Mindjacker Read online

  Quinn nodded. Yes. By Sunday, this shit job would be over and she would be free to deal with Noah, to sit down and figure out how to do what she’d never managed to do since joining the Protectorate—attempt a relationship.

  “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

  Quinn wore her cargo pants and leather jacket, her pockets stuffed with her weapons and equipment.

  It was game time. A double header.

  She wore another wig—a brown, nondescript one that transformed her into the average woman, cute but forgettable. Like Jones’s hair did for him, when he grew it.

  Downtownies weren’t forgettable, especially outside Downtown. The men especially were measured by how much they flouted societal expectations. Sporting hair, and especially covering a tattooed scalp, made a guy look normal. No thug wanted to be normal. Normal didn’t fly when you grew up poor. Even the women inked and pierced themselves, looking to stand out in a world that wanted to ignore them. And once you committed to thuggery, it was a lifetime commitment.

  That’s why Quinn had no tattoos and no piercings, hadn’t dyed her hair strange colors or adopted Downtown slang. She didn’t want to be stuck down there, taking pride in being looked down upon or forgotten entirely, struggling just to get by. She didn’t want to use ink and hair to show how powerful she was… she wanted actual power.

  She hoped Jones was ready for tonight. He’d been quieter than usual during their planning that week—not complaining, only challenging her when necessary. She liked this side of Jones, but she knew it was only temporary. But then again, so was their partnership. They just needed to get through this and move on.

  As she headed to their meeting place, she passed a Midtown flower shop. They had sunflowers, roses, and carnations, all raised indoors with grow lighting and water recycling and dew-catcher technology. But no delphiniums. Which made her wonder where Noah had found the beautiful and rare flowers.

  Damn it. She was thinking about him again.

  Even at the outset, she and Jones should be finished by midnight at the latest, which meant she could be asleep by two, giving her a decent night’s rest before she met Noah for brunch the next day. Hopefully she would be bruise-free this time.

  Whatever Noah did, whatever secret he had about his lifestyle or occupation, what were the chances it was more illegal and dangerous than what she did? She actually hoped it was—that he dealt in information or hacked or knew the underground better than her. Then, he would understand why she couldn’t share the specifics of what she did.

  When she spotted Jones up ahead, cleaned up nicely but still looking out of place, she pushed away thoughts of Noah. It was time to focus.

  Jones gave her a nod, embracing her and kissing her on the cheek, a kiss that felt as platonic as one from Daria, but from an outsider’s perspective looked like they were a longstanding couple. He grabbed her hand and on they walked to the alley behind Borelli’s. After making sure no one was around, Jones checked his proximity detector one last time before he gave the nod and Quinn picked the lock.

  Unlike Voila’s neat and quiet back of the house, Borelli’s was messy, chaotic, and loud. There were stacks of food boxes everywhere—narrowing the hallway to a width that would make any fire inspector cringe. She heard shouting from the kitchen—nothing wrong, just the waitstaff lobbing orders to the cooks and the cooks shouting back. Quinn glanced at Jones, and he pulled the fire alarm lever down.

  The kitchen quieted down for a moment, and Quinn and Jones waited around the corner, behind some boxes. Soon, Quinn heard the kitchen door swing open and slam into the wall, Borelli’s distinct nasal voice shouting to keep working and that he would take care of it. He was on his way, and hopefully alone. When he rounded the corner, Quinn shut off the alarm and Jones grabbed Borelli. Quinn, her nodes ready, went to adhere them to the base of his skull.

  But Borelli fought and clamored like a trapped animal, and even Jones’s thick arms strained to keep Borelli under control, his mouth quiet, and his head still enough that Quinn could work. Quinn, keeping an eye out to ensure no one was coming, attached her nodes and adjusted her device. Soon, Borelli’s thrashing, stocky body went limp. They dragged him into the back walk-in fridge and sat him on the concrete floor, his back against a vat of tomato sauce.

