Hostile Attractions Page 5

  “And how are they going to do that?”

  I don’t answer. I just keep staring at the table.

  He sighs, but it’s not disappointment. More like he was expecting this. “And the CIA and the NSA? How are these friends going to protect you from them?”

  I laugh, sharp and bitter. “They can’t. No one can. But that’s not the point.”

  The silence that follows is heavy. I can feel him breathing even though we’re not touching. But he’s so close the air he displaces rustles against me. I can’t escape him when he’s this close.

  Finally he moves. His arm brushes mine, quick enough to shock me, then he’s getting up, leaving me a path to flee.

  “You can check your email tonight,” he says in a rumbly tone. “I need to work now.”

  Without looking him in the eye, I slip out and dash up the stairs. With every fall of my feet on the steps, I pray that Deena answers today. This instant. And rescues me from this man.

  Chapter 7

  I told her I had to work, but that was a lie.

  I can’t concentrate, not with her so close. She’s upstairs, quiet as a mouse, doing who knows what—and I’m just staring at my laptop screen, trying to go through these contracts while my brain listens as hard as it can for any noise from her.

  It’s getting close to dinnertime. I should call her down, tell her to check her email. Or offer her something to eat or drink. I didn’t think to give her any breakfast or coffee this morning—Logan distracted me. And when lunch rolled around, I was too busy forcing myself to get any kind of work done to play the host.

  She never came down, not to ask for anything. I’d suspect her of jumping overboard and swimming to freedom, but I didn’t hear a splash. And I’ve still got her hard drive sitting on the table across from my laptop. I glance at it every so often, a reminder that she can’t leave, not without that.

  Logan’s been texting me every hour, asking what I’ve done with her. My answer is always the same: nothing. I wonder if he’s told the other Bastards that I have her here. I made him promise not to—all five of them on my back about this would drive me insane—but I’ll have to tell them sooner or later. Minerva’s wrecked or tried to wreck too many people they love to keep this a secret.

  I want her to be gone before I tell them. I had her, but she’s gone. Then there’d be nothing for them to do about it except yell at me for not telling them sooner. I can live with that.

  I’m not sure I could live with them turning her in or taking that hard drive from her. I don’t owe her anything… but when she was afraid and fleeing, she came to me. Thinking about it does strange things to my chest. Painful, uncomfortable things. I don’t want to be responsible for her. I don’t even like her.

  I try one more time to read this contract that’s due tomorrow, then finally give up. It should be fine since I’ve already been through it a few times. And with my eyes bouncing off the screen to look at anything but this contract every few seconds, I’m not going to catch any mistakes anyway. I close the window, then call up the web browser.

  The home page starts to load automatically—the tech section of a major newspaper. There are several other sites that follow tech news more closely and in more depth, but I like to see what the laymen are saying about Silicon Valley too.

  At Corvus, Dyne Steps out of the Shadows reads the first headline, which takes up the entire page. A headshot of Minerva is attached to the story, arms crossed, looking coolly professional.

  My heart starts to pound. Has her escape leaked to the press? But what do they mean by out of the shadows?

  I read it quickly, my eyes flying over the words. As I get to the end, my jaw tightens and my fists clench.

  “Motherfucker,” I mutter. I read through the story again, in case I’ve misunderstood any of it. But no, I haven’t.

  Minerva’s fucking playing me. She’s been lying since she got here. Which I should have fucking known.

  “You want to explain this?” I yell up the stairs. “Grab your clothes when you come down, because you’re out of here.”

  She comes down the stairs in her bare feet, wide-eyed and hair loose. A disguise, the better to pretend she’s innocent. “What? What’s going on?”

  “Oh, just this press release from Corvus this very afternoon.” The words burn as they leave my mouth. “They’re very pleased and proud to announce the promotion of Minerva Dyne to COO. There’s a great profile of you here too, where you tell the reporter how pleased you are to be taking on greater responsibility within the company.”

