Rachel Caine - Terminated

“Joe?” Patrick clicked the radio again, twice, and got nothing in response. “Goddammit. Floor it.”

She did, at least as much as she could, given the crappy road conditions; the SUV’s treads were packed with hard snow, and as the temperature dropped, the little thawing from the sun was freezing into slick ice. She hit a patch, and the vehicle slid to the right with a lurch, just as they rounded the curve and she spotted the Day-Glo yellow mailbox up ahead.

Joe was on his knees in the middle of the road, blocking their path, with Riley right behind him. Bryn hit the brakes, and cried out as the SUV kept sliding toward them. The front tires hit a patch of raw snow, bit, and held, throwing both her and Patrick forward into their safety belts, and as Bryn took a deep breath of relief she realized that something was very, very wrong with Joe and Riley.

Joe was on his knees, hands at his sides. Riley was standing behind him, her eyes fixed on the cab of the SUV.

And she had her gun pointed right at Joe’s head.

Patrick threw open his door and stepped out on the running board, drawing dead aim on her. She wasn’t afraid of that, of course. She even smiled, just a little.

“Even if you get the sweet spot, I’ll still pull the trigger,” she told him. “Nobody has to die here, Pat. Toss the weapon and step away from the vehicle. Bryn, shut off the engine. Now.”

She didn’t have much choice. Going forward meant hitting Joe first. Bryn jammed the SUV in park and turned off the engine.

Patrick, after a long, torturous moment, held up both hands and tossed his sidearm into the snow ten feet away—equidistant between him and Riley. Then he jumped off the running board, shut the truck door, and knelt, hands laced behind his head.

“Bryn,” Riley said. “Same thing. Toss the weapon, get out and on your knees.”

“Sorry,” Joe said. His voice was clipped and tight with fury. “Never saw it coming. Should have, I guess. But you get so used to your pets you forget they can bite.”

“I said I was sorry,” Riley said. She sounded calm and amused. “Bryn. Count of five, I’m blowing his head off, and then I shoot Patrick. If it comes down to the two of us, I’ll probably still win. You know that, and you still lose these two. I don’t want that, and neither do you.”

Red fury rose up inside her, a hot spiral that made her hands tingle with the need to rip into Riley’s flesh. She wondered if it showed in her face; it must have, because Riley tensed and took hold of Joe’s collar in a tight grip.

“Don’t,” she said. “Out. Do it.”

Bryn popped the door, tossed her gun, and knelt down, hands behind her head. “You’re working for Jane.”

“Never,” Riley said. “I told you, I work for the government. I always have, and I always will. This doesn’t have to go badly. Just give me the formula, and I’ll let you all go. You’ll have to hole up with Johannsen at her cabin, but you won’t freeze to death, at least. I’m sure she’s got transportation to get you back to the plane once it thaws in the morning.”

“Salving your conscience?” Patrick asked. “You know we need the formula to stop Jane. And we still don’t know if the sample Manny has is any good.”

“That’s right, and this might be the last viable sample, so no offense to your personal vendetta against Jane, but your government needs it more. I’m sorry, but my mission diverged from yours. We’ll take on the Fountain Group. You know we’re better equipped to finish this.”

“I know the government’s half owned by these assholes,” Joe said. “You know that, too, Riley. Jesus Christ, you were there . There was a whole helicopter regiment ready to blow our balls off in the middle of the Heartland. What makes you think the people you hand that over to will do the right thing?”

“He’s right,” Bryn said. “Riley, think. Your orders could just be the Fountain Group taking the easy way out, and getting you to do their dirty work for them.”

“We’re boned anyway,” Joe said. “She’s been making reports, which means somebody along that chain of command will have leaked it. We’re just lucky they haven’t killed us yet—”

“Shut up!” Riley said sharply, and yanked on his collar. “Joe, you know I like you, but you’re talking bullshit. Nobody is going to sell us out. I work for the FBI, not some banana republic Bureau of Corruption. . . .”

Bryn could have sworn that she heard something, but it probably wasn’t the drone itself; those were eerily quiet. It was probably the missile it released, hissing toward its target. It was a split second of knowing, with a sinking feeling of horror, that something wasn’t right , and then Dr. Johannsen’s quiet, remote cabin exploded in a fireball that lit the snow with hot orange an instant before the concussion wave slammed into her, knocking her forward, and blew the SUV into a sideways skid. She’d fallen with her face toward it, and so she saw the windshield and windows explode like jagged safety glass confetti as it slid . . .

. . . toward Joe and Riley, who’d both been knocked over as well.

Riley had just enough time to wrap arms and legs around Joe and roll him out of the path before the heavy weight of the left front tire tore through where they’d been.

Bryn lunged for the gun she’d thrown away; she saw that Patrick was doing the same, fifteen feet away on the other side of the trail. They both came up armed at almost the same second. Riley was pinned under Joe’s weight, and somehow, he’d come up with a backup weapon—a knife, which he was pressing right over her carotid artery.

Johannsen’s cabin was a holocaust of flames and billowing black smoke. Bryn could feel the unnatural heat on her back, even at this distance.

“You were saying?” Joe asked Riley. It was almost his usual, good-natured voice, but the muscles in his jaw were tight, and his eyes were narrow and cold. “About how you don’t work for the Federal Bureau of Corruption? I’m sorry, I might have lost the last of that in the giant fucking explosion that just killed an innocent woman.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t move, except to shake her head. More denial, Bryn thought, than response. Her world had just been rocked . . . or shattered.

“Come on,” Patrick said, and tapped Joe’s shoulder. “We have to get the hell out of here. If they’ve got a drone, they’ll be coming back around for another pass.”

“Not much use in trying to outrun it,” Joe said, but he eased his weight off of Riley and yanked her up to her feet. While he held her, Patrick gave her a quick, competent pat down for weapons, then shoved her to the SUV. Joe took the backseat next to her, with his own recovered sidearm pointed at her for security. Bryn took the driver’s seat, brushing the broken glass away, and started up the engine. It took a few tries, but it finally caught just as Patrick slammed his door closed and clicked his seat belt in place.

“Any suggestions on how to do this?” she asked him.

“Considering we’re on flat, empty snow plains? Not a fucking clue,” he said. “Small-arms fire won’t help us, either. Just . . . drive. At least we’ll make them work for the privilege.”

It wasn’t a great plan, but Bryn had to agree, it was all they really had. And, some thought, if the drone dropped another missile on them, at least they’d never know it. Even upgrades like her and Riley would be incinerated in a blast of that magnitude. The skies had been clear before, but over the past hour they’d darkened as weather moved in; the low, gray clouds made it impossible to spot any approaching threats. The ruins of the Johannsen cabin smoldered behind them, still burning and sending sullen belches of smoke to the skies, but it fell behind quickly as she edged more speed out of the SUV on the slick, uneven road. Her neck began to hurt from the strain of driving, craning to look at the skies, and the bone-shaking bounce of the SUV on the rutted track.