Mindjacker Page 6

  Quinn popped a couple of painkillers and sipped on the complimentary bottle of water the clinic offered her. Finally, she spotted someone coming her way from the corner of her eye. Two people: a nurse and Daria. Daria’s head was wrapped, her face bruised, and her expression beaten down. Quinn stood up.

  “She’ll be okay,” the nurse said, eyeing Quinn’s mangled appearance with the same concerned eye that the intake nurse had. The nurse didn’t ask what happened or question them in any way. No one did. Not in a Downtown clinic, where the answer could be anything. “She has a concussion, though. Take her home, monitor her overnight. If she experiences worsening headache, vomiting, or strange behavior, get her back here immediately.”

  Quinn nodded. “Will do. Thank you.”

  Quinn escorted Daria out into the sultry night, the Downtown streets quieter but still buzzing with activity, the dull hum of window AC units working overtime to keep their owners alive. She walked Daria back to her apartment, Quinn’s eyes everywhere and her hand on her weapon, the pills she took barely masking the pain that had grown worse now that the adrenaline had worn off.

  Daria’s little apartment was as tiny as hers and just as hot. But that’s where the similarities ended. Daria’s place seemed even smaller because it was crammed with stacks of books, collections of trinkets such as flower vases and hats of all kinds, and too much mismatched furniture she’d found in various Midtown alleys. There was clothing everywhere—all over the bed, slung over furniture, piled on the floor. Quinn flipped on the AC to cool the stuffy box as Daria sat down on her bed. Quinn picked up the clothes on Daria’s bed and put them aside, and then cleared the clothing off the loveseat and sat down.

  Daria looked wiped out, her face pale and drawn, and she lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. And Quinn remained sitting, watching Daria, setting her phone to go off every hour to monitor Daria. Then she curled up on the loveseat and closed her eyes.

  The next morning, Quinn opened her eyes. Everything hurt, especially her face. She got up to get some water, and Daria was already up, showered and coffee made. She was looking at Quinn’s jacket.

  “Where’s the data?” Daria said.

  “It’s gone,” Quinn said quietly.

  Daria’s already pale face grew paler. She shook her head as she pulled out a coffee mug and began pouring herself a cup.

  “What the hell happened, Dar?”

  “We didn’t get an alert,” Daria snapped. “What do you think happened?”

  Quinn hesitated at Daria’s nasty tone. “I’m not blaming you. I’m just asking.”

  Daria sighed. “Sorry. The alert never came. Not a peep.” Daria shook her head again, sitting down on her bed, her head still wrapped. “So you’re saying that after all that brutality, all of this,” she pointed at her bandaged head, “we have nothing to show for it except a big medical bill that I now owe you for?” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Don’t worry about the bill. We’ll handle it when I make Tier One—”

  “Fuck Tier One! We could have died!” she wailed, tears streaming down her face. “Those guys could have killed us! They almost did! And you know the Protectorate isn’t going to be happy about the data! Also, where the hell did you get that weapon?”

  Quinn went over to Daria, putting her hands on her shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll handle this. And there is some good news here: we didn’t get dimed and we didn’t get arrested. I’ll explain everything to Yolanda. She’ll be pissed but she’ll get past it. Maybe we’ll have to do another job to make up for it, but then they’ll see that this was just a one-off. I’ll get promoted, and everything will work itself out and we’ll forget all about this shitty night.”

  Daria listened to Quinn’s impassioned speech, her eyes turning sad. “I can’t,” she whispered, more tears pooling in her eyes. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  Quinn sighed. Of course Daria would feel that way right now. “Just rest. You’ll feel better soon and we’ll regroup.”

  Daria shook her head. “No, Quinn. I’m done. Find another tech, because I’m out.”

  “Dar—”

  “No! You were made for this life, Quinn. You like jacking, you like being out late and sneaking around in people’s houses, seeing how the other three-quarters live. This is fun for you, but it’s not fun for me.” She paused, her dark eyes looking into Quinn’s. “I’m done. You need to go, and please don’t call me for a while.”

  “Dar—”

  Daria shook her head, pointing at the door. “Please, Quinn. Just go.”

  Quinn stared at her friend for a moment. Then she turned and left.

  Chapter 11

  Quinn sat on her foam bed, her back against the wall. The window was open and the fan oscillated on high speed as she stared out the window at her brick wall view. The fan did little to battle the stifling heat in her apartment, but she was in no position to afford AC now. The fan also did little to stifle the sounds of two people fucking in the alley.