  She looks completely lost. “I don’t understand. There was no promotion.”

  I shake my head because I’m so damn sick of her and her fucked-up boss getting me and the Bastards in the middle of their schemes. “Right. You disappear and Fuchs decides to promote you. That makes complete sense.”

  She flinches from my sarcasm like it’s a physical blow. “I swear, I haven’t been lying.”

  “No, but you haven’t been telling the entire truth. Why would he do this if you’ve run away from him?” I smack my hand on the table when she doesn’t respond. “Goddamn it, answer me!”

  Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. She looks… defeated. Rawly so. “He’s trying to flush me out. I think.” Her voice is low, uncertain. “Or not. I don’t know what he’s doing.”

  “You spent the past five years by his side, and you don’t know what he’s doing?”

  Her skin is pale as milk. “I know he’s angry. I definitely know that. And he’s looking for me.”

  I close my eyes, try to pull back on my anger. This is all a trick, a show, something to fool and dazzle me while she and Fuchs pull off something. Only, I can’t see what it would be and it fucking infuriates me. That and that I fell for her bullshit, her damsel-in-distress act.

  “He’s not,” I say. “Because he knows exactly where you are. He sent you here, didn’t he? What was the hard drive about? What the hell are you two trying to pull?”

  “I’m not—”

  The pleading in her voice sickens me. “No. Shut up. Just stop. Go back to your master; tell him it won’t work. And whatever you put on that laptop, it’s not going anywhere. I’m dumping it into the canal once you’re gone.”

  “No.” She reaches for it. “Deena can’t contact me if you do that.”

  Deena. I file that in the back of mind, a clue to investigate when I dissect this entire mess.

  I grab the hard drive and shove it at her. “Take it. I don’t need whatever bullshit you’ve put on it. And go.”

  I cross my arms, my jaw set. My pulse is ticking in my throat, my fingers, as anger flows through me. I was right to hate her all along. I let my guard down, thought she might actually be human under all that… and she wasn’t.

  The attraction I felt for her takes on a disgusting tint. Because even now I can’t help but notice her, the trembling of her full lips, the tears collecting in her luminous eyes, the flutter of her pulse at the base of her neck.

  “Fine.” Some of her old defiance returns. “I’ll leave. This was a mistake anyway.”

  As she slips her feet into her high heels, I have to bite back the urge to ask her where she’ll go. Of course she’s going back to Fuchs. Where else would she go?

  But my idiot conscience keeps insisting What if she doesn’t? What if she’s really on the run?

  My better sense tells it to shut up.

  She walks to the door, her shoes clicking against the floor, her arms filled with her clothes and the hard drive. She’s still in my T-shirt and sweats. “I’ll send the clothes back to you,” she says with quiet dignity.

  “Don’t bother.”

  She swallows hard, her hand lingering on the doorknob. “Please don’t tell anyone else I was here. And ask your brother to keep quiet too.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t get to set terms.”

  She nods as if she was expecting that. And then she leaves without looking back or saying a word.

 
Once the door shuts behind her, my heart sinks. I know I did the right thing… but it still feels wrong.

  Chapter 8

  I’m way too exposed, but there’s nothing I can do.

  I can feel the cameras watching me as I walk down Third Street, their electronic eyes cold on the back of my neck. I keep my head down and stay in the areas where the cameras have blind spots.

  It won’t be enough though. The sun is out and the cameras can see everything. In a few hours, maybe even a few minutes, Fuchs will find me. He’ll send his security detail to deal with me, and that will be that.

  He won’t kill me. He won’t have to. He’ll let his contacts in the government know what I stole, and I’ll be very quietly and quickly convicted of espionage and sent to a supermax prison for years and years and years.

  I just have to get this drive to someone before that happens. Maybe I should have left it with Elliot. He hates me, but once I end up disappeared, he’d know I was telling the truth. Which makes me sound like a little kid—You’ll be sorry once I’m dead!

