friend’s fearlessness. Paul opened the oven door, and the odor of roast chicken wafted out.