Mind Thief Read online

  But then reality hit her. These same “activists” had tried to kill her and almost killed Jones, had murdered Borelli and the Lindens. Nobody capable of that kind of mayhem could be trusted, even if their beliefs leaned in the same direction hers did. It was more likely they were just greedy ninja shitheads looking to steal the power of the one-percenters and make it their own. And who better to aim for than those who controlled the most crucial resources for survival in their city?

  They arrived at the alley entrance to Halstead’s martial arts studio. The hidden entrance allowed for privacy, so members could come and go quietly. Quinn didn’t have to jack Halstead to know why she trained, that she benefitted from the discipline while also honing the skills needed to protect herself from mind thieves. And being a woman meant she had to train twice as hard.

  Recon on Ms. Carrie Anne had made it clear she visited the studio every Monday and Thursday, staying for hours at a time. Quinn recalled her “training” sessions with Wyatt—she was exhausted after an hour, ninety minutes tops—but Halstead trained for longer despite being twenty years older. Quinn couldn’t help but admire that too.

  No one else seemed to come or go from the studio during those hours, which made sense, as Halstead could afford private lessons from a top-notch instructor.

  After Jones breached the studio’s security system, they went quietly inside, an excuse at the ready in case anyone unexpected saw them. But the place was quiet. And gorgeous.

  This was no ordinary studio or dojo. It was a spa, with natural wood floors, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, sleek furniture, and warm lighting. A sign told them what was on what floor: the swimming pool, the steam rooms, the massage tables, the various classrooms. The dojos Quinn had seen in the past were little more than hot, stuffy concrete rooms in basements with mirrors in various sizes pasted together on the walls.

  Quinn glanced at the time. It was 10:00, at least thirty minutes before Halstead would emerge, with or without her instructor. She and Jones had agreed if they couldn’t get Halstead alone, they would jack both. It never hurt to have extra data, even though her instructor probably wouldn’t provide much that was useful.

  As they approached the ground floor training room, a light was on and Quinn heard a grunt. A feminine grunt, the kind that came from exertion. Then another, and again. As they drew closer, Quinn hesitated. Something didn’t sound right about the grunts. They didn’t sound like training. They sounded like something else.

  She turned to Jones, whose eyebrows were raised.

  “What the…” Jones mouthed.

  Quinn shrugged.

  The two of them stood just outside the studio door, the sounds getting more and more intense. Quinn could barely look at Jones, but she knew one thing. If there was ever a time to go in and surprise these two, it was right now, when they were most vulnerable.

  Quinn unzipped a jacket pocket and pulled out an injector. She pointed toward the door. Jones reached into his pocket and nodded. The door was locked; Jones quickly decoded it and in they went.

  Halstead and an extremely fit man were tangled in carnal bliss up against the mirror, both so engrossed that they didn’t see the door open. Quinn felt almost guilty interrupting them at such a key moment.

  Quinn hurried over as quietly as she could. When she was only a foot away, Halstead’s eyes opened and spotted Quinn. She froze, and Quinn injected the male while Jones aimed for Halstead. A couple of moments later, both went limp.

  Quinn caught Halstead’s pale form before she tumbled to the wooden floor, and Jones did the same for the instructor. They laid them down on the floor, next to one another. When Quinn finally got a look at the man’s face, it wasn’t familiar. It wasn’t her husband’s face.

  She rolled her eyes. These power players… they were all the same.

  “Who is that?” Jones mouthed, pointing at the man, seeing what she saw.

  Quinn shrugged but said nothing. They needed to remain silent to prevent leaving any mental traces in the minds of their targets. She glanced at their naked, sweaty bodies, the instructor’s erection still at full mast. Quinn found a couple of yoga mats and covered them.

  Quinn sat down and leaned against the mirror, and hooked her nodes to the base of her skull. Jones kneeled down next to her and waited for her nod.

  It was hot, even stifling. It smelled of lavender, so much so that Quinn held her breath and her eyes watered.

