Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(49)

We hurry through a mile of corridors, following the wrist communicator. “We’re beneath Aspen Lake,” Flannigan informs me. She stops abruptly at a couple of nondescript metal doors. “They’re in here.”

She removes another cloned moniker from her case and opens the doors. I recognize the holographic image of Grisholm Wenn-Bowie displayed upon the access panel of the scanner. “How do you have Grisholm’s cloned moniker?”

“He was easy to get to. He enjoys the touch of lovely women.”

We enter. Flannigan closes the doors behind us and sets her bag down on the granite table in the center of the room. Shiny steel mesh covers the doors of the elegant cabinets lining the walls. Priceless items—jewels, art, prototype weapons—sparkle behind the mesh. On the far wall sits a vault.

“You said we were coming here to get my fusionblade,” I mumble numbly.

Flannigan rummages in her bag and takes out a small device, which she pockets. She reaches in again and extracts a fusionmag. When the bullets from the weapon hit a target, they break apart and extinguish, killing the target without exiting and doing further damage. She arms the fusionmag with a cartridge and hands me the gun. “I lied. This is much more important than a fusionblade. Cover the door.”

She goes to the vault and uses the copycat of Grisholm’s moniker to open it. Inside are rows and rows of new moniker chips, moncalate tools used to implant the chips, and processor boxes used to program them with identities. “I needed someone to help me break into Census so that I could get new monikers. You were my best option.”

She deftly chooses one processor box and one moncalate tool from the vault and puts them in her bag. Removing another device, she shoves it in her pocket, then steals row after row of new moniker chips from the vault until the bag is full. With a rueful sigh for the monikers still left in the safe, she sets the device from her pocket beside them.

“This is an incendiary, Roselle. It’ll explode in five minutes and make it look as if we blew up the new monikers rather than stealing them. That way, they won’t come looking for them. Are you ready?” she asks as she arms the device.

“How could you do this to me?” I whisper.

“I’m not doing it to you. I’m doing it for you.” She secures the bag, moves to the door, and opens it a crack. Seeing no one in the corridor, she steps out. The moment she does, I hear shots. Blood spatters my torso, chest, and face. Flannigan falls against the door and slides to the floor.

Instinctively, I step over her with the fusionmag raised. Four agents are approaching from down the corridor. I fire four shots, striking each agent in the head. The bullets explode, spreading bone fragments and brain matter on the walls. I pivot. The other side of the corridor is empty.

Flannigan breathes raggedly, a shaky hand covering the hole in her abdomen. “Take these to your locker,” she says in a raspy voice. “This bag will fit in the false bottom. On the shelf, you’ll find a handheld welding tool. Seal the bottom of the locker.” Blood drools from her mouth. “Tell him it was nearly flawless. Tell him to miss me. Every day.”

“Tell who?” I demand, my heart pumping wildly.

She smiles. “The man who’ll ask you about me.” She reaches into her pocket and extracts the cyanide capsule, places it in her mouth, and convulses until all that looks back at me is her lifeless stare.

In a daze, I take a few steps, but then I turn back and gather the bag she dropped. Securing the long strap over my shoulder, I reach inside her glove and find the copycat moniker for the Census agent. I slip the crashing aqua wave into the slot above the lead covering my own implanted moniker. Flannigan’s wrist communicator still works. I slip it from her and strap it to my wrist. Then I run.

When I reach the next corridor, I slow and peek around the corner. Three agents run toward me. I step from around the corner and take one down with a fusionmag shot to the head. My next two shots find their marks before the agents can raise their drawn weapons. Running past their bodies, I turn another corner, the labyrinth of passages seemingly endless. I keep running, watching the map on my wrist so that I don’t get lost.

Suddenly the ground shakes. The loud noise of the incendiary device careens off the tunnel walls. As it subsides, a new sound—the sound of rushing water—replaces it. The floor continues to shake. I don’t wait to see what’s coming.

Someone behind me yells, “Stop!” I pause, glancing over my shoulder. A tall male agent stands at the junction of the corridors. He raises his gun, but before he can fire, a wall of Aspen Lake water strikes him and he’s gone, swept down the other corridor. I run again. The sound behind me is deafening. Ahead of me, the elevator looms. Only one Census agent guards it. He looks up and sees me coming. Behind me, a thundering river of water crashes and churns.

The agent backs away and scans his moniker on the elevator’s callbox. The doors open. He backs into the car. I lift my fusionmag, pointing it at him as I run, and shoot him in the neck. The bullet explodes and sparks fly out of him. Arterial blood sprays the wall of the elevator. He holds his throat and slides to the floor.

Leaping across the threshold of the elevator, I’m just in time as its doors roll closed behind me. Water slams against them, pushing them apart again. I’m drenched by the tidal wave as it fills the car. Coughing and panting, I tilt my face toward the ceiling, trying to tread water, but before the wave can drown me, the car lifts up and out of its path. The lake water rapidly drains through the open doors and falls down the shaft. The doors slide closed, finally.