THIRTY-FOUR
Phoebe's all for going into La Serena and finding out immediately, but I talk her into waiting until the morning. During the night, if the squad is Arcadian, they'll outnumber us—even if we manage to surprise them; if they're Secutores, they're going to be extra vigilant against an Arcadian assault. We don't have enough intel to perform an effective raid.
Plus, Mere points out that we're going to have to leave immediately after the raid, and she wouldn't mind a decent night's sleep before we start running again.
After Mere turns in, Phoebe and I assess our arsenal. The villa is set back from the main road that winds through the Valle de Elqui, and so we don't worry about being conspicuous as Phoebe opens the trunk of the car to reveal three aluminum cases.
“When did you start following us?” I ask as I open the first case on the right. Foam padding with slots for four pistols and extra magazines. Only three of the four slots are filled. I can guess where the missing pistol is.
“Pudahuel,” Phoebe says. “I didn't bother with Rapa Nui.”
“Why?” I ask as I tug one of the pistols out of its foam slot. A CZ 75. The gun is in pristine condition, and it seems small in my hand.
“P-01,” Phoebe says, reading my confusion. “The Czech Republic has been making guns again. Has been for more than a decade.”
I remember the arms markets near the end of the twentieth century. The CZ was a Czech gun, created by a pair of brothers, but its design was a state secret. They couldn't sell it in Czechoslovakia, and so all of their production was focused on the international arms market. At some point, the Czech government started to have second thoughts about being labeled as arms dealers in the historical record, and gun exports stopped.
I couldn't help but think of Kirkov as I held the gun. He had carried a 75 as well, though his had been one of the older models. Forged barrel with steel slide and frame. Ring loop on the hammer. Much heavier in the hand. The weapon of an old soldier.
I put the pistol back in its slot. It's not the right weapon for me.
“You didn't get off the plane in Rapa Nui,” I say as I open the next case, getting back to the question I had been asking. “Why?”
“It's an island,” Phoebe says, “in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”
Her explanation brings a smile to my lips. “Had enough of islands?”
“You weren't going to stay long,” Phoebe says, ignoring my jibe. “Santiago was the obvious next stop.”
The second case contains the parts for a sniper rifle. Another Sako, judging from the skeletal frame of the stock. “There's a garden on Rapa Nui. Mere says you swam all the way back to Australia. Wouldn't the garden have been restorative?”
“There is no garden on Rapa Nui,” Phoebe says. “There hasn't been for two hundred years since you killed the steward.”
“You knew?”
“Of course,” she says. She sighs, seeing my expression. “How could you have forgotten? It wasn't that long ago.”
“It…” I stop. How could she know? Had she been there? If so, why had Mother let her keep the memory and take it from me? “Phoebe, do you know what happens when we go into Mother's embrace? She takes some of our memories away.”
A strange expression crosses Phoebe's face, something almost like fear or revulsion. “Why would you let her do that?”
“I… I don't have a choice. At least, I didn't,” I say. “Wait. Are you saying that you remember everything? How is that possible?”
“I've never let Mother embrace me, Silas,” Phoebe says.
I sit down heavily on the edge of the trunk. “Never?”
She looks at me, and the revulsion flashes across her features again, though in its wake what is left on her face is a growing anger. “You were there when I died, Silas,” she says. “You let them put me in the ground and let Mother embrace me.”
“I was,” I say, saddened that I can't recall all the details of how Phoebe had become an Arcadian.
“I never wanted to forget what happened,” she says. She flips the car keys at me, and I catch them awkwardly. She turns and walks off without a word. Not toward the house, but toward the trees that line the road. She moves gracefully and efficiently. Not in a rush, but moving away from me in the most expedient manner possible.
I sit there and watch her go, trying to figure out what centuries of hate would do to a person. How old was her body? I wondered, doing the math. How fractured was her mind? But it wasn't. Of all of us, I realized with a start, she might be the least damaged.