  A T-line train comes rumbling past, only half full. It’s going south, toward Mission Bay and Dogpatch and all the way toward Sunnydale. The train going north would be packed full of commuters, heading into the heart of the City.

  I used to take the Muni all the time before Corvus. After Corvus, it was only Uber or company cars. Couldn’t let yourself mingle with the commoners. Once I became Fuchs’s assistant, I was too exalted for even the company buses that hauled people from their apartments in the City to the main Corvus building in South Bay and back again. There was a company car always at my disposal, along with a driver.

  The urge to jump on the train, take it to the very end of the line, surges in me. I could watch the City go by and just breathe. Not think at all.

  It’s so tempting I actually turn toward the tracks without thinking. But the train is filled with cameras. It’s the worst possible place for me to be.

  Instead, I turn down Sixteenth Street, the medical school and hospital looming over me. Shuttles pull in and out of the traffic loop, and people rush from one building to another, all of them gripping coffee cups. No one seems to notice me even though I’m in sweatpants and a shirt that are way too big for me, a pile of clothes in my arms, and stiletto heels on my feet. Maybe they think I’m some new kind of hipster.

  I keep close to the buildings, ducking under awnings and searching out the shadows. I can’t completely hide from the cameras, but hopefully it will be enough to buy me some time.

  My bigger problem is finding a place to go. I have some half-formed idea of showing up at Jay’s place, or at least the last address I have for him, but God only knows if he’ll be home. Or if he even still lives there. But his place is the closest and he was one of our original group, so I don’t have much choice.

  I’m leading Fuchs right to Jay if I do that, but maybe… maybe somehow Jay could hide the drive. Get it to someone else, someone who could release all the information I’ve gathered. It’s a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got.

  The buildings of Mission Bay fall away, the 280 freeway ramp rising overhead, blotting out the sun and filling the air with the thunder of cars. Under the freeway, the Caltrain tracks run north to the heart of the City, past the Third Street canal and Elliot’s houseboat. There’s nothing here but space for cars and trains. I take a moment to rest because there are no cameras, not in this no-man’s-land. I see a homeless encampment several hundred feet away, in the empty space between the campus and the train tracks.

  Nothing stirs anywhere though. It’s eerily empty, one of the few places in San Francisco that is.

  It’s good, at least for me, but I can’t help the shudder that comes over me. I don’t want to be alone, not like this.

  The arm of the train crossing lights up, the bell clanging angrily. Slowly the arm comes down, blocking me in on this side of the intersection.

  Now I’m really freaked out. The Caltrain isn’t like the Muni trains that run through the City—the Caltrain is pulled by massive, belching diesel engines that rattle your bones as they race by. The Caltrain is a serious goddamn train, one that kills plenty of people. At least once a month there’s a story in the news about someone killed at a crossing.

  I can’t even see the train yet, but already the ground is trembling under my feet. I tuck myself against the massive concrete pillar holding up the freeway above me, wishing I could close my eyes.

  Minerva wouldn’t be frightened of the Caltrain. She’d sneer at anyone infantile enough to be frightened of a stupid train.

  “Don’t go on the tracks and you’ll be fine,” she’d say in a cold voice. “You’re not dumb enough to go out there, are you?”

  Except, I’m not Minerva. And I’m terrified.

  I take short, jerky breaths through my nose, purse my lips to blow it all back out. I cannot have a panic attack here, so I won’t. I simply won’t.

  The train appears around the bend, headlight bright and blinding. The stink of diesel fills my mouth, makes me want to gag.

  It’ll be past soon. You’ll be just fine. I can’t quite believe that though.

  The rumble under my feet builds until my ribs are rattling with it. I grit my teeth, breathing through the gaps.

  I’m going to be fine. I’m safe here by the pillar. Even if it feels like I’m going to shake apart.

  And then something smashes into me from behind. My head snaps back, my arms flailing. My hips shove out past my knees, and I’m falling, nothing to stop me.