  The refrigerated air felt uncomfortably cold. Surrounded by shelves filled with lettuce, countless boxes of tomatoes, and tubs of cheese, Quinn began the jacking, checking the readout to ensure that data was loading from all the necessary brain regions: the hippocampus, the amygdala, and tonight especially, the prefrontal cortex. The reader could access more than that, but they didn’t have time for more and Yolanda hadn’t requested it.

  Suddenly, the fridge door handle made a thunking sound and the door began to open. Quinn started, adrenaline coursing through her. Jones was quick, yanking the handle shut and holding it closed. The person on the other side kept yanking, but Jones held firm.

  “What the fuck?” came a loud male voice. “Knock that shit off and let me in! I need more Italian dressing!”

  Jones held firm. “How much longer?” he whispered.

  “Not long, but I still have to wipe him.”

  “Fuck,” he muttered, his hand gripping the door.

  Another couple of pounds on the door, then several more yanks, one so hard that Jones’s hand almost slipped off. “Fuck off!” he finally yelled in a fake nasally voice. “I’ll bring the fucking dressing in a minute!”

  Quinn held her breath. The yanking stopped.

  After getting the data she needed, she got to work on the memory wipe. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself. Now, she needed to really focus. Borelli was an asshole, but he was an asshole whose memories would remain intact.

  She rooted through the random short-term memories floating around in his prefrontal cortex, clearing them out before any problematic ones headed to the hippocampus for processing. Then, she targeted the hippocampus itself. How easy it would be to find and erase any memories stored that evening, like the mind thieves did. Just a few moments and they’d be done. Instead, she accessed the images of herself and Jones, uploaded to the reader yesterday, to aid the device in finding memory matches. It was a slow process, but an accurate one.

  One by one, the device delivered what she’d asked for, and one by one she deleted them. Two of forty-eight. Then three. Four. Quinn examined the data on each, including one with an older time signature, from the night at Voila when Borelli had burst out of Linden’s office and encountered them.

  Five, six, seven.

  Then a long wait for the eighth. And still forty more to go. She glanced up at Jones, then the door, praying that customers chose anything but Italian dressing for their salads.

  Fifteen, sixteen.

  Another pull on the fridge handle. Jones held it tight, despite several more attempts.

  “Come on,” said a new voice, a woman. “We’re outta dressing!”

  Jones rolled his eyes and repeated the same refrain from before. Quinn tried to block out the distraction, taking another deep breath and concentrating on checking her work, ensuring she deleted the correct memories, knowing that every moment they lingered drastically increased their chances of getting caught.

  Twenty-four, twenty-five.

  Quinn was now shivering uncontrollably in the chill of the fridge, colder than even the chilliest pre-dawn winter morning, despite her heart pounding in her chest and sweat building on her forehead.

  Twenty-nine, thirty.

  She glanced up at Jones again, who watched the device with intense eyes, his knuckles white from grasping the door handle.

  Thirty-eight, thirty-nine…

  Quinn felt herself growing more impatient, more agitated. She took another breath and thought about what mattered to her.

  Money. Opportunity. Justice.

  Noah.

  Forty-seven, forty-eight. Delete.

  Done.

  Quinn quickly found and uploaded the tranny file, the one o
f a generic walk-in fridge door that she’d made. Tranny was short for transitional memory, one that bridged the gap between Borelli walking down the hallway and his winding up on the floor of his own fridge. She then yanked off the nodes and stuffed the equipment into her pockets.

  When she stood up, Jones was already waiting with a big plastic container of Italian dressing. He set it on the floor, next to where Borelli slumbered. He then took a container of marinara sauce and dumped it on the floor, making sure to spill a bunch on Borelli, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

  In about sixty seconds, when Borelli came to, the spilled marinara, along with the tranny, would tell the story that he’d spilled it and then slipped in it.

  In a perfect jacking, Quinn would have created a more detailed tranny, but they didn’t have access to Borelli’s walk-in fridge to build the memory file. What she’d made would be enough, as the mind would easily fill in the blanks. Even if Borelli did get suspicious, by the time he began squawking about his suspicions, it would be too late.

