MirrorWorld Part 28

"What?" I ask.

"I have no idea," she says, "but I hope you remember."

Looking at Allenby, this fifty-five-year-old woman whose small stature belies a powerful resolve, I'm inspired. She has suffered deep loss, is fully aware of the kind of enemy we're facing, and is willing to stare defiantly in the face of fear. But can I find that strength in myself, even with my memory returned? I'm not sure. Fear is new to me, and it will be new to my old self, too. I have no natural defenses against it or coping mechanisms to help me recover from its effects.

And what if I'm an a.s.shole? What if my memories return and the thing I wanted to forget was something horrible I did? I already know I was a CIA a.s.sa.s.sin, but what if I was a murderer? What if I enjoyed killing? Who knows what my past self did. I have trouble believing it was anything but horrible.

I clench my eyes shut against the tide of what-ifs.

Allenby is right. It doesn't matter who I used to be. Or what I'm afraid is going to happen. With countless lives and an outright war with the Dread looming, any help I can offer should be given without hesitation, even if it hurts. Even if it frightens me.

I turn to Stephanie. "How fast will it work?"

"It will be a slow spread as the retrovirus works its way through the damaged areas. The change will be one cell at a time." She holds her hands up. "And before anyone complains, this is a good thing. Picture a lifetime of memories like a lake. Right now, all that mental water is dammed and frozen. We're going to be thawing the ice, but we're also removing the dams bit by bit. If it happened all at once, the flood of information would overwhelm your mind. The effects could be catastrophic."

"Total time," I say. "How long? Months?"

"Oh, no." She waves her hand dismissively. "Days."

"What's it going to feel like?"

"If I could ask the lab rats, I'd be able to ... tell..." She looks at my wide-eyed expression. "Probably should have left that detail out, huh?"

"Probably," I say, but try to ignore that we're talking about a procedure that's only been done on lesser mammals. "When it's done, if it works, will I still be me?"

"You mean, will you still be Crazy with a capital C?" Allenby asks, but doesn't wait for an answer. "You'll still remember the past year, so those experiences will shape who you are, but you'll also be Josef, too." She takes my hand. "Look, I know I've painted an unappealing image of your old self, but you really weren't ... I've been angry at that man for a long time. For running away. You were a good man, and a great father, despite your previous occupation. If I didn't think bringing the old you back would help, I wouldn't do it."

"Why not?"

She pats my hand and steps back. "If you really did volunteer to forget, with the intention of never restoring your memory, I'm not sure you'll be happy to remember."

"So you're counting on Crazy to balance out Josef?"

"Something like that."

"Okay," I say, and climb on the table. "Let's just do this so you don't have to draw that gun behind your back and force me to."

All eyes turn to Allenby. She offers a fake apologetic smile, draws the weapon from behind her back, and moves to place it on a countertop. She stops halfway when the door behind her opens.

Winters steps in. "Just what the h.e.l.l do you all think you're doing?"

Allenby swivels around, leveling the gun at Winters.

The one-woman CIA oversight committee / psychotherapist doesn't even blink at the weapon. She glances around the room, at who's there, at the equipment, then at Allenby. "Let me help. He's going to need someone ... close ... to help him transition when he wakes up."

"Wait, what?" I ask. "What do you mean, wake up?"

Allenby nods to Cobb. "Do it."

I feel a pinch on my neck, hear a whispered apology from Cobb, and then drift into a dream.

Heads shift about randomly, a mix of dark hair and darker-colored abayas. There's no pattern to the clogged marketplace, just movement as thousands of people buy, sell, and steal for their families. They don't call the Chor Bazaar the "thieves market" for nothing. There are as many stolen goods being sold as there are pickpockets working the crowd.

My view is from far above the action, a half mile away and sixteen stories up, on the roof of a hotel that provides a line of sight straight down Mutton Street, right in the middle of Muslim-populated Mumbai, India.

I scan the street, looking for my target, who should be easy to spot, despite the fact that all I can see are heads. And motorcycles. Cars won't fit up the narrow street with all the people, so the vehicle of choice in this part of the city is of the two-wheeled variety. Except for the black BMW parked across the street from the used-instruments shop. It sticks out as obviously as my target will.

"There you are," I whisper, as a blond woman steps out of the music shop. She has an edge to her. A seriousness that, despite her age and aquiline beauty, says she's not someone with whom to trifle. Too bad for her; trifling is kind of my job.

I put her head in my crosshairs as she speaks to someone still in the shop.

The dossier I received said she runs a human-trafficking ring, smuggling women out of India and into the Middle East. But she recently expanded her business and now smuggles arms to a variety of terror organizations. Bad career move.

It's a hard shot. Her head, while squarely focused at the center of my crosshairs, is occasionally blocked by a pa.s.serby. I could pull the trigger only to have someone step in front of the bullet.