The third case contained grenades. A mixed dozen of flashbangs, concussive, and incendiary. More than enough to cause trouble. While I wander around the villa, waiting for dawn, I have more than a few hours to ponder how Phoebe managed to procure this arsenal. I stare at Mere's chart until I have it memorized, and I surf through the news cycles, filling my head with the banality of the human world. I make my own timeline, examining what we think has happened over the past few weeks and how that might look from both Secutores's perspective and from Hyacinth. I think about Arcadia and my various conversations with Callis, as well as the possible reasons why he hadn't answered the phone in Santiago. I examine Mere's map with her tiny marginalia about various sites, and I think about this data the way that a good commander would. The way that Secutores would.
Shortly after the sun rises, I start rummaging around the kitchen. There isn't much, but the smell of freshly brewed coffee is enough to rouse Mere from the bedroom. She wanders into the kitchen, still yawning, and she perks up noticeably at the sight of the full coffee pot. She's wearing a gray t-shirt, no bra, and a pair of loose cotton pants decorated with green and red and yellow triangles. Her hair is both matted and frenzied, a sure sign that her sleep wasn't all that restful.
“Morning, sunshine,” I quip.
She growls at me as she pours a cup of coffee. Shuffling over to the table, she sits and wraps her hands around her cup. I can feel her glaring at the back of my head as I work at the stove. “What are you so chipper about?” she grouses.
I glance over my shoulder. “I thought you'd be more pleased to have breakfast waiting for you when you got up,” I say.
She pastes a false smile on her face as she cocks her head to the side. “Oh, Silas, you shouldn't have,” she says mockingly. “What a lucky girl I am. Are you going to take me shopping later?”
“Of course, my darling,” I respond. “I thought maybe we could get some diamonds and a puppy.”
She makes a noise like the strangled sound of air escaping from a balloon, and it takes me a moment to realize she's imitating a squeal of delight.
“No diamonds, then?”
She turns the escaping air sound into the flatulence of a raspberry, and then devotes all of her attention to the cup of coffee in front of her.
I fill up a plate with the hodge-podge ensemble I've managed to create from the various leftovers in the tiny refrigerator. Standing behind her chair, I lean over and arrange the plate and silverware in front of Mere. I catch myself before I touch her hair, and I return to the stove where I can busy my hands with cleaning up. Behind me, I hear the clink of the fork against the plate.
“No puppy,” she says after a while. “Not right now.”
I stop washing the pan. “Okay.”
“You have a plan, don't you?” she says.
I nod. “I do.”
“I can tell,” she says. “You're being sweet about it, but I can tell you're ready to go. You don't like waiting.”
I turn around. “No soldier does. Not when he knows his mission.”
“And what is our mission?”
I smile.
She sighs. “Maybe what I should be shopping for is a bulletproof vest,” she says.
After breakfast, I clean up the rest of the villa while Mere takes a shower. I have no idea how long she rented the place, but there's no reason to leave any sign that we'd been there at all. I haul the sack of garbage out into the back yard and dump it into the hole I had been planted in. As we're loading the car, Phoebe emerges from the trees and calmly gets into the back of the car. Mere gives me a withering look, and I'm left wondering what exactly has been decided was my fault.
On the way to La Serena, I outline the plan to Phoebe. Her frosty demeanor thaws, as I suspected it would at the idea of doing violence. As we reach the outskirts of the city, Mere diverts into a shopping district where Phoebe and I get supplies: heavy tape, carabiners, horrifically touristy ponchos, disposable cell phones with preloaded blocks of minutes, Bluetooth headsets, sunblock, and hats.
It's going to be a warm day. Unlike Phoebe, I need a little skin protection.
Mere drives to the central market, letting us off a few blocks prior. By the time we get to the edge of the square, Mere's already deep in the teeming chaos of the farmer's market. She's wearing a light blue scarf in her hair, making her easy to spot. She's got a basket on her arm, and is strolling slowly along the aisles, shopping for fresh fruit and vegetables.
