"My name is Daiyna. Did Sergeant Bishop and two other men enter that building?"
"Yes, and my sister went with them. They're looking for someone—a friend of theirs, in need of assistance." He pauses. "But it's been close to an hour, and no one has returned. Do you think I should...go after them?"
"Are you armed?"
"No."
"Stay put. We're on our way."
I pocket the device and nudge Victoria as we follow Samson, who navigates our course through the press of bodies. The workers in their grubby coveralls see him coming and give him a wide berth.
"Any news?"
She looks concerned. "They're in trouble. Their hearts are racing."
"They could be running back to the warehouse." And we won't be there to meet them.
She shakes her head. "They're not moving, Daiyna."
The implication is clear. Someone is holding our friends against their will. Hurting them, maybe.
Samson is always armed with his mechatronic limbs. Neither Shechara nor I were able to smuggle our weapon of choice—a Colt 9mm—past security at the Dome 10 airlock. Citizens here aren't allowed to carry guns that fire lethal projectiles, but Drasko provided us with a small arsenal of the type reserved for the upper echelon of law enforcement. About the same size and weight as a semiautomatic pistol, they fire armor-piercing rounds from a pressurized chamber—utilizing the same anti-gravity tech that makes aerocars fly.
We reach the nondescript building twenty minutes later. Extricating ourselves from the mass of foot traffic outside, we step past a pair of smudged and cracked sliding glass doors stuck halfway open. Inside the lobby, everything's quiet. Abandoned. No desk clerk on duty, no signs of life.
"They're close," Victoria says, her voice hushed as she gazes at the stained ceiling.
"On this floor?" I glance at the vacant hallways and the elevator with an OUT OF ORDER hologram glowing on its door.
"Close," she repeats, pointing upward.
"Second floor it is." Samson heads for the stairwell, his metal left hand pivoting at the wrist and transforming into a long, sharp blade.
Shechara, Victoria, and I draw our Eurasian guns and keep the muzzles aimed at the musty carpet as we follow him up the steps. Can't help cringing at the sounds made by his clanking metal feet.
"At least we don't have to worry about the element of surprise," I mutter. "Any change?" I glance over my shoulder at Victoria.
She shakes her head. Her anxious expression hasn't relaxed.
The second floor is as lifeless as the first, but with one minor difference. A door stands open halfway down the hall, and a man's muffled voice emanates outward.
"Who is he?" I whisper to Victoria.
She squints as if she's trying to see through the walls between us and this mystery man. "He knows Drasko, and he wants something." She looks at me. "He's willing to kill anyone who gets in his way."
Reminds me of her psychotic ex-husband, but I don't mention it. "How many does he have with him?"
She frowns. "He has them trapped: Milton, Luther, Bishop and his daughter... Drasko, Erik... and a young woman." She pauses. "She's one of your daughters."
My pulse quickens as we reach the open doorway.
Samson looks ready to charge inside and skewer every enemy in his path, but Victoria convinces him telepathically to remain right where he is until needed. Otherwise, his noisy metal parts will give us away—if they haven't already. From the sound of the guy inside, he likes his own voice too much to notice much else.
I sneak in and motion for Shechara and Victoria to follow. The large room might have been a swanky lounge at one point in time, but it was deserted in a hurry. Stepping silently heel-to-toe, we navigate our way around the overturned furniture and broken glass until we reach a glitching holographic wall. As we get closer, the man's voice increases in volume, growing more belligerent, more unstable. A dangerous combination.
"You don't have to tell me about dust. Drasko and I know all about it, don't we, Drasko? What's that? You can't breathe underneath all the pressure? You want me to dial it down a bit?" He laughs. "You're the most expendable one here! I already know what you have to offer. I know your sob story." He feigns mild hysteria and raises the pitch of his voice, "Oh, my family's a bunch of sickos in Dome 6! I'll do anything to keep them receiving their treatments and living in comfort, even if I have to sell drugs the rest of my life!"
I thought I'd seen everything on that quarantined continent after All-Clear. Then I had to readjust my thinking after entering Eurasia, the World of Tomorrow. But this? One man pinning seven people against a wall with some kind of force field—and wielding a chrome baton like he's leading a marching band? It's too bizarre.
And I don't have time for bizarre.
I lock eyes with Luther and give him a nod. Then I aim my Eurasian gun at the talkative creep holding them hostage. Two rounds, one to each of his legs, are enough to make him scream and hit the floor writhing. A thunderous clanking announces Samson's arrival, and he snatches the baton from the guy's hand. He crushes it in his mechatronic grip, and all of our friends collapse to the floor, freed from whatever energy field had them immobilized.
Samson keeps a metal hand on the pierced, tattooed guy bleeding out of both legs, pinning him to the floor and seeing how he likes the pressure. Victoria rushes to Milton, and they embrace. I head over to Luther and help him to his feet. Then we do some embracing ourselves—in between the kissing.
"Good work." He holds me tight.
"You're not mad at me for shooting him?"
"You didn't kill him."
"I can try again." I take aim at the guy's head.
"Let's
