I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. His words strike a little too close to home.
“Come with me,” says Bud. “You’ve got a subdermal tracker, right? We can remove that—Carla has the equipment. A few forged paper IDs, a new passport, and you could be free. The tattoo is trickier, but I’m sure we could either keep it covered or, you know. We’re trying to bring in some medical specialists. We could find a way to deactivate it.” He sounds terrifyingly earnest. “Work with us. Or don’t. We wouldn’t force you. That’s where we differ from the feds.”
I take a step back. “How did you go from your manifesto to a job offer?”
“You’re young,” he says simply. “You were smart enough to escape the lockdown procedures. You care about the dead guy, which means you’re not heartless. And you took me out.”
“Not difficult.” I cross my arms.
That earns me a flash of a grin. “And I think we’d work well together. Our group attracts a certain… type. I think you’d fit in. I’ll vouch for you, kid.” He gazes at me. “How long is your sentence? Ten years? Twenty? How many years of your life will you let them steal, when you could steal them back?”
“Sorry, but I don’t work for murderers,” I say coolly.
Bud gives me a pitying look. “Of course you do.”
I have no answer to that. Because… I’m pretty sure he is right.
For a moment, I let myself consider his words. I imagine unbinding his wrists and ankles, going to Hannah Vale and the others. I imagine the brief flash of pain it will take to remove the tracker in my arm. The tattoo will prove trickier; they’ll have to stop my heart for about a minute. With the tracker and tattoo gone, I can slip into the shadows like a true wraith, vanishing from this place. Freedom will be within reach.
I will no longer be Augusta Pine.
But I’ll be forever on the run.
Before I can answer, a crackle of radio static sounds from Bud’s pocket.
“Hey,” comes an unfamiliar voice. “We’ve got movement outside. SWAT just showed up. Looks like someone managed to get a call out before the jammers went up. Over.”
Another crackle.
Then a new voice. Smooth and assured. Hannah Vale.
“Get off the roof, Carla,” says Vale. “Anasova, you keep watch. Anyone gets too close, you take them out. Clock’s running, people. We start on the first floor and make our way up. Apartment by apartment. Project Persephone is somewhere in the building. Good hunting.” Another crackle of static, and then—silence.
I squat down, angling myself closer to Bud. I pull the radio from his pocket. It’s an old bit of tech, but not reliant on internet or cellular signals, which makes it perfect for this operation. I click it off so I won’t accidentally radio anyone.
“What’s Project Persephone?” I ask. “Computer program? Missile guidance system? Blackmail file?”
Bud shakes his head. “Nope. No more details for you. It’s time for you to make a choice.”
“What choice?” I say skeptically. “Join you and your merry little band of cyberterrorists?”
“Whether to escape or not,” replies Bud. “Youareimprisoned, whether or not you can see the bars. Untie me. Join us. I promise no one else has to get hurt. And you could do some good in the world.”
I wonder what is more terrifying—that he is lying or the possibility that he is wholly sincere. He sounds sincere. He is right that humanity’s future is unraveling, with the most vulnerable people routinely getting screwed over while the powerful enjoy a life of safety. And things are probably going to get a lot worse.
But I have certain lines I won’t cross.
“His name was Matthew,” I say.
Bud sounds confused. “What?”
“The guard that Vale shot.” I shake my head. “His name was Matthew. And as for your job offer…” I fasten a strip of duct tape over his mouth. “Nope.”
I step outside the office and I hold up my right hand, settling it on the door’s lock pad. Matthew’s ringware connects, and a screen appears in my visor.
Lock/Unlock
I swipe my fingers, and a lock slides into place. Then I enter a command to cut off this door’s access from the mainframe.