Mere has Pedro's cell phone number, and she was supposed to call him after she parked the car, asking him to meet her at the market. He shows, not long after Phoebe and I get into position, and I watch him circle the market until he's on the same side as Mere's car. He parks his scooter in the shade of a building, and with a nervous glance around him, starts walking toward the market.
I can't blame him. I can tell he's very proud of the scooter, which means it's well cared for. As soon as he walks past me and is swallowed by the market, I get up from the chair I've been sitting in outside a tiny café and wander toward the scooter.
It's not very big, and not made for two, but it'll do. The ignition key—on a tiny chain with a silver medallion—is hanging across the base of the handlebars, just as Mere asked. It's not obvious if you aren't looking for it. Without breaking stride, I snatch it up and keep walking.
We've had to make some assumptions in our planning. Phoebe has been watching the road near the villa all week, and she's confident that whoever is in town hasn't made Pedro as our contact. But they're looking for Mere and me; they know what we look like. The market is an obvious spot to buy fresh produce. It'll be one of several places they have eyes. We just need to make sure they're just watching and not lying in ambush.
I keep an eye out for a G-class Mercedes. Like a Land Rover, Phoebe said. Should be easy enough to spot.
As I turn the corner at the end of the block, I catch sight of a suitable candidate, coming from the west. I duck into a nearby shop—one selling women's clothing—and idle near the front windows. A few minutes later, a silver G-class Mercedes drifts by. Tinted windows, but I can see well enough to count four men inside. As I look over a rack of scarves, I pull my new cell phone out of my pocket. Under my coat, a pair of grenades shift against my side.
I speed dial the first number. “One and four,” I say when Phoebe answers.
“Four,” she confirms quietly, and through my earpiece I hear the background noise of the market as she leaves the line open. “Two in market,” she tells me. “Locals.”
Mere has been made by two people in the market, both locals. The strike teams had circulated pictures. See these people? Call this number.
The four guys in the Mercedes were the response team. Quick, too, which suggested they were based nearby. Where was the other car?
I buy one of the scarves, green with streaks of purple and red in it. One Mere might like, I find myself thinking as I stand at the register. I wave off the offered bag, and tie it loosely around my neck. My wide-brimmed hat is somewhat flexible and I mash it into a more distressed shape. It's not much in the way of changing my appearance, but with all the people on the street, it should be enough.
Before I leave the shop, I put my optics on. The sunlight is starting to hurt my eyes.
I leave the shop and head in the direction the Mercedes had been going. I find it, parked, two blocks away from Mere's car. There's only one guy in it. “One and one,” I say.
Phoebe acknowledges. “Time to go,” she says.
I put her on hold and dial the other number in my phone. I let it ring a few times, and then end the call. Mere should have felt her phone vibrating. I cross the street and head back toward Mere's car and Pedro's scooter.
The strike team wants Phoebe and me, and they know Mere will lead them to us. They'll follow her, and as soon as it is clear that she and Pedro are going to get into a car, there is going to be a scramble. If the second Mercedes isn't already prowling the edge of the market, a frantic call will be made to get it on the street. Though I suspect it's already in play.
As I turn the corner toward the market, I spot Mere and Pedro walking up the street. I cross over to the other side—the side where Pedro's scooter is parked—and slow my pace accordingly. Let them get to the car first. I keep my eyes on the crowded market, looking for some sign of people moving with purpose.
I spot one guy shoving his way through the crowd, his attention fixed on Mere and Pedro. “One following,” I tell Phoebe. I think I see a shadow behind this guy and realize I'm probably telling her something she already knows.
“Two returning to one,” Phoebe tells me. The other two of this trio have already split off and are hustling back to the car.
I'm tempted to let Phoebe take the remaining, but when I see him start talking into a cell phone, I realize what he's doing. He's going to identify the car that Mere is driving, and the first car is going to follow her. He'll be picked up by the second car, and then they'll double-team the tail.
That makes it easy.
