“I’m not Franca,” said Franca. “And I think you know what’s going on here.”
Marisa felt as if the heat had fled out of her body, rising up from her toes to her legs to her chest, until nothing was left but fear. Franca had used Bluescreen that night at the club, and that meant . . .
“Great Holy Hand Grenades,” Marisa whispered. “You’re one of the programmers. You made Bluescreen.”
“I didn’t want this,” said Franca’s voice. Now that Marisa knew what was happening, she could see the signs of it—a slackness in Franca’s face, a stiffness in her posture. La Princesa wasn’t standing the way she typically stood, elegant and haughty, like she was posing for a photo spread only she could see. Now she was standing like . . . Marisa couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She’d taken off her heels, and her legs were braced widely, going for solidity instead of a look. She was standing like a man.
“All I wanted was the money,” said Franca. “I knew that once people saw what it could do, the code would be worth millions. It was Lal who wanted us to use it ourselves.”
Marisa had heard the name Lal before—through the drone last night, when she’d followed Kindred’s car to a meeting in the park. “Who is Lal?” she asked.
“Quiet!” Franca hissed. Even her accent, that faint hint of Mexico, was gone when she talked. “Do you know what he’ll do if he finds out I came to you?”
Marisa looked around at the madness in the hospital. “I’ve got a pretty good idea. So why risk it?”
“Because none of this was my idea,” Franca’s voice insisted. “Distributing it like a drug was fine when it was just us, but hiring gangs to sell it for us? Especially these psychopaths from Tee Shoo Whatever the hell they call themselves? I can’t control this, and neither can Lal, no matter how tough he thinks he is.” Franca’s body leaned in. “I know you’ve been looking into him, and I don’t know what you’ve found, but I need your help. I don’t know who else to go to—he’s got the cops in his pocket now, and half the city for all I can tell. I can feed you information, but even that much is risking my life—I can’t do anything else. I don’t want to go down like eLiza—”
“So she was working with you,” said Marisa. “I knew it! And that makes you . . .” What was the name? She’d seen it on the screen at San Juanito right before the shooting started. Something German? “Nils,” she said. “Nils Eckert.”
In that moment, Franca’s eyes rolled back, and she collapsed on the floor like a limp sack of beans.
“Help!” Marisa screamed. She got down from the bench, kneeling over La Princesa’s unconscious body. “Somebody help! My friend just passed out, I think she’s . . . in shock or something. Help!”
Nurses and orderlies rushed toward them, probing Franca’s neck carefully before rolling her onto her back and laying her flat. A medical nuli swooped in from above, reading Franca’s vital signs, and another nurse took Marisa by the shoulders, pulling her away.
“Give her room,” said a nurse.
“That’s my friend,” said Marisa desperately, “you have to help her.”
“We are,” said the nurse, “just give them room.”
“Stretcher!” shouted an EMT, and the nurses cleared room on the floor beside Franca’s body; they laid it next to her, counted to sync their movements, and lifted her onto the stretcher.
“Make a hole!”
“Get me a room with a DORD; she needs an immediate brain scan.”
The flurry moved away, melting into the rest of the chaos, and Marisa watched them go in stunned silence.
“This is crazy,” she muttered. “This is completely crazy.” She sat on the chair, suddenly shivering, wrapping her arms around herself to try to warm up, or keep still, or something. Anything. She felt like her brain wasn’t working anymore.
“I think you’re going into shock, too,” said the nurse, and pushed Marisa’s head gently down, between her knees. “That will help with the blood flow,” said the nurse. “Do you feel a little better?”
“Yes.” Marisa breathed slowly, controlling each long exhalation, trying not to hyperventilate. The Bluescreen cartel had talked to her—not just anyone, but what sounded like the lead programmer. Someone who had worked with eLiza and a man named Lal, turning a few lines of code into a criminal threat so dangerous that it terrified even him. He was so afraid of his partner he couldn’t even tell her his own name. He wanted her help, but what was she supposed to do?
“Marisa!” A man’s voice this time. She looked up, wild-eyed, and saw Saif running through the crowd; she jumped up so fast she got light-headed again, and he caught her and held her for a moment before pulling back slightly, studying her face, looking over her body for signs of injury. “Are you okay?”