The young woman walked up to the bar. "A vodka martini, please. Shaken, not stirred."
Paying for her drink, Tyreen Mackenzie went to an empty booth and sat down. She nursed her drink as she mentally reviewed her latest assignment.
All things considered, it had gone quite well. At least as far as the final result went.
"Mind if I join you?"
She looked up to see John Bannon, a pint of bitter in his hand. She gestured for him to sit down.
"You did well, kid," he said, sliding in across from her and raising his mug in a toast.
"Thanks." She touched her glass to his mug, not quite certain whether he was serious.
He apparently saw it in her face. "No, I mean it. You did well." He took a big swig of his bitter. "I certainly couldn't have done what you did."
She smiled. "I should hope not!" A key part of the just-completed assignment involved the seduction of the suspected leader of a terrorist group. She hadn't exactly enjoyed it. There had been very little pleasure in it for her, and she'd had to keep her Arion strength in check the entire time in order to keep him from getting suspicious. "Was it necessary? I feel so... so dirty," she continued, shrugging her shoulders. "It'll probably take me a week to wash off his smell." Wrinkling up her nose, she raised her glass to her mouth and finished her drink.
He returned her smile. "Ah, yes. Knowing you, I'm sure you did that part very well, too."
She smiled back at him. "You think so?"
"I seem to recall you doing something like that to me once."
"I don't think that was the same thing."
His lips quirked up. "Really? It wasn't?" He took a long pull at his bitter.
"I all but raped you."
"I don't recall putting up a fight."
She put her hand over his free hand. "As if that would have done you much good."
He turned his hand over, closing his fingers around hers. "I know you're good in a fight, almost as good as you are in bed. But do you think you're that good?"
She pulled her fingers out of his grasp, recalling that he hadn't seen her full Arion strength. "You don't know everything about me."
"What else is there to know?"
"You'd be surprised." He was her team leader. If he didn't have the right to know, who did?
As with the last time, she had no real recollection of how they ended up at his flat. As soon as they were inside, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her.
After a few seconds, she broke out of his embrace. "There's something I need to show you." She started to undo her skirt.
"I've already seen that." He reached for her.
She put a hand on his chest to maintain their distance. She finished undoing her skirt with her other hand and let it fall to the floor. She then unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it off.
"Seen that, too," he said.
"You seen this?" she asked, removing her bra and letting it fall to the floor.
"Yeah, seen that, too."
"Keep watching." Turning away from him, she raised her arms and flexed them. Mighty biceps rose. Their size might not match that of a professional bodybuilder, but he knew that these were far more powerful.
Unable to help himself, he pushed himself off of the bed and went to her, approaching her from behind and putting his hands on her arms. Her skin felt like silk.
She smiled at him over her shoulder. "You like those?"
"They... they're incredible!" He squeezed hard, but his fingers were only able to make the slightest of dimples in her biceps. He felt her flexing harder, until he felt as if he was holding on to warm marble.
"You really think you can fight those?"
"I... I..."
She turned around and put an arm around his waist. A simple lift hoisted him over her shoulder. A few steps put her next to his bed, upon which she laid him down. "This isn't like a sparring match in one of our training sessions." She had already made her reputation as the undefeated champion in their martial arts training. She'd only met defeat in the private sessions with Vicky Sinclair, who had retired from active service when her husband took a desk job with MI5.
He tried to roll off of the bed. She put a hand in the middle of his chest and held him in place. "Don't go anywhere. You need to see this." She reached her other hand down below the mattress, grasping the metal frame of the bed.
He gasped in surprise and clutched at the mattress at the entire bed came up from the floor. "What the bloody hell?"
"I'm stronger than I look." She set the bed back down.
He released his grip on the mattress. "Obviously."
She sat down next to him. "Was I too rough on you last time?"
"No broken bones," he laughed, raising his arms and moving them around.
"Then I might have to try harder this time." She put her arms around him and kissed him.
"Oh, the things I do for Queen and Country," he said when she let him up for air.
"Quit talking about it and do it." She kissed him again, at the same time pushing him down on his back.
It was almost over.
The young woman sat in the back of a panel van, knee-to-knee and shoulder-to-shoulder with its other passengers, savoring the thought. It was after midnight, the ride was full of potholes, the van's shock absorbers were practically nonexistent. The bone-jarring jolts drew no response except for an occasional grunt. Each held their weapons and their thoughts close.
Tonight was the gang's most daring raid. If all went well, tonight would also end her assignment. Maureen Connolly --- with her ill-fitting men's clothing, raggedly cropped black hair, and hostile attitude --- would disappear into a British prison. She could become Tyreen Mackenzie again.
She was more than ready.
The gang traveled in three muddied and battered vans. Seamus O'Rourke, the gang's leader, drove the lead van. Six more were crowded into the cargo area. The two trailing vans had only drivers, their cargo space as vital as the group's weapons were.
Tyreen peered through the darkness at her companions. For the most part they were thugs, their political convictions merely an excuse for profit. She had lived with them day and night for more than half a year.
A Nelfast tenement was their base of operations. Most members lived nearby with their families and came at night, nearly every night, to the dingy basement flat with its windowless rooms and bare bulbs. At any given time there were at least three people living in the stinking squalor. Some seemed content with the accommodations. Others, like Maureen Connolly, were hiding from the law.
According to the newspapers Maureen Connolly was responsible for a series of violent and profitable robberies. Eager to exploit her ability to bypass electronic security systems, Seamus had hidden her from the police. Had he suspected that her technical skill was enhanced by communications with MI5 --- let alone helped by Arion knowledge and technology --- her death would have been certain.
The van hit another pothole. The jolt sent Michael Shanks --- sitting on the seat across from her --- lurching forward. One of his knees slid up her leg.
"Sorry," he breathed, shifting back into his seat as far away from her as he could get.
One of the others snickered. It was no secret that Michael was terrified of Maureen. When she'd first joined the operation months ago, he had tried to rape her. Awakening to the sound of his heavy footsteps, she'd opened her eyes as he clamped one grimy hand over her mouth and the other on a breast.