  Out they went, ready to flatten anyone who got in their way as they weaved through the stacks of boxes, burst through the back door and into the alley.

  No problems. No cops. No witnesses.

  One down, one to go.

  Chapter 24

  In a Midtown subway station restroom, Quinn took off her wig and began removing her clothing. She put on her Midtown best, stored in a locker: her favorite red dress with a cropped jacket over it. She fluffed her hair and carefully applied more makeup. Tonight of all nights, she needed to look good.

  When finished, she delivered the raw data from the Borelli jacking to the Protectorate, as Yolanda had insisted. It wasn’t how the Protectorate usually did things—typically they wanted processed data—but Quinn didn’t mind. Less work for her and Jones, as far as she was concerned. Let the Protectorate muck through all that mess to find whatever they were looking for.

  She left the restroom and saw Jones, respectably dressed and waiting for her. He handed her the tiny microphone, which she attached to the inside of her ear. Finally, hand in hand, Quinn and Jones headed to Voila.

  It was packed as usual, and Jones waited while Quinn sauntered up to a busy Linden, who smiled when he spotted her walking toward him.

  “Good to see you, Miss Miles,” he said politely.

  Good memory.

  “Likewise, Mr. Linden,” she replied in her smoothest, most charming voice. “I can’t stay—I’m only here to speak with a client briefly—but I was wondering if I could borrow you for just a minute. In private?” She looked up at him through her lashes, hoping he would take the bait.

  He did.

  “Happily. We can speak in my office.”

  Perfect.

  Quinn followed Linden back to his office, glad for how easy that had been. For once. Maybe the dress and makeup made her look higher class than she gave herself credit for. Or maybe Linden was just another old lecher hoping to score with someone half his age. Linden led her through the kitchen door, past the chefs calmly and neatly grilling gorgeous cuts of fish and arranging them carefully on white square plates, past the food storage areas and break room, to the office she and Jones had stood outside of not long ago. She waited as Linden quickly unlocked the door and led her inside, closing the door behind him.

  “So, this is your office,” she said, looking around and trying to come off impressed at the small but neat space. She was actually communicating to Jones that she was in, and that it was time for him to make a move.

  “I find myself back here on occasion,” he replied, looking at her expectantly. “Sometimes for unexpected reasons.”

  Quinn smiled, recognizing the innuendo. She stood a little closer to him. “I know you’re a busy man and I appreciate you taking a few minutes for me. I work in imports and exports, and I know a supplier who can get swordfish at a great price. It’s not cheap, and would only be for your VIP customers, of course…”

  “I’d be happy to meet with him,” Linden said, his expression unchanged, knowing she must have more to say if she wanted to talk in private.

  Quinn stared up at him as she took another step closer. “But the truth is, the real reason I asked to speak with you was because I wanted to ask you something.” She paused, for dramatic effect and to give Jones just a little more time. “Are you a happy man, Mr. Linden?”

  He raised his eyebrows at the question, and she drew even closer, close enough that her breasts were touching his chest and she could smell his aftershave. She wrapped her arms around him, and just as Linden leaned over to kiss her, she inserted the micro-needle into his neck.

  Linden’s eyes fluttered shut and he went limp. Quinn almost fell over as Linden’s weight shifted toward her, and she scrambled and reshuffled her high-heeled feet to avoid letting Linden fall to the floor and leave telltale bruises, or worse.

  “Jones, where are you?” she grunted, grasping onto Linden and barely managing to get him propped against the desk.

  “I’m in.” She heard the doorknob rattling. “Door’s locked…”

  Quinn laid Linden down on his desk and let Jones in, closing the door behind them and ensuring it was locked.

  “Nice work,” Jones said, eyeing Linden’s slumped-over body.

  “Help me get him into the chair?”

  Jones picked up Linden and shifted him into his office chair with its high back, supporting Linden’s torso and head. Quinn watched in awe how much easier it was for Jones, when she and Daria would’ve struggled awkwardly to manage a man of Linden’s size without dropping or injuring him.