But this doesn't frighten me. If the bullet does strike someone else first, the high-caliber round will pa.s.s straight through the unfortunate's head and still find its target. Ignoring everything but my target, I slip my finger behind the trigger, exhale, and squeeze.

"Do you, Josef Shiloh, take Maya Lyons to be your lawfully wedded wife, promising to love and cherish, through joy and sorrow, sickness and health, and whatever challenges you may face, for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," I say.

The words come fast. Fearless. I love the woman standing across from me. She's perfect, and I make the promise with no concern about later breaking it.

The minister turns to Maya and smiles. Who couldn't smile at a woman like this? She's strong and sharp, like a sword, but also soft and gentle in a way I've never experienced. Her black hair, spilling from a bun in curly loops, looks even darker against the stark white of her wedding gown. She smiles at me, and I want this day to be over so the night can begin.

"Do you, Maya Lyons, take Josef Shiloh to be your lawfully wedded husband, promising to love and cherish, through joy and sorrow, sickness and health, and whatever challenges you may face, for as long as you both shall-"

"I do," she says.

"She can't even wait for me to finish the question," the minister jokes, getting a laugh out of the full church. I glance to my parents. My mother's tears are matched only by those of Aunt Allenby. They hold hands, sisters-in-law who seem more like two halves of the same soul.

Uncle Hugh gives me a thumbs-up, a far less traditional man than my father. Speaking of my father, he actually looks proud, wearing his black kippah hat emblazoned with the Star of David so everyone knows the gentile woman is marrying a Jew. He will welcome religious arguments after the ceremony, but for now he's happy to be happy.

I clap my hands together and rub them in antic.i.p.ation. "Okay, who's got the rings?"

Hanging upside down for any length of time is a fairly uncomfortable affair. Hanging upside down for four hours, inside the ventilation system of a penthouse, sixty-eight stories above Ramat Gan, Israel, is nearly unbearable. But I do it in silence, waiting patiently for the wh.o.r.es in the bedroom below to finish their job. My target lies between them, moaning like a wounded mule.

And then, he's done. Wants nothing more to do with the women. Shoos them out of the room like he never asked them there in the first place.

I don't know much about the man, other than that he has close a.s.sociations within Al-Qaeda, and someone in the company wants him dead, immediately, and disappeared for three days. I don't know why. I don't care.

The man stumbles around, mumbling about the wh.o.r.es' lack of abilities and attractiveness. I nearly laugh when I realize he's speaking to his own nether regions, which apparently hadn't performed as hoped. All that mewling was a show, but for whom? The women are no doubt having a good laugh at his expense right about now.

He wanders around the room, clearly drunk and pouring himself another gla.s.s. For a man with ties to Al-Qaeda, he's the worst example of a good Muslim I've ever seen. He curses toward the door, his accusatory hand sloshing the drink.

He gasps. Stands suddenly still.

Has he detected me? The air-conditioning flowing past me shouldn't carry a scent. I'm too careful for that.

No, I decide, it's them. They're here. Making my final job a little more difficult. I never had a problem with what I do, or keeping the details a secret from Maya. But in the year since the birth of my son, I've had an increasingly difficult time believing that being an a.s.sa.s.sin, government sanctioned or not, is an acceptable job choice for a father.

So I'm taking care of this last job, retiring from my life as a killer, and joining Neuro Inc., Lyons's CIA-funded black organization, to help study the creatures I suspect are currently in the room below.

I'm not going in with blinders on. I've been part of enough black ops before. Lyons-whose military background and employment at DARPA have been covered up well enough that even my friends in the CIA couldn't find anything substantial-has given me a way out of this line of work, and I appreciate it. More than that, I'm convinced, like Lyons, that the Dread are a greater and growing threat that needs to be addressed. For the first time since Maya and I married, her father and I have a common interest beyond fishing.

The trick is that the Dread also seem to be interested in me. Lyons thinks it's because they have no effect on me. Whether or not he's right, I do see their influence while working. Sometimes they go after my target. Sometimes they disrupt the scene. Sometimes they reveal themselves to me, trying their d.a.m.nedest to get my knees quivering. This should probably unnerve me, but Lyons believes it gives us a better shot of studying them. My new job description might as well be "bait."

A shadow flits through the room. My target spins with a yelp as the Dread work him up. a.s.sholes, I think. They're going to draw attention and delay the op or, worse, send him out the window.

The man drops his gla.s.s and bends to pick it up.

A monster flickers in and out of reality, hovering on wings, its four red eyes locked onto the man. When he turns around, my op will be ruined.

What are you? I think, and then drop.

The square ceiling vent clangs open. The man snaps to attention, not thinking to look up. As I descend behind him, I position a noose above his head with one hand and flip off the monster with my other, which is also holding the pulley system's remote. The Dread flickers and disappears. I slip the noose around the man's neck and push a b.u.t.ton on the remote.