It would have jeopardized her position to kill him. She hadn't needed to. Only a small portion of her Arion strength had been necessary to show him the errors of his way.
Tyreen Mackenzie didn't give a damn about Michael one way or the other, he was simply a part of the job, another man for her to use or not. But until the end of the operation she had to react as Maureen Connolly would. A lapse would be fatal.
"Do it again and I'll rip your balls off," she snarled. He shrank even further into his seat.
They rode on in silence for several more miles. Then the man on her left belched loudly, polluting the already close atmosphere with the smell of corned beef and beer. She cursed and jammed her elbow into his ribs. He inched away from me, crowding the man on the other side. Nobody complained; they all had learned that Maureen Connolly was not someone to be argued with.
It had taken her half a year to collect all the names, dates, and contact points that Seamus and is people could provide. The charade would end tonight. She'd baited a trap that Seamus couldn't resist. The warehouse contained munitions and a corrupt guard. Promises had been made and money had changed hands. Tonight all of the guards would be asleep; the man Seamus had paid would drug the others and then himself.
Seamus rapped on the window separating the driver from the cargo area. Heads went up, faces became alert. Weapons were checked for the final time, duties quickly reviewed, last-minute commands quietly acknowledged. The van slowed to pass through the unlocked gate and then stopped.
Paddy Harrington pushed open the double doors, leaped from the van, and scramble onto the loading dock. The group's newest member, he defied easy analysis. Obviously educated, he spoke easily, laughed readily, and revealed little. He stood out even among those accustomed to taking risks. Suicidal, some whispered. She had no better explanation.
The rest waited a moment. No shots rang out. No guards came to investigate. Tyreen relaxed a little, not wanting any innocents killed in this operation.
They moved quickly, past the small glass-enclosed room where the guards slumped over their video consoles, and into the great open bay of the warehouse.
They knew where the crates were and located them easily. Seamus pried up a lid, pulled open the oil-soaked paper wrapping, and held up the prize --- an M-16. They were packed six to a crate, twenty crates total.
She stood watch with Paddy as the others loaded the vans. The wind howling around the brick warehouse was bitterly cold, the sky above was clear. She glanced over at Paddy. His dark stocking cap was pulled down over his ears and forehead for warmth, as was hers.
He turned his head and flashed her a grin. The moonlight created deep shadows along his cheekbones and glinted off his red-blond mustache and beard. "Give him a good shave, and he and William could pass for brothers."
She immediately discarded thoughts of William Winslow, he was in her past and he would remain there. She hadn't even seen him in over three years, since he had broken off their engagement. Much of it was due to her; she had thrown herself into her work in an effort to forget about him. And she'd had more than one lover in that time. "So why do I still keep thinking about him?"
She pushed aside her thoughts of William and focused on Paddy Harrington. "Keep alert," she ordered in a harsh whisper. Paddy made an obscene gesture and then resumed looking out into the shadows, alert to movements that she knew he wouldn't see.
She turned and watched the men load up the vans. The job would go much faster if Tyreen Mackenzie were to help out, but Maureen Connolly's help wouldn't speed things up very much.
As the other vans left the dock they abandoned their watch and joined Seamus in the relative warmth of the van's front seat. He drove without lights until the warehouse was safely out of sight. They traveled away from the city, toward the rendezvous.
Only two sets of headlights remained to light the narrow road. One van was returning to a garage near the tenement, its cargo to be added to their armory. The reception that Tyreen had arranged for them would come as a surprise.
Only the sound of the engine broke the silence. Seamus concentrated on the winding rutted road. Maureen Connolly rarely spoke, so Tyreen said nothing now. Paddy sat quietly between them, tracing their progress on a rough map with his penlight.
That bothered Tyreen. She'd seen Paddy under stress before. She felt that by now he should be talking almost compulsively.
Grudgingly, Tyreen admitted that she had become attached to Paddy. But she was not naïve, he was a dangerous criminal whose silence tonight was inexplicable. Such inconsistencies could prove fatal. Snuggling her right hand into the pocket of her leather jacket, she wrapped her fingers around the smooth steel of the Walther PPK Special. Its extra round --- seven instead of six --- had saved her life on more than one occasion. As far as Seamus and the others knew, it was souvenir that she had taken from the body of a British officer whom she had killed.
They drove on into the night, the tension mounting. Afraid that its cause might affect the operation, she searched for its source.
Her own apprehension she understood. She was also certain that it remained well concealed. The result of the long operation --- and her own survival --- was now very much a matter of someone else's timing and more than a little luck. One trigger-happy commando, one ricocheting bullet...
Pushing aside that train of thought as unprofitable, she concentrated on Seamus.
He was a short wiry man, full of energy, constantly enterprising, and never lacking for nerve. His taste for money and lust for violence were untempered by any spark of conscience. The gang's income came primarily through the sale of small arms and explosives.
Small arms and explosives that were ostensibly to be used to drive the British out of Ireland, but were most often used to separate Irish merchants from their profits.
Paddy looked up from the map and pointed. "Turn left at the next crossroad."
The van that had been in the lead pulled over and cut its lights as it approached the intersection. Seamus passed it and turned right.
"Seamus," she blurted.
"They'll wait. We're picking up some ammo I stashed out here."
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Paddy's body tensed next to her, his hands rearranging their grip on his Uzi. A burst from an Uzi in the close confines of the cab was a horrifying prospect.
After about a mile Seamus pulled off the road under some trees. "Hurry," he said. "I don't want to keep them waiting, but it's worth a few thousand extra."
The three scrambled out of the cab. Seamus reached behind the seat. Paddy's Uzi drifted upward. When Seamus straightened up he was holding two entrenching tools, passing one to each of the others.
He walked into the trees. They followed along a narrow path, moving single file. Stopping at the base of a pine, he pointed. "Here. You dig, I'll keep watch."
A refusal would raise suspicion where none existed before. She then would have to kill them both, the operation would fall apart, and half a year's work would go down the drain. She decided to dig, being careful not to plunge the blade of her entrenching tool too deeply into the damp earth.