  Her mother loved lavender. Lavender dish soap, hand soap, bath oils. And she’d forgotten that until right now. It made her smile, and it was as if her mother were right there with her, with her own smile and kind words. It was like everything was right in the world again.

  Then she remembered being lulled into relaxation in George Hatch’s mind. That the positive, calming moments were temporary. This time, they wouldn’t catch her by surprise.

  It was steamy and she could barely see her hand in front of her face. The heat and humidity suddenly engulfed her, making her feel claustrophobic, like she was trapped in a muggy box where she could see nothing and hear nothing. But that passed quickly, and soon she spotted light in the distance, through the fog, beckoning to her.

  She walked toward it.

  Just as she drew close to the golden light, so close she could almost touch it, she plunged into darkness. Hard, fast, endless. This time, it took her less time to right herself. When the falling ended, she broke her way through to the good stuff, and braved the flood of thoughts and feelings that assailed her.

  Meetings. Selecting which tailored suit to wear that day. Kissing her husband. Stress, power, greed, happiness… and peace, when at the studio. And lots of amorous feelings and images, Halstead and her lover trading fluids six ways to Sunday in that studio, one giant orgiastic mish-mash of images, so many that Quinn wondered if the woman could fight at all or if she’d spent all her training time fucking herself into a frenzy.

  Lucky her, Quinn thought drily.

  Then, two men in the shadows. Fit and wearing all black. Watching Halstead. The Jays, hoping to make their move but not able to yet. And another flash, brief and slightly blurred… but familiar. The conference room meeting with the El Diablo power players, including Hatch and Hector Olmos of El Diablo Water. Their monthly meeting, Halstead’s version of the one in Hatch’s mind.

  Then the image grew more crisp, focusing in on Olmos, who stood up and walked toward a door. He opened it and she followed him through.

  On the other side, Quinn stood in an institutional-looking room: white walls, clean floor, strange chemical smell. A strong—almost overwhelming—feeling of dread came over her, like she was waiting for her own death. Rows of drawers lined the wall as far as the eye could see. Someone in a white coat opened one of the drawers, then looked right at Quinn, a strange look on his face. Like he expected something from her.

  Quinn took a step toward the drawer, unable to see inside. She didn’t want to look. Something told her it wasn’t the kind of thing she wanted to see. But she stepped forward anyway, as if compelled.

  Another step. And another.

  Closer.

  Until she was there. She looked inside.

  A body covered in a white sheet. The person in the white coat peeled back the sheet, and when Quinn saw who it was, she gasped.

  Wyatt.

  Eyes closed. Grayish pale. Lifeless.

  A flood of emotions bowled Quinn over, and she crumpled to the cold, hard floor where she buried her face in her hands. Despair overtook her, took the breath from her lungs. He was gone. Forever. It was all gone and nothing good ever came of anything.

  Then it all disappeared. She sat there, staring. Blinking. Her eyes moist with tears. A face stared at her.

  Jones.

  He watched her, eyes studying her, brow creased. She looked around the room. The dojo. The Halstead job. Halstead and her instructor out cold and covered in yoga mats. She’d drowned and Jones had pulled her out. Again.

  “Don’t make me talk about it,” she whispere
d.

  Jones shook his head. “Ain’t no time. We gotta get moving.”

  “My tranny’s no good.”

  “I can shoot some footage of the hallway and the training room,” he whispered. “That’s as good as we gonna get.”

  “Do it.”

  As Jones created footage for the new transitional memory, Quinn jacked the instructor, pulled some data, then uploaded the tranny to both after wiping their brief memories of Quinn and Jones.

  As Quinn finished up, she focused on the tasks at hand, trying to ignore her shaking hands and the terrible hangover of sadness that haunted her. The memory of identifying Wyatt at the morgue was real, but it was one she’d forgotten, blocked by her mind in its attempt to protect her from another crushing loss.

  Finally, they put the yoga mats away and left the two lovers next to one another. Quinn turned Halstead to face her instructor and slung her arm over him. Then they left.