  Injuries were one of many ways to leave traces that a target had been jacked. Traces weren’t good; they led to police reports and media involvement. Another way was to leave the target in a different place than you found him—i.e. sitting in an office chair when his last memory before slumber was standing with Quinn’s body pressed against his. But that’s what trannies were for, not that it mattered much this time. Linden couldn’t go to the cops without risking whatever illegal endeavor he and Borelli had going.

  During their setup, Quinn and Jones remained silent. Even when unconscious, the target’s mind could pick up voices and other sounds, possibly creating mental traces of the jacking. Linden could know he’d been jacked, but he couldn’t know by whom.

  Jones cocked his head down, toward the floor. It was time for Quinn to assume the position, to let him sedate her so she could link with Linden’s mind. She looked around her, looking for something to sit on, not wanting to dirty her favorite dress. Jones grabbed a folder off the desk and handed it to her. She sat on the folder, resting her legs on the chilly tile as she leaned against the wall.

  Jones kneeled down next to her, handing her the second set of nodes. She handed him the mind reader, clutching it a moment too long, until Jones gently removed it from her hands.

  She was about to go under. She was about to link minds with a target she didn’t trust, that even the Protectorate didn’t trust, and drown in his thoughts and feelings and memories. And she was about to leave everything—the job, Linden, her mind, her very life—in the hands of someone who wasn’t Daria. Other than during training, she’d only done so with Daria. And here she was, handing over the reins to some big Downtown thug she barely knew.

  She looked up at Jones, suddenly scared. He gave her a slight smile, as if recognizing her apprehension.

  They were almost there.

  Jones attached one of the nodes, then the other. Just as he went to put her under, there was a buzz. Jones paused, glancing at his proximity detector.

  “Fuck,” he growled, yanking the nodes from her and stuffing them into his pocket.

  “What?” Quinn cried.

  Jones grabbed her arm, yanking her up so hard that she thought her arm would come out of its socket. “Fucking cops. They’re a block away.”

  Chapter 25

  Adrenaline surged through Quinn’s body as she yanked the nodes from Linden’s head and stuffed them and the
rest of her equipment into her jacket. Linden sat there, out cold, his head lolling to the side and his mouth slightly open.

  Jones opened the door, moving quickly through the hallway as Quinn followed him. She drew her weapon, ready for anything. He cracked the alleyway door, peeking outside. Then he grabbed her and shoved her out the door.

  “Run,” he growled. “East.”

  Quinn took off her heels, knowing that they would only slow her down or, worse, send her tumbling to the asphalt. She sprinted east, the grimy asphalt hot under her bare feet. She could hear Jones behind her, keeping up with her and staying right on her flank. Just one more dumpster to pass, and they would be out of the alley.

  Jones cursed again. Suddenly, he grabbed her, halting her progress. The next thing she knew, he had lifted her off the ground and tossed her into the dumpster. She cried out involuntarily as she slammed against the back of the greasy metal bin and landed on a squishy pile of bags, the smell of hot decaying garbage pungent and stifling.

  “What the f—”

  Jones crashed down next to her, causing the pile of garbage to collapse and sending him sprawling onto her. He motioned for her to shush as he began yanking up bags of garbage, some half-torn and leaking their putrid contents everywhere, until there was a hole.

  He shoved her down into the hole. “Hide.”

  Quinn sat down in the hole, feeling something soggy and wet on her behind, soaking through her dress and underwear. She dropped her shoes and wrapped her arms around her knees as Jones buried her in garbage, until she was covered and could see no more. She stayed put, hearing Jones bury himself in their stench-ridden hiding place.

  “Don’t move,” he hissed.

  Quinn froze, feeling something wet and sticky on the side of her face and then dripping down her neck, but holding as still as she could as Jones breathed nearby. She was buried beneath rotting garbage, trapped among the stench of rotting meat, decayed vegetables, and urine from random street people emptying their bottles. She could smell it all and tried not to vomit. The heaping plastic bags made her sweat, and her face grew damp from her own breath. She felt a momentary sense of panic, like she was trapped, like she wouldn’t be able to breathe.