Traceless (Stateless #2) Page 13

  As for his question — yeah. One hell of a coincidence having the guy I’m supposed to kill turn out to be my own flesh and blood.

  So random.

  Not.

  The door opens. Glen appears in a navy suit, high heels fashionable but impractical for standard field work.

  Then again, her field work is anything but standard. Bet she wears those in bed.

  And nothing else.

  Which is exactly why she wears them: to create that thought in straight men.

  She takes a seat next to me. Instead of whispering, I face it head on.

  “If Marshall Josephs can't come to the compound because we're concerned about surveillance, why are you here? You're President Bosworth's assistant,” I challenge.

  A dismissive wave of a perfectly manicured hand comes with the words, “They already know I'm not what I seem.”

  No shit, I think to myself.

  “But they think I'm working for Alicia Ludame,” she adds uncharacteristically. Glen doesn't just drop extraneous information. She's planting a seed.

  “Why?”

  “She's gunning for Bosworth's job.” She gives me a tight little smile. “Just an expression, of course.”

  “Aren't all vice presidents, to some extent?”

  “Yes. And the best way to lay the groundwork is to make sure you have plenty of people on your side.”

  “Is her goal to unseat Bosworth?”

  “No. But in the event of a scandal, she would succeed him without facing an election.”

  “He'd have to resign.”

  “Or be assassinated,” Glen says coolly.

  “Is that a project I'm unaware of? I thought Bosworth was one of us.”

  “Don't assume anything,” Josephs cuts in. “But Harry Bosworth is the last person anyone needs to worry about. Look at the scandals he's made it through. He’s a political cockroach. Whatever people want, they'll get out of him, and he survives no matter what.”

  “The guy survived an attempt on his life by his own wife,” I reply. “And his own daughter threw herself in front of a bullet for him.”

  “And his son-in-law killed Monica Bosworth. You were just in a hornet's nest of people who have no problem protecting him,” Glen says. “And who now think I'm allied with a political climber who is using Harry for her own reasons.”

  “The press certainly loves to fan the flames of their relationship,” Svetnu says with a sneer. “The idea of two widowed leaders joining in marriage is too appealing to the masses. Harry and Alicia are the United States’ equivalent of royals.”

  “Which is why Harry is planning to propose soon,” Glen says, dropping a bomb in the conversation.

  A moment of silence follows as we try to absorb this. Then:

  “Propose to Ludame? I guess it’s technically possible. They are from different states.”

  “Different states?”

  He waves his hand. “Technicalities about electors.”

  “But wouldn’t the Speaker try to fight it..?”

  “It's smart, actually,” I interrupt. “They can't be forced to testify against one another if they're married.”

  A chill fills the room. Even Josephs goes still, until his distant voice says, “You're not the first person to realize that.”

  “How dirty is Ludame?” I ask. “Romeo hated her. Said she was a huge enemy of ours.”

  “She still is,” Glen says. “She doesn't know about us specifically, but she knows about deep state projects. Has this whole ridiculously naïve view of government as serving the common good.”

  We all laugh, Josephs included.

  “A government of 350 million people can never reach any kind of 'good.’ Civil society can't be homogeneous with that large a population,” Svetnu says, shaking his head. I know what's coming next.

  Political philosophy.

  “Misha, enough of that,” Josephs says, cutting him off. The use of Svetnu's nickname is a shock I feel through Glen as well. “We don't have time for a philosophical lecture. We need to figure out whether Callum and Kina screwed up or stumbled into the best twist ever. I know Foster well. A little too well. He has a weakness.”

  “Lindsay and his daughter, Emma,” Glen declares.

  “No.”

  She reels in surprise at the fast negative from Josephs.

  I resist a grin. “Sir?” I say, controlling my voice. “His weakness is his team. All of the men are with women who have been attacked by Stateless operatives. Even Lindsay Bosworth.”

  “They were earlier versions of Stateless, but yes. Your point is valid, Callum. His core team has been penetrated.”

  “But isn't that our weakness, sir?” Glen jumps in. “We let the women live.”

  “No,” Josephs says again, cutting her down. “That was strategy.”

  “Why? Why not finish them off?”

  “Lindsay Bosworth dying would have given Harry a sympathetic edge. The goal was to torch his campaign,” Josephs explains. “Jane Borokov was more complicated. Romeo was so close, but we decided to play a longer game.”

  “And Lily Thornton was Romeo's error,” I add. I don't ask why, when Bosworth is an ally, Stateless wanted to destroy him. That was before – when Nolan Corning and El Brujo were alive. Sventu isn't kidding when he says there are divisions in the leadership at Stateless.

  Have been for years.

  Glen glares at me.

  “Yes,” Svetnu says with a sigh. “And Foster's team–which includes Mark Paulson, if you recall, whose fiancée was kidnapped by El Brujo years ago–have all been lulled into thinking they have the upper hand.”

  “You're playing that long a game?” I ask.

  “Of course we are. Aren't you?”

  “Yes, sir. I'm convincing my brother–” the word makes me cough, “–my brother that I'm with him as he tries to understand Stateless.” No one blinks at the mention.