  On a train headed south, Jones finally spoke. “Wanna talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “She had the platinum training like Hatch did?”

  Quinn nodded.

  As the train quietly cruised through the underground tunnel, Quinn pushed the horrible memory away and focused instead on the niggling thought that kept running through her mind: how similar the Halstead jacking was to Hatch’s. It made sense; the two targets were part of the same club, high-powered people with high-powered mind invasion protection. Yet, something about the two jobs nagged at Quinn, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  She shook that off, too. After reliving that horrible memory, everything would seem off.

  Instead, she chastised herself for her failure, for getting caught up in what was nothing more than some programmer’s way of protecting his or her clients. One way or another, she needed to get a handle on it.

  Otherwise, someday it could cost her her life.

  Chapter 21

  Quinn strode down Sonora Avenue in the dark, ignoring the sweat building up on her as the heatwave marched on.

  “You almost here?” came Jones’s voice in her ear.

  “A few more blocks.”

  “Any sign of loverboy?”

  “No.”

  And there better not be. Quinn had already decided if Noah showed up and tried to sabotage her again, she would resort to harsher measures. She would drug him, tie him up… whatever it took. Better to face an enraged Noah than lose what was probably their last chance to nab Jake Carlson.

  And nab him she would. No matter what it took. She was sick of it all—the messages, the doctored images, the bad dreams. And looking over her shoulder night and day, not knowing if or when he would strike.

  Quinn had believed that nothing much could really scare her anymore. That with her wits and weapons, she could handle anything that came her way. She’d broken into the private spaces of some of the most powerful people in El Diablo, pounded men far bigger than her, fought through the chaos of someone else’s mind without them ever knowing. She’d faced loss, abandonment, poverty, loneliness, even the possibility of death. But none of it scared her more than knowing she could die a senseless death at the hands of some stranger looking to do unspeakable things to her.

  The only thing that kept Quinn sane these last several weeks was having discovered the identity of her tormentor. She’d made mistakes, but she always knew she had the means to cut this malignant growth from her life, no matter what it took. And she was going to do it tonight.

  Jones would help her. Again. Quinn shook her head as she walked, still not feeling right about his involvement. Why would he do this for her? Why risk himself, especially after what happened at Canine? But she let him help. She did so because this was one thing she couldn’t do alone. Besides, it would be over soon.

  Finally, she spotted Jones a block away, his meaty build and aggressive, don’t-fuck-with-me stride making clear it was him despite plain clothing, dark hair, and sunglasses.

  They joined up and headed east, toward their destination. When they reached a tall stucco building with dark windows, Jones quickly bypassed the security console. They entered the hot stairwell and made their way up the stairs, climbing them at a rapid pace until sweat poured from her. When they reached Carlson’s apartment on the third floor, Jones picked the door lock.

  Quinn drew her weapon and went to open the door, but Jones held her back. She gave him a questioning look, and he quietly opened the door and headed in. She grabbed him, shaking her head. Jones scowled and gave her a warning look. He’d never done that—not to her, anyway—so she backed off and let him go, hoping she wouldn’t regret that choice.

  They tiptoed inside the studio apartment, weapons drawn. The place was spare, with only a couch folded out into an unmade bed, a TV, and a coffee table lined with empty liquor bottles, several takeout burrito containers, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. It was hot and stuffy, and smelled of dirty socks and cigarette smoke.

  Quinn shook her head. This was the guy who’d stalked and tormented her? Someone too lazy to throw out his garbage or fold up his bed?

  The bed was empty, which left only one place to look.

  Come out of that bathroom, Jake. Come out so I can stick you with this needle. And then you’re mine.

  That was the plan. Find him, jack him, wipe any memories related to Quinn and Jones. Clean and simple. But somehow it didn’t feel simple. It felt personal, and far more stressful than any job she’d done.

