Perfect Gravity (Wanted and Wired #2)(97)

Unlikely. He must really think she was stupid. Or at least malleable. Sadly, she had reinforced the latter assessment of herself over the years. She hadn’t bucked the system, not once. Not until she had up and killed Daniel. That must have surprised the fuck out of some people.

It smarted, what he’d called Kellen just now, though. She transmitted that feeling, too, through her psych-emitter.

“Oh, you mean, resources like the data center offshore backups? Oops.” She tapped a smartglove pattern against her thigh, and a monitor showed satellite imaging of an unlabeled building off the coast of Vancouver. It had been evacuated during strikes two days ago, but Zeke wouldn’t know that. As they watched, the installation crumbled and fell into the sea. Gone.

He looked a tiny bit startled but recovered quickly. “Look, you are wasting my time. Even as we speak, Damon Vallejo is building a population of impersonator mech-clones, which will serve the consortium’s purposes, but mine first. Any time I want, I can replace you, and no one would ever know you were gone. Some of those mechs are here in this hall tonight, and on my signal—”

“Well, see, I know that’s a lie,” she said. Inside, a shout surged through her chest. She didn’t let it out, but she did appreciate the thrill of calling him, to his face, on one of his straight-up untruths. He’d been lying for so long, and every fib had grated on her conscience, but she’d never challenged him.

It felt good to speak up. It would feel even better to roar.

A monitor showed live footage of the ballroom outside. Where, incidentally, her own conversation was also being cast to the guests. On a delay, though; Rafa understood the importance of timing, and he’d asked for producer-level control of the “show” in case he needed to—or wanted to—break in with an inspirational montage or something emotive. Whatever. He was the artist here. She trusted him to build her story.

On the vid feed, Vallejo stood very near the presidential podium, being talked up by some fans. He looked comfy, in his element, happy. Most importantly, not a prisoner. Definitely not under Zeke’s thumb anymore.

Mari wasn’t right next to him. Best guess, she’d waited in the corridor outside the dressing room, in a generally badass way.

“We can do this without blood,” Angela told her former mentor. “Without violence.”

Something odd flashed across Zeke’s face. Compassion? Care? She knew the expression well, but she’d never completely figured out what it meant. It should have occurred to her years ago that as skilled as she was at altering her expression and emotion, he’d probably had similar lessons. If not the exact same ones. He almost smiled, gentle-eyed, when he said, “No victory is won without blood. I only did what was necessary for the future of our species, and how dare you threaten me. You know nothing about this world, kiddo.”

Zeke drew his hand away from his waistcoat, and Angela felt the simultaneous grip of one hand on her arm, above the glove, and the push of metal against her velvet gown.





Chapter 20


It wasn’t easy to still his muscles, not when he could see a gun pressed against the midsection of the woman he loved. But Kellen had a surgeon’s knack for holding steady, sticking to the plan. Maybe discipline more than knack.

“Whatever you’re thinkin’ about doing, don’t.”

Of course, Medina ignored him at first pass. All them power-hungry diva elite folks did. They looked right over him. Kellen had always thought someday their blind certainty that they ran the world was going to come back and bite one of them on the ass. Today was that day.

And his were the teeth.

Kellen stretched out a hand to the long table crammed with cosmetics and tiny boxes. Yoink leapt up, settling her head beneath his palm. The metal horns on either side of her skull lit up, and the blip board unfurled before her, stretching in all its holographic glory until the edges of light brushed Zeke Medina’s sleeve.

Lights appeared in the wire-frame representation of the ballroom. One. Two. Three. Medina’s gaze flashed to the vid feed on the walls, then back to Yoink’s dance of lights.

“You’re counting the stars, ain’t ya? And then looking at faces. Bet you can guess what all those shiny little suckers are. So go on then. Guess.”

Medina’s gaze cycled twice more. A sheen appeared at his hairline, one that he couldn’t blame on the hot lights alone. “They are guests.”

“And what kind of guests?”

“Invited ones,” Medina said. He might be scared shitless, but he could still rub some haughty sarcasm into his voice.

“Try N-series ones,” Kellen said, and he loved the look of sick horror that settled over Medina’s face. “Four of Vallejo’s best, right here at your inauguration, so the folks they look like can rest safe back at home. Almost like those particular folks knew this shindig might get dangerous. Now who you think told them that?”

The gun slipped against Angela’s skirt. The angle was off now, oblique.

“You don’t even know what you’re—”

“Now, here’s where you’re wrong, with all due respect,” Kellen interrupted. “’Cause I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m showing you your allies, your consortium, and I’m telling you, straight-up, they have all played you like a fiddle.”

“Limontour isn’t here,” Angela said in a voice that was too small but gaining strength. “La Mars Madrid isn’t here. Daniel isn’t here. But all of their mech-clone impersonators are.”