  No one has said a word about what they know or don’t know about my newfound family member.

  “You're damned convincing,” Glen hisses.

  “You could learn from your own sister. Kina's playing along beautifully. She's a natural field operative.”

  “And she killed Angelica,” Svetnu says in an admiring tone. “She's capable of quite a bit more than you predicted, Glen.”

  Glen's face turns to stone.

  “I have accomplished exactly what I was asked to: rise as high as possible in government. I'm Harry Bosworth's assistant. His human calendar. I filter the world before it reaches him.” She pauses for effect. “And I know what he sounds like the second he orgasms.”

  Svetnu’s face shows distaste.

  “There isn't a single detail about his life I don't know. I'm closer to him than you are, sir,” she says into the speakerphone.

  “True,” Josephs drawls. “Which is why having your sister in The Field is worth it now.”

  “Sir?” she squeaks, clearly not expecting that.

  “Callum says Kina worked the group well at that cabin. It isn't easy to get past Drew and Lindsay's defenses. Whatever Kina said must have worked. That means she can swap with you.”

  “Swap?” Glen and I say the word together, in the same sharp tone.

  “Yes. You'll finally accomplish what Romeo couldn't: convincing the leadership to let Kina into The Field, to work with Glen. Use their identical appearances to strategic advantage. No one can be in two places at the same time, but until cloning is perfected, this is as close as humans can get.”

  Svetnu stands. Josephs says, “Glen, make it happen. Get Kina to your place in the next few days. Start training her.”

  “But sir, I can't do that! The security permissions, and the–”

  “I'll get her in the system,” I tell them. “I just need a back door left open.”

  “I can manage that,” Josephs says.

  “But sir –” Glen's protest is cut off by Svetnu's hand on her arm.

  “Glen. It is time.”

  That's it.


  That's all he says before leaving.

  And then the phone goes to a dial tone that doesn't end.

  Glen turns to me, furious. “You have one chance. Get into Foster's good graces again and kill them all. Go for the women first,” she hisses.

  “You're crazy.”

  “Do it or Kina is dead.”

  “Don't even joke about that.”

  “Do I ever joke about following orders?”

  “Someone ordered you to tell me to kill Foster's group, and if I don't, Kina's dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  The chair scrapes hard against the floor, certain to leave a scar. Glen stands and walks to the door, pausing, head bent down as she thinks through her words.

  And then she says:

  “If I told you that, I'd have to kill myself. Just like Romeo.”

  24

  Kina

  I'm back at the nursery building, in the section not taped off. The children are doubled up in rooms, the chaos unnerving, although we’re trying not to let them feel that. There is a point where the body and the brain shut down, and I'm dangerously close to it. Falling apart isn't possible. The children rely on me.

  Callum does, too. The thought of him fills me with mixed emotions, my skin unable to decide whether to warm with comfort or tingle with arousal. We can overload our bodies, which are nothing more than human circuit boards, conducting emotion and reaction like an electric current. Too much, and we short out.

  Too little, and we degrade.

  Sally's last look at me was filled with so much contempt, I know my days are numbered here. People die under mysterious circumstances all the time.

  I am high on her list to be one of them.

  I killed Angelica in an elevated fit of rage. No trial, no jury, no incarceration. Stateless workers disposed of her, and Judi, and all the other people who have died here.

  No consequences.

  For a sick moment, I realize I've killed Jason, Daniels, and Angelica. Three kills, all right here on the compound.

  How many people has Glen killed? Callum? Is my body count higher?

  Is this what field operatives compare when they want to establish a hierarchy?

  The tiny onesie in my hands is defiled by my thoughts. Innocent babies and body counts shouldn't mix.

  Ever.

  “Kina?” A very nervous Philippa walks into the room, eyes darting to the cabinet above my head, then the windows. “Can we talk?”

  “Of course. How are the babies?” My professional question and tone of voice make it clear to her that nothing she says is safe.

  “They're recovering. Poor Jessie had a bad scrape above her eye. The new doctor used surgical glue on it, but she keeps rubbing it.”

  I sigh. “Maybe we need to give her some pain relief. I'm sure it feels weird and she doesn't know how to react.”

  That describes me right now, too.

  “Yes. It was hard having you leave. I mean, the children were so upset after the blast. Jay was calling for you. Hearing him say 'Keen! Keen!' and not being able to explain where you were was... hard.” She swallows, her pale throat jumping with emotion.

  “I'm sorry.” Those two words have to be enough. Whoever is monitoring us–and I'm sure someone is, right now, in real time–must be given no reason to call the leaders in. The bruise on my cheek still throbs from Sally's slap. Philippa's eyes roam my face, pointedly stopping at my bruises.

  I know how I look.

  She can only imagine how I feel.

  We're not supposed to do that, though. Have feelings. For nine years, I worked my mind out of training mode and into a quieter way of living. I kept my head down. I sublimated my emotions into caring for the children. I turned a dreary existence into something joyful through them. They made my life bearable.

  These little beings have no idea that they were my salvation.

  “It was... uncharacteristic of you.” Philippa's lips twist with effort as she says the words. An order is an order, though. The leaders told her to say that.