I call Mere when the second Mercedes has picked up the spotter. “They're coming,” I tell her. “Follow the route.”
“Okay,” she replies. She says something to Pedro about her laptop, and I assume she's asking him to show her the route. Hopefully, those two can sort out a system for calling out directions, though I suspect Mere can remember the route. We planned it to be simple and straight: leave La Serena and get on the Pan-American Highway.
Phoebe's arms are wrapped around my waist and her chin is pressed against my back. The tiny engine of the scooter whines beneath me. It's not happy about the weight, but it's keeping up. We won't be able to keep up once the cars reach the highway, but we shouldn't need to.
The planned route takes us out of the heavily residential area and into a stretch of light industrial before we reach the highway. The road widens, developing four lanes, and Mere takes her time. She drives just under the speed limit enough to frustrate the guys in the Mercedes following her. One of the two cars gets into the left hand lane.
Half a kilometer up ahead, there's a light and a cross street that runs into a stretch of long warehousing.
“Miss this light,” I tell Mere. “Pretend you're going to turn right.”
Mere plays it well. She starts to slow down earlier and even though the light is green, she comes to a complete stop at the intersection. The second Mercedes can't figure out what she's doing, and squirts on through the intersection as the light turns yellow. I can imagine the commentary coming from the men in the car. The second Mercedes is three cars back from Mere, and he's pulled close to the center line so that the driver can try to figure out what the hell Mere is doing.
Both lanes fill up as traffic queues for the light.
I open the throttle on the scooter and swerve out to straddle the center line. Phoebe lets go of my waist, and I feel her weight shift as she leans back. I let go of the throttle as we come up on the line of cars, and the high pitched whine of the scooter's engine drops with an exhausted sigh. I squeeze the brakes lightly with one hand as I reach my other hand into my poncho.
As we line up with the Mercedes, I squeeze the brake all the way. The pistol in Phoebe's hand starts popping. The driver's side window shatters, and I reach into my poncho for a grenade. Letting go of the handlebars of the scooter for a second, I yank the pin and lob the live grenade through the shattered window. I return my hands to the handlebar, twist the throttle, and the scooter shoots forward.
We nearly get clipped by a blue van as we streak through the intersection. Behind us, the grenade goes off, blowing out the remaining windows of the Mercedes. A second later, there is another explosion as the gas tank goes up. I eke out as much speed as I can get from the scooter. Phoebe lays her left forearm across my shoulder and I hunch forward, clearing her light of sight. She presses up against me, and out of the corner of my eye, I see the gun in her right hand.
Up ahead, the brake lights on the first Mercedes flare. Someone has spotted the explosion behind us.
We're farther away than I would take the shot, but Phoebe opens up. Her first two shots go through the back window of the Mercedes. The third one leaves a hole in the back; the fourth shot hits the left rear tire. The car jerks to the left, turning toward us, and Phoebe empties the rest of the magazine into the driver's side.
The car wobbles and then veers quickly to the right, shooting off into the narrow ditch that runs along the side of the road. As I come up on the wrecked car, slowing the scooter to a stop, Phoebe hops off. She's got another gun in her left hand, and she stands at the edge of the road, precision shooting into the Mercedes. When the slide on her pistol locks back, she steps away from the edge of the ditch. She nods, letting me know that she's finished.
I hold the scooter steady between my legs as I reach into my poncho for more grenades. I throw one under the Mercedes, and after I kick the scooter down into the ditch, I lob the second one after it. Both grenades go off noisily as Mere pulls up with a screech of tires. Pedro's frightened face is transfixed in the passenger side window.
Phoebe opens the back passenger door and enters first. I follow, and Mere stomps on the accelerator pedal as soon as I'm in the car.
I put on my seat belt as Mere drives north, heading for the Pan-American Highway.
Phoebe's hair is wild about her head, still moving even though there is no wind in the car. “Secutores,” she says.
I nod in agreement. The strike teams were human mercenaries.
“I like biting back,” she says with a grin.
Her hate has become something else.