Paddy had reached a decision as well. Leaning his Uzi against the tree and pushed his blade into the ground.
From the corner of her eye, she say Seamus move. He stepped between them, wrapped an arm around Paddy's shoulders, and dragged a knife across the throat. Paddy stiffened, then sagged.
Seamus let the body slide o the ground, bent over it, and wiped his blade on Paddy's jacket. He then stood and faced her, his knife glinting in the moonlight.
Every instinct urged her to action, but she stood and watched. In her jacket pocket the barrel of her Walther was aimed squarely at his chest.
"The Branch." He sheathed his knife. "One of our new customers fingered him."
"Oh, Lord," she thought. "A police officer." Then she did what was necessary. She spat on Paddy's body. "Fucking Brit," she snapped.
Picking up Paddy's Uzi, she followed Seamus back to the van.
The exchange took place in an abandoned farmyard. With the second van following them from the crossroads, Seamus stopped the van on a wooded rise above a ramshackle barn. He flashed the headlights twice, paused, then twice more. A strong light blinked three times in response.
Grunting with satisfaction, Seamus turned off the engine, opened the door, and stepped out. "Start unloading," he said, before going down to meet the shadows detaching themselves from the deeper shadows of the barn.
The men from the other van joined her and they began shifting the crates to a point halfway down the slope. Tyreen could easily have carried two crates at once, but Maureen Connolly couldn't, so she contented herself by helping the men with the work.
A flare exploded overhead. Blinding spotlights lit up the farmyard. Gunfire sprayed the vans, shattering glass and tearing the tires.
"You are surrounded," a voice blared over a bullhorn. "Drop your weapons."
Tyreen threw herself to the ground and lay spread-eagled, face down, her fingers laced behind her head.
Soldiers in pale blue berets emerged from cover, standing warily around the light-bathed farmyard. A group of similarly uniformed men forced men from the barn at gunpoint.
The next few minutes were not pleasant, not that she had expected them to be. A security-conscious commander wouldn't announce to an entire British Army unit that among the terrorists was someone on their side. An ambiguous "If there's a woman, we want her alive," was about all that she might expect.
When she heavy bootsteps behind her and felt a cold muzzle on her neck behind her left ear, she was carefully noncombative. Her arms were roughly pulled back, her wrists were bound with nylon wires, and a cursory search was made for weapons, finding her Walther. Somebody grabbed the back of her jacket, pulled her to her feet, and shoved her in the direction of the group gathering under the harsh lights in the yard.
She stood and waited in a ragged line with her former comrades.
A baby-faced soldier was assigned to frisk her more carefully. Her breasts proved to be a dead giveaway. "Hey, I've got a girl here!" He stopped his search.
She decided that her next action would establish her as one who deserved to be singled out for special treatment. It might also save the young fool's life one day. Moaning to catch his attention, she rolled her eyes back behind their lids and swayed as if she was going to faint.
As she expected, he moved forward to catch her. She met him halfway, jamming her knee into his crotch, being careful not to use anything near her full strength while making it look as if she was. She then turned and ran.
She allowed a sweeping kick delivered by a more seasoned soldier to knock her to the ground.
She was dragged back to her feet. For effect she shouted an obscenity and lightly kicked the nearest shin.
He reacted more violently than she expected, slamming the barrel of his gun into her ribs. With little need for acting she gasped and collapsed to the ground. "That's enough," she told herself, lying still.
Turning her head, she could see the prisoners being loaded into various official vehicles. She also saw a gray-haired sergeant detaching himself from a group of officers and approaching her. She looked past him to the procession of prisoners, Seamus among them.
The sergeant rolled her over with the well-polished toe of his boot. "We've got just the place for you, bitch."
"Sodding bastard." It wasn't quite the snarl that she'd intended, but it was loud enough to carry clearly to the other prisoners.
Turning her head, she spat on his boot.
Seeing the kick coming, she twisted to avoid its impact. The boot landed between the ground and her waist, catching her jacket but only skimming the area below her ribs. She screamed anyway.
The sergeant uttered a satisfied grunt and walked away.
She looked back at the other prisoners. Seamus had been watching and acknowledged her with a nod. Shaking off assistance from a soldier at the rear of the lorry, he clambered aboard. She was left lying on the cold sod until the last of the prison-bound vehicles rolled out of her sight.
The well-polished boots returned to her side, their wearer looking down at her, his expression unreadable. He then squatted down beside her and freed her hands.
She sat up and rubbed her wrists to restore her circulation.
"Sorry, lass. You took more abuse than I would have wanted."
"Part of the job, Sir."
He reached down a hand to help her up. "Can you walk?" he asked.
"Of course, Uncle Michael." She stood up, showing no apparent ill effects from the abuse that she'd just taken.
Captain Michael Sinclair, late of Her Majesty's Navy and now Tyreen Mackenzie's section chief, led the way to a waiting car. For the benefit of the few remaining soldiers, he put his arm around her and acted as if he was helping her to walk. They both knew that she could have carried him easier than the other way around.
"Did you really have to kick that poor boy in the nuts?" he asked as he opened the door for her.
"Had to make it look convincing." She slid into the back seat.
He slid in beside her. "That you were."
"I hope I didn't kick him too hard." She leaned back and closed her eyes, barely feeling the jolt as the car lurched slightly pulling onto the road.
"Tyreen?"
It took her a second to realize that he was speaking to her. She had been Maureen Connolly for so long, Now, finally, she was Tyreen Mackenzie again. And she was going home. She opened her eyes and smiled. "You're interrupting visions of hot showers and clean sheets." She didn't mention what she was anticipating between those sheets; she didn't even know whether John Bannon was in the country. There was no need to do so; from working with his wife the man beside her knew from personal experience just what a woman like Tyreen needed after an assignment. And it had been a long assignment, the longest that she'd worked yet. While Maureen Connolly might have been a frigid bitch, Tyreen Mackenzie was anything but.