  “Yes, I know. I'm not an experienced field operative like Callum. I did exactly what he ordered me to do. We–well, I can't tell you what we did.”

  “Of course!” she rushes in, relieved by the way I'm steering the conversation.

  “But let's just say, we infiltrated in a way that no one else has.”

  “What about your sister?”

  We spin around, Philippa's hand going to her heart. I can practically feel it beating through the air.

  It's Leila.

  “Glen has positioned herself at the absolute highest level. Let the glory go to her,” she elaborates.

  “The glory goes to Stateless,” I snap back, already tired of her strangeness, her condescension. Philippa's eyes flare with alarm, then go to a dead place.

  She elevates.

  “Where are you from, Leila? I've never met you before, so you didn’t come through the nursery. You look to be about seventeen. Too young to have graduated from training.”

  “I'm eighteen. And I just graduated. Where I am from is none of your business.”

  Two children shriek in the distance, Leila's face transforming with a shocking empathy.

  “We'll help them,” Philippa assures me in a flat voice as Leila beats her out of the room.

  I exhale. I inhale. I finger the trim on one leg hole of the yellow onesie I’m holding.

  I fight back tears.

  Was Duff right? Were we really taken–kidnapped, stolen–from loving parents who were brutally murdered by our own leaders? Were Lindsay, Jane, and Lily all nearly killed by Stateless operatives who were working to–what?

  I thought President Bosworth was one of us. Glen told me so, long ago. Why, then, would Stateless operatives gang rape his daughter, try to kill his illegitimate daughter, and go after Lily?

  It makes no sense.

  Once again, the compassion of the three women is what lingers, like the emergency room staff when I took Jay there. No one berated me. No one tied me to an exam table and scoured my body for evidence of betrayal or weakness. No one peppered me with blows like Sally did. I fold the onesie and set it down on a padded changing table. Looking into a small mirror on the wall, I gingerly explore my skin around the bruises.

  It hurts.

  People hurt me here.

  An infant in the distance cries like a baby goat in a panic, the wobbly sound triggering my nerves, my maternal instinct, my sympathy. You cannot hear a cry like that and not respond. We're biologically primed to meet its needs, to keep it alive.

  But where are these tiny, helpless, fresh infants coming from? Can there really be so many cruel parents in the outside world who deserve to have their children “rescued” from them?

  My questions are treasonous.

  My questions will get me killed.

  But it's these questions that make me human. That make me love the children. That make me love Callum.

  Now the tears come.

  The truth always calls them out.

  The baby settles, the sound of one of the women saying “shhhhhh” calming me, too, the irony of my coworkers spying on me while indirectly calming me down making me choke back a laugh.

  I need Callum.

  I need my phone.

  Certainly by now it's fully tracked, but I need to text him. To find a pretense for talking.

  Just to be next to him is enough. His presence is my “shhhhhh.”

  The phone isn't on my desk when I look, abandoning the laundry. Not on the small side table next to my couch, nor on my kitchen table. I search my dirty laundry hamper, but it only holds my shirt, shorts, and undergarments for today.

  Not in my dresser drawers.

  Not in my secret hiding places.

  Hmmm.

  When did I last have it?

  Realizing I'm being monitored, I go back into the nursery and resume my folding, mentally checking through my actions these last few hours. Sally must have confiscated
it, but I don't remember when or–

  “I know what you are.”

  I turn around from the clothing drawers to find Leila there, holding my phone.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Looking for this?” She pockets it. “You don't get it. I've been ordered to confiscate it.”

  “What?” I walk toward her.

  She holds her position, one hand on her hip, knees unlocked. Combat stance.

  “I know what you really are. We all do. You're being allowed to do this because Svetnu is protecting you for some reason. Perhaps because of Callum,” she spits out. “But you won't get away with it.”

  “Get away with what?”

  “You killed Angelica. You nearly killed your own sister. This morning, you escaped through a hole in the fence you made, and now you claim Callum gave you orders to leave and 'infiltrate' the enemy.” Her finger quotes nauseate me.

  “Go away. Take care of the babies. Do your job.”

  “Oh, I'm doing my job.” The nasty tone is so adolescent, I almost laugh.

  But nothing about this is funny.

  “My job is to watch your every move. You know how this works. I'll sleep on your sofa. I'll eat breakfast with you. I’ll practically wipe your butt. I’ll take care of the babies, but even leaving you for these five minutes is dangerous. I've already reported this to Sally.”

  “Reported what? I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  “You've done everything wrong. Hope you enjoyed your field trip off compound, Kina. You're never leaving again.”

  She grabs a small fire extinguisher from next to my stove and uses it like a mallet to crush my phone, pieces of glass and metal spraying the room, making me turn away and throw up my arm to block the debris.

  “What is wrong with you? Why are you doing this?”

  “I could do far worse. Like you did to my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Angelica. Angelica was my mother. And you killed her.”

  “She was–Angelica was–what?”

  With a smug, sickening look on her face, Leila moves to the doorway, one corner curling up as she reaches into her pocket and produces a pair of tortoiseshell glasses, perching them on her nose.