  Panic claws through me as I reach for something to grab. My hand slips over the concrete of the pillar, finding nothing.

  Oh God, I’m going to hit the ground. My heart is sick with the certainty. But at least—

  A hand grabs my shirt, another the waistband of my pants. Thank God, someone’s catching me.

  The panic slows, adrenaline goes quiet. The hands lift me…

  And I’m going over the rail crossing arm. Right onto the tracks.

  I have just enough time to scream before I land. The gravel on the tracks tears into the skin of my palms, bites into my knees and hip. Fear is a high, sustained scream in me.

  Move, move, movemovemove.

  Behind me, the train blows its horn, warning me that it’s coming to kill me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a dark blur. A man or someone running away, elbows and legs pumping.

  I don’t have time to think about it. I don’t even know if there’s time to crawl off the track or if I should flatten myself in the middle and pray like hell.

  Off the tracks. I’m taking my chances on that. I grab the rail, the metal cold and slick. I pull myself an inch forward, my feet scrabbling for purchase.

  My knee hits something hard and square.

  The hard drive.

  I can’t leave it. But if I take the time to look for it…

  I reach between my legs, searching for that thing that cost me five goddamn years. My fingers find nothing but gravel, tiny pebbles lodging under my nails. I reach again.

  The train’s horn is now a constant blare. I hear a squeal, like metal on metal. The brakes—the train is actually trying to stop, although there’s no time.

  The side of my hand brushes against plastic. Thank fucking God.

  I grab it. But it’s too late. The train is too close.

  Just as my hand closes around the drive, an arm snakes around my waist. I’m lifted, jerked really, up and off the tracks. And then my rescuer is running, dodging the crossing arm as he races to safety.

  I can’t breathe. From the panic, from the arm too tight around me. I choke and sputter, bile rising in my throat. I’m going to suffocate like this. I’d push the arm away, but I can’t let go of the drive.

  My vision starts to go gray. “Argh,” I manage to get out, more a gargle than an actual noise.

  The arm loosens, and I’m spun around. Hard hands clamp down on my shoulders.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Elliot’s eyes burn with
rage.

  I open my mouth to answer, but then the gray goes to black and there’s nothing.

  Chapter 9

  The world comes back in a rush, on a full, deep breath. The air stings deep in my chest, in the back of my throat. But it’s a good sting, a wonderful sting.

  Pain means I’m still alive.

  I’m alive and in Elliot’s arms. I can see the underside of his jaw, tense and taut. His shirt is rough and warm against my cheek, and he’s holding me as easily as if I were… something small and precious.

  I blink away the last of the fog. We’re on Owens Street, coming up to the roundabout where Owens turns into Channel Street. And from there Elliot’s houseboat is only a minute or so away.

  We’re also terribly exposed. There’s a camera on that streetlamp there, watching our every move.

  “In the shadows,” I croak. “They can see you out here.”

  Elliot says nothing, although his jaw cranks to a new level of I’m really pissed. He swerves toward the building, an ugly parking garage, which should hide us some.

  “What the hell were you doing?” he asks after a few moments.

  I tuck the drive closer to my chest. Somehow I’ve managed to hold on to it. “I wasn’t doing anything,” I say. “Someone pushed me.”

  More than that—they threw me onto those tracks. My stomach flips just remembering.

  “Not that,” he growls. “I saw that.”

  The anger in his voice is low and rumbling, like it’s coming up from somewhere deep, deep within him.

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  He misses a step but quickly recovers. “I was following you.” Is that embarrassment there? Maybe? “I wanted to see where you’d go.”

  “You wanted to see if Fuchs would pick me up.”

  He shrugs and I bobble against his chest, his muscles dense and firm. “You can’t blame me.”

  No, I suppose I can’t. It still stings though.

  “I wasn’t going anywhere.” I have nowhere to go. But it would be too pathetically clichéd to say that.