"Sorry." The tone of his voice didn't quite match the single word. He pulled a photo out of his breast pocket. "But we need to find this lad. Tonight, if we can. Have you seen him?" He switched on the dome light as he handed over the photo. "Calls himself Harrington. Scotland Yard, Anti-Terrorist Branch."
The face looking out at her from the photo jerked her upright. "You knew about Paddy and didn't tell me?"
"We felt it best if you two didn't know about each other." He took a deep breath. "How did you find out?"
She kept her emotions out of her voice. "Seamus told me tonight. Right after he cut Paddy's throat." Turning her head, she rested her forehead against the cool glass, looking out at the breaking dawn. "Welcome back, Tyreen," she told herself. A tear rolled unnoticed down her cheek. The photo dropped from her unfeeling fingers.
Because of the special circumstances, the debriefing team included Paddy's superior from the Branch. He began the session. Pure coincidence, he told her, that his people had targeted a group which MI5 had already infiltrated. Regrettable that communication between the two organizations wasn't better. A tragedy that Paddy was dead, his family would be provided for.
"And how are you holding up, Miss Mackenzie?"
She'd had nothing to eat for the past eighteen hours. She hadn't had any sleep in at least twice that long. It was taking its toll even on her Arion constitution. "I'm doing very well, thank you," she said.
They moved on to the business at hand. Their job to gather information, hers to provide it. Courtesy was not required.
They challenged her information, made hostile accusations, badgered her for details. They questioned her through the day and into the night. It was a harder ordeal than what she'd had to endure in the farmyard.
She answered until their words lost meaning, until their faces blurred before her eyes. Telling them to piss off, she left the conference table, staggered to the battered sofa at the far end of the room, sat down, draped her arm across her face, and closed her eyes.
The man from the Branch crossed the room in several quick steps and stood scowling down at her. "I'm a busy man, so let's try to remember what we're here for, shall we?"
"Johnson..." Tyreen heard the warning in Uncle Michael's voice.
Johnson cut him off. "Do you mollycoddle all your agents, or just the girls?" Without waiting for reply, he pulled over a chair, straddled it, tipped it forward until his face jutted incomfortably close to hers, lifted his hand, palm open, and brought it down swiftly.
She reacted to the threat. Cuffing his hand aside, she grabbed him by the lapels. Clutching a fistful of his expensive suit in each hand, she wrenched his weight forward and sprang from the sofa.
He was already overbalanced, but he left the chair before it toppled over.
Without giving him time to recover, she reestablished her grip on his lapels and glared into his face. She let all of Maureen Connolly's uninhibited rage come to the surface.
Michael Sinclair stepped between them, grabbed her wrists, tried to twist them away.
Her hands remained firmly in place. Maureen Connolly hated Johnson for threatening her. Hated him for nights of terror and scuttling rats. Hated him for attempted rape. Hated him for greed and brutality. Hated him for murder.
Michael hung on, his grip unyielding, his voice firm. He kept calling her Tyreen.
Abruptly, she relaxed, releasing Johnson's lapels.
Michael released her wrists.
Johnson watched warily as she stepped back. She paused a few feet from him, arched an eyebrow, lifted her chin in the direction of the nearest chair, and waited until he pulled it out. She took the seat after a murmured thank you and nodded toward the chair opposite her. He moved around the table and sat down.
Maureen Connolly was incapable of the disdain that now colored her voice. "Now exactly what else would you like to know?"
The cab lurched as it hit a pothole. The driver swore under his breath and pulled up at the curb. "Keep the change." The young woman paid the cabbie and got out, tugging down the hem of the blue skirt covering the upper half of her legs. The lower half was encased in nylon stockings. A pillbox hat perched atop her black hair. Setting down her leather suitcase, she adjusted the blue jacket over her white cotton blouse.
Picking up the suitcase in her left hand, she began walking, her high-heeled shoes clicking lightly. She turned left at the corner, walked two blocks, turned right, walked another half a block, and turned into the alley.
The Italian restaurant was already closed for the night. Cabs had long ago taken away the last of the patrons, those that didn't have cars of their own.
Walking through the alley to the kitchen door, she rapped twice, paused, and rapped twice more. The door opened, revealing a short dark-haired man wearing a food-stained white apron.
She shook her head and pulled back the suitcase when he made to reach for it. With a shrug of his shoulders, he turned and led the way inside.
The blond man was sitting behind the battered wooden desk in the manager's office. Papers and open ledgers covered the surface. Additional ledgers and files filled the shelf against the wall behind him.
The blond stood up. His hair wasn't all blond, it was beginning to gray around the temples. He was wearing a white cotton shirt open at the throat and rolled up at the sleeves. He walked around the desk, towering over her. "Good evening." He reached out for her with his big right hand. "I believe you have a package for me, lassie."
She didn't say a word as she met his outstretched hand with the suitcase.
His hand brushed hers as he took the suitcase from her. Laying it on the desk, he opened it. It was filled with new shirts, some cotton, some silk, all neatly pressed and folded.
He removed the shirts from the suitcase, discarding them onto the floor. Pressing the catch, he opened the false bottom.
Plastique lined the interior. Well-used large-denomination American bills were tightly packed inside.
Ignoring her, he lifted the neat packets from the bag one by one, broke the paper wrappers, and counted the bills onto the bench. She had done this before; she knew he would not be rushed.
Even in civilian clothes, his military bearing was unmistakable. For all his size and athletic build, he was well past his prime. He smelled of sweat, of greed, of anticipation.
Leaning against the wood-paneled wall, she tried not to breathe too deeply.
The cook returned through the door, closed it behind him. He brought with him the smell of sweat and garlic.
He nodded curtly, his eyes sweeping over her. "Is the package in order?" he then asked the blond.
"I'm still counting." He shrugged, returning his attention to the money. He picked up another bundle. "What is this?"
Stuck beneath the wrapper was another piece of paper. Freeing it, he glanced at it then crumpled it in his hand and tossed it aside. "Just a greeting from our friends in New York." He shrugged again and returned his attention to the remainder of the money.