  But it was quiet. Dead quiet. Either Carlson was as still as a frightened mouse, or he wasn’t there. Jones approached the bathroom, peeking into what he could see through the partly ajar door. He quickly shoved the door, hoping to hit Carlson if he were hidden behind it. But it only hit the doorstop. Jones took another last look around, knowing as well as she did there was nowhere else to hide.

  “He ain’t here. We gotta wait it out.”

  “Didn’t you track him here?” Quinn whispered.

  Jones looked around, then found it. A phone, peeking out from underneath Carlson’s pillow.

  Frustration overcame her, and all she wanted to do was punch something. Instead, she began to pace, her mind flooded with too many thoughts.

  “It’s alright,” Jones said. “We knew this could happen.”

  “It’s three in the fucking morning! His phone is here! Why isn’t he, sleeping off whatever the fuck he drank at Canine tonight?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Jones said through his teeth. “He’s gotta come home eventually. You’re agitated tonight and that ain’t good. If you wanna get this done, you gotta calm down.”

  Quinn sighed. Jones was right. She was agitated, and she knew why.

  “I can’t take this anymore, Jones. I can’t live like this. It’s only a matter of time before the coyote finally catches the rabbit off guard and sinks his teeth in.”

  “You ain’t no rabbit, girl.”

  Quinn sat down on the floor and leaned against the wall. Jones sank down next to her.

  “We got this,” he said. “We’ll wait until he comes home.”

  “What if he saw us come in?”

  “Then we’ll get him some other way. He won’t be huntin’ you anymore ‘cause we’ll be huntin’ him, and he’ll know it. Besides, he’s an ex-con, and ex-cons are trackable.”

  Quinn nodded. She hated it, hated having to prolong what she’d felt sure was a forgone conclusion tonight. But she knew better. There were no forgone conclusions, not in her world.

  They sat in silence, waiting. An hour passed, Quinn fidgeting and growing more restless by the second. She did her best to fight it, to remember the discipline she had when she was working.

  It’s no different. It’s just another job. We’ll nail him eventually.

  Then, close to five, they heard footsteps. Big, heavy ones, getting louder and louder. Then the footsteps stopped.

  Jones stood slowly, as did Quinn, each reaching for the necessary tool. When the door unlocked and then op
ened, a large figure emerged. Jones reached over and stuck the injector right into Carlson’s shoulder before he had a chance to react.

  And down he went.

  Quinn kneeled on the dirty tile floor while Jones stood aside, keeping watch as he stifled a yawn. Jake Carlson lay flat on his own bed, slumbering away in cargo shorts and tee, a pair of nodes attached to the base of his skull.

  She stared at the scarred face, the thick hands that had taken lives, the prison tats. How easy it would be to end him right now, to ensure he never bothered her again, or anyone else. But she couldn’t do that. Even if she felt okay about it, which was questionable, she couldn’t take the chance that Noah or someone else was watching. She could claim he’d threatened her and produce all the evidence, but nobody would care. But if she and Jones did their job right, Quinn would cease to exist in Carlson’s memory.

  After the data was downloaded and stowed away, she finally started to see the light at the end of the dark hallway. But she wasn’t there yet. She still had one crucial task.

  She pulled up the images of her and Jones to help her mind reader locate the matches, then targeted the hippocampus with a date range that extended back to the showdown at Gary Linden’s home. She then realized she should go back further, just in case Carlson or the Jays had done recon on her before that night. It was a long span of time, with countless memories to search. She leaned against the bed and rested. This would take a while.

  She could just wipe them all, take the easy way out like a mind thief would, but she refused to do that. She wouldn’t do to Carlson what someone had done to Noah’s father. Carlson had been wrong about her; she did have a code.

  To her surprise, the search took only a few minutes. When she studied the results, it had produced only five matches, all recent. There should have been far more.

  She looked up to find Jones’s tired face giving her a questioning look. Quinn shook her head. She was tired too, and fatigue caused mistakes. She re-entered her parameters, double-checking the dates, and reran the search.