The noose snaps tight as the line is yanked up by the pulley bolted to the inside of the air duct. While the man gurgles and kicks, just two feet from the floor, I unclip from the carabiners holding me upside down and take out a hundred-foot-long roll of plastic wrap. Like a spider, I spin the dying man around, wrapping him in layer upon layer of clear plastic.

In the time it takes him to die, I've got him fully wrapped in plastic, head to toe. When he's done wriggling, I push a b.u.t.ton on the remote. The man is lifted into the vent. Once he and the line that had been holding me are inside the ceiling, a thin line attached to the vent cover retracts, pulling it back into place.

Dead and disappeared. That's how it's done.

Between the cold air from the air-conditioning and the plastic wrap, the room shouldn't smell like death for a few days, and, even then, most people won't think to check the ceiling vent. I pick up an old room-service tray, pile on some plates, and head for the door. Before leaving, I turn the thermostat down and take a look back. There isn't a hint of the Dread, but I don't think it's actually gone. Just hidden. I flip it the bird one more time and leave next week's crime scene, and my career as an a.s.sa.s.sin, behind.

"Daddy!" The kid runs like a wide receiver and hits like a linebacker, despite being eight years old and sixty-five pounds. The tackle turns into a hug as Simon, whose undying affection for me is dwarfed only by his never-ending reserve of energy, wraps his arms around my waist and squeezes. I return the embrace and lift him off the ground, spinning him in a circle before depositing him back to the oriental rug in our home's foyer.

"How was school?" I ask.

"Boring," he says. "Duh."

"Duh?" I reach to tickle him but stop when the door upstairs slams shut. I look at Simon. "Where's your mother?"

"In the bas.e.m.e.nt," he says.

We both look up. "That been happening more often?"

He nods. "Kitchen cabinets, too. And cold spots in the house. I don't go in the bas.e.m.e.nt anymore." He pretends to shiver. "Are you sure it's not ghosts?"

While I am most definitely sure it's not ghosts closing doors, making rooms chilly, and turning nights into nightmares for Simon, I'm not about to tell him what it really is. Ghosts would be preferable to the Dread, who have been hara.s.sing my family for months. In a few days, it won't matter. We'll be living in the Neuro apartment full-time. We would be already if the moving company hadn't screwed up the scheduling. Not that it's all bad. We weren't ready anyway. Boxes waiting to be filled litter the house. Maya's not happy about the move. Doesn't know about the Dread, and so my fabricated reasoning-closer to work, to family, and free-doesn't make a lot of sense. She wants a normal childhood for Simon, but what kid wouldn't want to live in a top-secret laboratory? She'll understand when Lyons gives me the green light to tell her everything. "I told you before: the house is drafty. If you're feeling cold air, that's why."

He rolls his eyes. "It's okay if you're afraid of ghosts. I won't tell anyone."

"You won't?" I say, reaching out to tickle him again. He shrieks as my fingers find his belly.

Maya appears in the doorway, frying pan in one hand, knife in the other. She's panicked. On edge. She sees me and lowers her weapons. "Dammit!"

"You swore!" Simon shouts, still laughing.

"Sorry, baby," I say, and kiss her cheek. She's been on edge these past few weeks. The Dread taunting is getting to her. Moving will be a good thing.

"I wasn't expecting you for another hour," she says.

"I know..."

"But?"

"I have to go back in. Going to be a late night. We're close to a breakthrough."

"And then maybe you'll tell me what you two have been working on?"

"That's up to him," I say.

"You're my husband!"

"And he's your father, and my boss." I want to tell her she's safer not knowing, but that will just make her feel less safe. I suspect that's the reason why Dread activity in our home has remained docile for the most part. They know I can't be affected, and they tend to leave the ignorant alone. Until they don't.

Simon leaves the room, sprinting through the living room.

"I don't feel safe here," Maya whispers. "It's getting weird. Seriously. You know I'm not one to cry ghost, but-"

I point in Simon's direction. "Did you tell him that?"

"No!" She's still whispering, but on the verge of not. "You know I wouldn't. He's having enough trouble sleeping."

"Look," I say, putting on my perfectly calm smile. "There's nothing to worry about."

Her laugh is brief and sarcastic. "Easy for you to say."

I take her face in my hands. "You're safe."

"Promise?"

I kiss her lips. "I promise."

Gra.s.s tickles the back of my neck. I smell lilacs. The sky above is nearly intolerably blue, the late-afternoon sun low on the horizon, deepening the tone. Spring has arrived, at last, and I'm at the park with Maya and Simon. I can't see him, but I can hear him chirping away and laughing when Maya tickles his belly with her nose. The past six months have been transformative for me. I've been so accustomed to taking life and watching death that being part of the formation of something new, alive, and delicate never occurred to me as something worth pursuing.

But here I am, lying in the gra.s.s, hands behind my head, enjoying ... everything.

Simon's face hovers over mine, the wetness around his smiling, toothless mouth threatening to drip down on me.