Eventually he straightened up. "Everything is in order. Thank you very much, lassie." He clicked his heels together again.
Beside her the cook exhaled as if he'd been holding his breath.
She turned to the door.
Suddenly the blond groaned, clutching at his chest and staggering toward the back of the office. A stack of papers fell to the pile of shirts on the floor as he slumped against the desk.
"Are you well?" She took a step toward him.
He straightened and swung around, a Glock automatic in his hand. The business end of its silencer was aimed right at her head.
She backed away. Before she could make a move for the Walther PPK Special strapped to her thigh underneath her skirt, the cook came up behind her, grasping her upper arms, shaking her body with enough force to knock the hat off her head. She ignored him, keeping her concentration focused on the blond with the Glock.
"What are you doing?"
The blond's finger squeezed the trigger.
Using all of her Arion strength to wrench her arms free, she dove for the floor.
The bullet --- meant for her --- exploded from the back of the cook's head. He collapsed backward against the door.
Rolling once, she leaped from her knees at the blond just as he fired again. His bullet tore through her left shoulder, turning her slightly and affecting her leap. Still, there was enough of her Arion strength left to drop him to the floor.
Her left shoulder drove into his chest. The top of her head struck his chin. Her left hand closed about his right arm and twisted.
The Glock slipped from his fingers. His arm almost slipped from the shoulder socket. The body toppled to the floor, the neck broken from the impact of her head.
She pushed herself up to her hands and knees. Except for the sound of her breathing, there was no sound. Silence, and the smells of blood and gunpowder and garlic.
She pushed herself up to her feet. She took a step, and then a second. The room wavered, going in and out of focus. The floor heaved.
Resting her palms on the desktop, ignoring the pain lancing through her shoulder, she fought to stay upright, to stay conscious. She had to stay conscious, to stay on her feet, to keep moving.
After walking for what seemed like a mile, she was at the door. It wouldn't open, there was something jammed against it. Looking down she saw the body of the cook, the back of his head blown off, blood and brains splattered around.
She pushed the body aside and opened the door, crawling to the kitchen and through it to the door. It wouldn't open, locked.
She stretched up, straining to reach the latch, her blood-slicked fingers scrabbling uselessly below it. She tried again and again, until the door was sticky with blood --- hers, the blond gunman's, the cook's, it didn't matter. Exhausted, she slumped to the floor.
Somebody would come for her eventually. Eventually. In the morning. She closed her eyes.
Somebody would find her. She couldn't stay for that. Opening her eyes, she reached for the latch again.
It was like trying to swim through black water. Her shoulder hurt. She couldn't move her arm. If she even had an arm, that is. She couldn't feel it at all.
She fought to open her eyes, but they wouldn't open. Then everything was gone again as she sank into oblivion.
It was a little easier the next time. Her shoulder still hurt, but there was feeling beyond it. This time, she managed to open her eyes. There was a face looming over her, but she couldn't quite focus on it. Nor could she hear what it was saying, though she could see the mouth moving.
Whatever it was saying, she decided that it couldn't be very important. She closed her eyes and lost herself in oblivion again.
She came back up for the third time. The pain in her shoulder was down to a dull throb. This time, she could recognize the face looming over her, looking tired and haggard.
She tried to sit up, and then thought better of it. "John! What happened to you? You look like shit."
"What happened to me? God, Tyreen, you remember what happened to you?"
"I... I..." It all came back to her. "Harris, he tried to kill me."
"Obviously, he didn't succeed. Thank God."
"What happened to you?"
"Me? I've just been sitting here with you. It's been two days since they patched you up."
"Two days? Where's Uncle Mi... Captain Sinclair?"
"He's right here." This was another voice, from someplace behind her. Captain Michael Sinclair's face swam into sight as he stepped around.
"What went wrong?" she asked. "I'm sure I didn't..."
"We found this when we went in." He held up a piece of paper. It looked like the piece that had been stuck to one of the wrappers, a receipt from the restaurant in New York where she had picked up the delivery. He turned it over and looked at the back. "It says, 'Kill the girl.' Apparently, somebody got suspicious."
"But..."
Her debriefing was mercifully short. Most of the details had been pieced together after John led the rest of the team into the restaurant.
"Just rest, Tyreen. We closed them down at both ends. You did a fine job. Just rest now." He then turned to John Bannon. "And you too, John. Something tells me you're going to need all of your energy when she gets out of here."
"How long..."
"It's a clean wound. The doctors are, shall we say," he all but winked at her, "amazed at how quickly you're recovering. You should be out of here in a day or two. Though you probably want to take it easy on that arm for a while."
"It might even things out between us a bit," John added, smiling at both Tyreen and Michael.
"You think so? We'll have to see about that." She reached her free hand toward John as far as the restraining straps would allow. She probably could have broken them if she tried, but why bother?
John took her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. She squeezed back, restraining her strength, not much harder than he did. He leaned forward and kissed her. Michael kissed her cheek before the two men took their leave, leaving her at the mercy of the staff of the military hospital.
Coordinating their efforts with precision born of years of experience, the two trawlers brought up their nets and dumped the bounty of the sea into their water-slicked holds.
"Hey! What do we have here?"
Hearing the question the first mate --- a veteran seaman named Jenkins --- turned and looked into the net. Along with the fish and the bottom debris that the trawling always brought up was something that didn't look like it belonged.
Just then a flash of lightning lit up the night sky, revealing a larger red object in the net. "Bring that light over here," Jenkins called over his shoulder.
A seaman handed him a flashlight. Thumbing it on, he turned it around, playing the beam on the net and its contents.
There definitely was something there that didn't belong. He pushed aside the fish and other debris covering whatever it was.
He'd have bet that he'd already seen everything that was possible to dredge up from the bottom. He was wrong.
This looked like a human body. One did not dredge those up from the bottom. The gases released by decomposition made them swell up and float to the top.
Another flash of lighting lit up the sky.
"Holy shit!" one of the seamen exclaimed. "It's a girl!"
That brought the rest of the crew to the net. "Is she alive?" a second seaman asked.
"Are you kidding?" the first seaman answered, continuing to move aside the fish and other debris to uncover the girl. "She's probably been dead for days."
Jenkins bent down to help. He was thankful that he hadn't eaten recently --- he'd seen what prolonged immersion in the sea could do to a human body. He'd seen enough of that during the war, nearly half a lifetime ago. It was not a pretty sight.
"She doesn't look like she's been dead very long," the second seaman said.
Jenkins knelt at her side and lifted an arm. The seaman was right. The skin wasn't all wrinkled and shriveled. There wasn't anything to indicate that any fish had been nibbling on the body, the skin was completely flawless though quite cold and pallid. He'd seen skin in worse shape just coming out of a shower.
He moved a hand down lower on her slender arm and placed his fingers against the inside of the wrist. "There's no pulse." He looked at her nicely shaped but motionless chest. "She's not breathing."
"Leave her be," the skipper said from the back of the crowd. "We'll turn her over to the Coast Guard when we get in."
Jenkins stood up. "Okay, you lazy lubbers. You heard Captain Taylor. Let's get the catch stowed away."
The crew started to disperse to go about their duties. As the captain went to radio in a report, Jenkins detailed two of the hands to carry the girl down below. Accompanying them, he had them put her on a bunk in the cabin. Getting a blanket, he started to cover her up.
He again marveled at the condition of the body. He had seen plenty of drowning victims before and he knew what prolonged immersion did to bodies. This one showed no such signs. Only wet, as if she had just come out of a shower. A very cold shower.
And her clothes! An outlandish red dress with a large gold lightning bolt on the front and a white cape in the back. That wasn't something you went to sea in, especially this time of year, even on one of those plush luxury liners. And none of those had sunk in this area recently that he knew about.
As he rolled her over, he saw that her ankles were bound together with a short length of rusty chain. She probably didn't come off of a luxury liner like that. This was definitely a matter for the Coast Guard. Or the police.
As he rolled her over onto her back and pulled the blanket up, his hand brushed against her neck. Her skin was cold, but it just didn't feel dead. As he started pulling his hand away, he noticed something around her throat.
More metal chains. But this looked different from the chains around her ankles. He scraped off some of the accumulated grime. The gleam, the luster, were all different. Could it be? It sure looked like it.
This could definitely turn this trip into a profitable one. Profitable for him at any rate. Looking around and making sure that nobody else was watching, he turned the girl over and searched for the clasp closing the gold necklace around her throat.
The clasp, like the necklace itself, was like nothing that he had ever seen before.
It looked like a simple mechanism, but he couldn't open it. Even after the long immersion in the seawater he could see that it wasn't tarnished, but it just wouldn't budge when he pushed down on it.
He tried pulling on it. Same result.
He adjusted his grip, getting both hands on it. It still wouldn't open.
He stood up. Looking around again to make sure that he was still alone, he tried again, this time climbing onto the bunk and putting a knee on her chest. He didn't notice that there was very little give in her firm breasts, they only separated slightly as his knee slid into the valley between them.
The clasp still wouldn't open.
He was going to have to find some other way to get it open. He went aft into the engine room, seeking out the tool chest. Finding a pair of bolt-cutters, he returned to the cabin.
It would be a shame to have to damage the chain in order to remove it. Still, it should fetch a good price, it was made of gold after all.
Climbing up onto the bunk and sitting down on the girl's stomach, he positioned the bolt-cutters, placing the jaws around one of the links of the chain. Adjusting his grip on the handles, he pressed them together.
As the hardened steel jaws began cutting into the soft gold, he heard a crackling sound. For a brief moment he thought that he could see some sparks shooting out from the girl's breasts and through the thin dress. Somehow it seemed appropriate, what with the big gold lightening bolt on the front and all.
But sparks don't shoot out of women's breasts. Not even dead ones. Deciding that he had imagined it, he shook his head and resumed the task at hand. The chain parted as the jaws sliced through the link.
This time he did not imagine the sparks shooting out from the girl's breasts, going back and forth from one nipple to the other, making her entire front glow. The sparks spread out, bathing the entire cabin with their eerie glow. Surprised, he dropped the bolt-cutters. The chain fell forgotten, the ends lying on either side of her head.
That was the last thing that he saw as the heat from sparks all but vaporized his body.
The heat did more than that, igniting the wooden walls and deck. Almost immediately the entire cabin was engulfed in flames.
"What the fuck?" Captain Taylor yelled out as flames shot through the deck and into the pilothouse.
All around him the crew quickly scrambled into action, but it was too late. It was obvious that there was nothing that they could do to save the boat, the flames were too widespread.
The other trawler started to come alongside to offer any assistance that it could. The only assistance that it was able to offer was to take aboard the survivors from the doomed boat as they swam the short distance through the cold choppy seas separating the two boats.
"Where's Jenkins?" Taylor asked as the last of his crew were fished aboard.
"I saw him go below," one of the seamen answered, wrapping a blanket around himself to warm himself up after his impromptu swim. "I didn't see him come back on deck."
"Fuck! He's still aboard." He turned to his fellow captain. "Bring her closer."
"There's no way he could have survived if he was below."
"Dammit! Bring her closer, Strassen!" He turned back to what was left of his boat. "Jenkins! Jenkins!"
The fire was beginning to warm up the girl. Her pulse sped up from one beat every few days to one every few minutes. Her chest rose and fell as she spit out the water and took in her first breath of air after more than two decades of immersion.
An arm moved, brushing against the wall. One of the wooden planks cracked as the wrist hit it. Another plank broke as the elbow hit.
A leg twitched, rising up and then dropping down onto the bunk. The wooden leg below the bunk --- already weakened by the fire --- collapsed from the impact. The bunk tilted onto its side, dumping the girl onto the burning deck. The bedding fell on top of her, engulfing her in the flames.
Her body continued to twitch as the flames continued licking at her body, warming her further. The energy from the fire wasn't enough to replenish her body's energy stores --- so depleted after over two decades of immersion at the depths of the ocean so far from the life-giving rays of the sun --- but it was enough to allow her body to open the dimensional rift and allow her to begin absorbing energy from the matrix.
In her weakened state the energy flow was at reduced levels. Still, it was more energy than any ordinary Terran could ever hope to absorb. Absorb the energy and survive the experience, that is. Jenkins' body had absorbed a small fraction of it in the first milliseconds of the transfer, the last milliseconds of his life.
Even as the fire continued to warm her body, it was going out. The boat was sinking from under her, the flames succumbing in this particular continuation of the eternal battle between fire and water.
Her body continued to twitch, the energy that she was absorbing causing her arms and legs to thrash even more wildly than before. An uncontrolled kick of her leg punched a hole in the wall.
The water surged in through the hole, dousing the fire in the cabin and hurling her across the cabin. The back of head hit against the opposite wall, cracking the wooden planking.
The swirling water carried her back against the outer wall, ramming her against it face first. Her body reacted reflexively, both arms flailing at the unknown assailant.
The entire wall practically disintegrated under the onslaught of a pair of Arion fists. Her body was swept out, her lungs again filling with water, her body again robbed of its heat.
"Jenkins!" Captain Taylor was still yelling for his first mate as the other boat moved slowly through the sparse floating debris from his own boat.
"Look! Over there!"
Taylor followed the man's pointing arm with his eyes. There was something else floating.
"It's the girl!" the man shouted.
"Leave her," Taylor said. "She's dead."
He was too late. The man had dived overboard and was swimming toward her. The helmsman turned the boat toward them as the swimmer brought the girl alongside.
"Where's Jenkins?" Taylor yelled out, still searching for his first mate even as hands reached down and pulled the girl aboard. "Leave her be. Where's Jenkins?"
There was a cough as the men laid the girl down on the deck.
"She's alive!"
"Impossible! She was dead before." Looking at her, even Taylor had to admit that she didn't look dead as she lay on her back, coughing up water.
One of the men reached down and grabbed her arm to try to turn her over onto her stomach. Another man reached down from the other side to help him. Apparently they got their signals crossed --- the two sailors were experienced enough not to let the lightly pitching deck bother them --- for the first man collided into second, knocking him down to the deck and landing on top of him. The fracas knocked another man down to the deck, his legs apparently tangled up with those of the girl.
As the three surprised men picked themselves up from the deck, another man succeeded in rolling her over. She lay on her stomach, continuing to cough up water.
"Get her below," Captain Strassen ordered. "Keep her warm."
The girl had stopped coughing up water, but her breathing was still a little ragged. She was still unconscious. Jason Reed picked her up by her legs while another man took her shoulders. The two of them carried her below --- a little more gently than had been done aboard Taylor's boat --- and laid her down on a bunk in one of the cabins.
Jason got all of the blankets that he could find and covered her up. It was a bit of a struggle at first, as her arms thrashed and threw off the blankets a couple of times. Eventually he managed to get her covered, leaving her face exposed so that she could breathe.
A sound finally penetrated her fog. A dull but loud throb. She had heard that sound before. What was it? A diesel engine? Was the U-boat on the surface, recharging its batteries? Then it must be night, safe from the prying eyes of the Allied aircraft.
Soon, some of the men would be returning to continue molesting and tormenting her, her Prime's uniform the only thing between her skin and their filthy hands. She blanked that thought --- and all other thoughts --- out of her mind, losing herself in oblivion again.
Holding the mug of hot coffee in both hands to try to get all of the warmth from it --- the water had been cold --- Jason returned to the cabin to look in on the girl. She looked so different from when they had first brought her up in the nets. She had been so pale then. She hadn't been breathing then, either. Jenkins hadn't been able to find a pulse. Her skin had been cold when he helped carry her below the first time.
Now she was lying quietly, seeming to be only asleep. Even with all of the blankets on top of her, he could see the slow rise and fall of her chest. The color seemed to be returning to her cheeks.
As he leaned in the hatchway and sipped his coffee, he still wasn't sure why he had gone into the water a second time --- but he was glad that he had. She had a beautiful face, and he'd seen enough of the body under the blankets to know that the rest of her body was just as beautiful. If he had a girlfriend who looked half as good as she did, he could consider himself a lucky man. Spending so much time at sea, he really hadn't had a chance to cultivate too many meaningful relationships.
There was no way for him to know that this girl who seemed to be around his own age was actually older than his mother was. Quite a bit older.
Finishing his coffee, he continued to hold on to the warm mug. Suddenly the girl's arm thrashed, throwing the blankets down to the deck before dangling down over the side of the bunk. Dropping the mug, he quickly rushed to her side. Bending down, he retrieved the blankets. Holding them in one arm, he reached for her arm just as it jerked upward and then dropped back down.
Just as he closed his hand around her slim wrist, her arm moved again, again jerking upward. He dropped the blankets in surprise when felt himself being lifted off of his feet.
He looked down in amazement as he hung suspended over her, his entire weight supported by her slender arm. He swayed from side to side as her arm moved, almost as if she was signaling somebody by semaphore.
His brain finally thought to let go of her wrist. Unfortunately for him, it did that just as her arm was swinging outward. The back of his head struck the bulkhead as he was flung against it. He was barely conscious when his body slid down along the bulkhead and hit the deck. He slumped there for a heartbeat before everything faded out.
Heat! Warmth!
It had been a long time since she had felt any heat.
Just how long had it been?
The water. The cold water had rushed in, removing all heat from her.
Where had the water come from?
The hands. She remembered hands on her body. Hands going where they had no business going, stroking and pinching her breasts, rubbing her crotch.
But those hands had remained outside of her uniform. So they had been Beta hands. Or... or Terran hands.
She should have been able to stop any Betas --- or Terrans --- from making unwanted advances. But she couldn't. Why not?
Gold. There was gold around her neck.
She hated the stuff. She didn't even use the stuff when she played with her Betas.
Her Betas? What Betas?
She could barely remember having some fun with the Betas who worked with her. But who were they? What kind of work did they do? It all seemed so long ago. But there had been no gold then.
So why had she been wearing gold?
Captured. She had been captured. She had been battling a Warrior Prime so that the others would have a chance to get away.
The others? What others? Who?
She could remember that there had been others with her. But who were they? What had they been doing? Why had she been battling another Arion?
Finally her eyes opened. She blinked several times before they focused.
She looked around but didn't recognize her surroundings. It was a boat or a ship of some kind, but it obviously wasn't the U-boat that she remembered.
She didn't know where she was. She certainly didn't remember how she had gotten to wherever she was.
She could remember being cold --- very cold.
Reaching up and grabbing the red railing by her head, she tried to pull herself up to a sitting position. Her body felt as if it weighed tons. She pulled harder and tightened her grip on the railing. In her state, she didn't notice the steel bending and deforming under her fingers. Even as weakened as she was, she was still who she was, the hard steel being no match for the grip of a young Arion Prime.
She finally managed to sit up, her head dizzy from the effort. She just sat there for a couple of minutes braced on her arms, gulping down air and trying to let her head clear.
She looked down at her body. Her breasts --- though still impressive for a Terran female --- seemed so small to her. No wonder she felt so weak and so tired.
Looking around again, she noticed an untidy pile of blankets on the deck next to the bunk on which she sat. Reaching down and picking one up, she wrapped it around herself.
She was reaching down for the next blanket when she noticed the man against the far wall. He appeared to be asleep, sitting against the wall with his head slumped down on his chest.
She couldn't see his face clearly, but she was sure that she'd never seen him before.
Whoever he was, she didn't think that he could be too comfortable sleeping like that.
She was comfortable, however. Too comfortable, in fact. Losing the fight to keep her eyes open, she let them close. Soon there were two unconscious people in the cabin.
Jason came to with a start. What was he doing, going to sleep? Sure, he didn't have any duties on this trawler, but he had told Captain Strassen that he would keep watch on the girl, freeing the members of his crew to go about their normal duties.
He looked across the cabin at the bunk. The girl still seemed to be asleep. From the looks of it, she might never awaken. Hell, she was lucky to be alive at all, after floating at sea for who knows how long.
Despite the dull throbbing in his head, he got back up to his feet. His foot struck a coffee mug, sending it skittering across the cabin against the base of the bunk, spilling what little remained in it. He bent down to retrieve it.
That brought his face close to hers. Again he marveled at her smooth complexion, so unlike what he would have expected of somebody who had been exposed to the salt water for so long.
Getting his fingers on the mug, he straightened up. Looking down at the girl again, he decided that he could escape to the galley for a refill.
The two captains were in the galley, discussing the events of the evening. Captain Taylor was obviously distressed at the loss of his boat --- and the loss of his first mate, Jenkins.
Jason reported that the girl had stirred in her sleep, but didn't mention that he had also nodded off. Filling his mug, he went back to resume his watch.
When her eyes opened again, she saw that she was alone. The man who had been sleeping on the floor was gone. That memory had barely registered when something else registered, the sound of approaching footsteps.
Before she could react, the door opened. She froze, which didn't take much effort --- her body seemed to be completely disconnected from her brain. It was all that she could do to simply lie there as a man walked in.
As soon as Jason walked back into the cabin, he knew that something was different. The girl was awake, looking at him with the most intense blue eyes that he had ever seen. They were so bright that they seemed to be glowing with their own inner light. He quickly put down his coffee and took a couple of steps toward her, holding his hands out to the sides.
She lay motionless, only her eyes tracking his approach, a complete change from her earlier thrashing. Still, he stopped outside the reach of her arms --- even if he didn't remember how she had flung him across the cabin earlier, his subconscious apparently did. "I... I won't hurt you," he said, continuing to hold his hands to the side, hoping that his body language would deliver the right message even if his words couldn't.
Her mouth began to move. "Where... where... am... I?"
English! She spoke English! That was one problem solved. He had wondered what to do if she didn't speak English. He had a smattering of French --- as did many of the others --- and one man knew Spanish, but what if she had been Norwegian or Dutch or some such?
"Where am I?" she repeated. "Who are you?" Her words flowed together a little better this time. He was struck by how sweet and melodic --- almost musical --- her voice sounded.
He tackled the second question first. "I'm Jason. You're aboard the fishing trawler East Wind."
A fishing trawler? She wondered what she was doing aboard a fishing boat in the middle of a war. At least he spoke English. That meant that he was one of the good guys, didn't it? But what was she doing here? "How did I get here?"
"We found you in our nets." He took a couple of steps toward her and held out a steaming mug of something toward her.
She gratefully accepted it, wrapping both hands around it and savoring the warmth as she brought it up to her mouth. It took her a couple of seconds to recognize the bitter tasting drink as coffee --- she remembered some of her friends had liked it, though it was scarce due to the war and she had never acquired a taste for it. Still, it was something to drink, and it was warm.
Her friends? She knew that she had friends, but couldn't remember their names. She tried to call up their faces in her mind but failed, only seeing a blur, a composite of several faces.
"How did you get out here?" he asked. "What ship were you on?"
"Ship?" Had she been on a ship? Yes, she had. It was a warship of some kind. She tried to think back, but the effort only made her head ache.
She was barely aware of him taking the empty mug from her hand before she started to slip into unconsciousness again. She was gone before he arranged the blankets over her, sitting down on the other bunk to resume watch.
When he was convinced that she wasn't going to come around again soon, he left to report to the captain.
"Get the harbormaster on the horn. Tell him we've lost the Sea Fox, with one man."
"Aye, Captain." He reached for the microphone and then gave a jerk with his head. "What about her?"
"Tell the harbormaster we've picked up a passenger, and to have an ambulance standing by for her."
"Aye, Captain."
"And ask if any ships have been reported missing."
"Aye, Captain."
"You know there's going to be an inquiry about this." This was directed toward Captain Taylor of the Sea Fox.
"Don't I know it." He'd spent the entire war on convoy duty in the North Atlantic, and his ship had come through without even as much as having its paint scratched. "I wish I knew what happened."