  At least the ice pack on her face helped. It had cost her money she couldn’t afford, but it was the only thing preventing her from going into a heat-induced rage and burning the building down.

  She grabbed her phone and called Daria, but it went straight to voicemail. Just like the last two times. She didn’t leave another message begging Daria to reconsider, not wanting to injure any more of her damaged pride. Daria always, always answered for Quinn, or called back right away. But not today.

  Quinn sipped her homemade diablo, her third. Alcohol was good for pain, right?

  At the very least, it dulled the pain in her face, head, and body, all injured from fighting someone far beyond her weight class. Two someones, really, even if only one at a time.

  The alcohol dulled the rest of her pain, too. The pain of a failed job—the most important one of her career, the one that would’ve changed her life. The one that would’ve helped her afford ice for her occasional injuries and air conditioning in her oven of a city, which would only grow hotter and drier with time. The one that would’ve meant a view of something other than a brick wall, and listening to something other than some thug screwing his girlfriend against the brick so she could tell him how much she loved getting it from “big daddy.”

  The job that would’ve provided the escape from everything she and Daria wanted to get away from. The poverty. The crime. The ignorance.

  And the memories.

  The memories started to surface again—the day the terrible news came about Wyatt, what happened in that alleyway in Coyote, other wounds—all far more terrifying than the mindfuck she endured while invading someone else’s mind. She longed to feel someone else’s fucked-up thoughts and emotions, to see flashes of their pathetic corrupted lives, instead of facing her own issues. Quinn stuffed the encroaching memories away with another swig of diablo number three.

  When her phone rang, Quinn jumped up to grab it. Daria was finally calling her back. But when she saw that it wasn’t Daria, that it was someone far worse, she growled in annoyance. Her dad.

  “Fuck you,” she said, tossing her phone aside.

  It was a fact. When you desperately wanted one person to call, you were guaranteed to receive a call from someone else entirely, and usually the last person you wanted to hear from. And Quinn had made it clear to her dad that she didn’t want to talk to him, not after she found out that he’d forsaken a decent delivery job for one dealing drugs.

  The phone rang again. Quinn snatched it, but the rule proved itself once more. Yolanda. Quinn ignored her too.

  God damn it, Daria! We had a deal! We talked about this when we were kids, about getting out of Downtown and having a better, safer life!

  Daria had already messaged the Protectorate, explaining what happened on the job and submitting her resignation. Daria had walked away from the Protectorate, from all the years of work they’d put in. From their dream.

  Quinn’s icepack dripped on her again, the drop as warm as bathwater. The insufferable
heat of her apartment had melted it. When she heard the couple in the alley again, the woman crying out loudly with more amorous fervor than seemed necessary, Quinn’s anger began to boil over and she marched over to the window.

  “Shut the fuck up!” she shouted out the window, tossing her spent icepack, aiming at the couple smashed up against the brick. It landed squarely on the thug’s head, splashing water all over them.

  “What the fuck?” came the angry shout.

  Quinn ducked down, not wanting the guy to find his way inside and come hunt her down. She’d had enough beatings from men for a while.

  The couple went quiet. And finally, deep in the fog of more diablos than her small body was used to, Quinn passed out.

  Quinn sat up suddenly at the noise. Her phone. Ringing.

  Yolanda.

  She grabbed it, her head pounding a little, this time more from a hangover than her injuries.

  “Good evening,” Quinn said, trying to sound normal.

  “Quinn,” came Yolanda’s flat voice. “Good to hear you’re alive.”

  It wasn’t a well wish. It was sarcasm, reflecting Yolanda’s disappointment at not having heard from her earlier that day. And at the botched job.

  Quinn sighed and told Yolanda what happened.

  After she finished, Yolanda was silent for several seconds, which was never good. Finally, she spoke in a quiet voice. “You know what this means.”

  “How many jobs will I have to do to make up for it?”

  “There is no making up for it, Quinn. You’re out.”

  Quinn felt like she’d been punched in the gut. “How is that possible? I’ve never lost data before—”

  “You know the drill. You failed. Daria has left the organization and we’ve lost five years of investment in her. And for all intents and purposes, you handed over valuable data to an unknown enemy. Not to mention that the target will know without doubt that his mind was invaded, making it impossible to target him in the foreseeable future. Which means the Protectorate has lost income, and probably a wealthy client. That, Quinn, is how this is possible.”

  Quinn shook her head, on her feet now, pacing around her tiny place, walking in circles like a dog.

  “I’m sorry, Quinn.”

  “Yolanda,” Quinn pleaded. “Please. Everything was going perfectly. These two guys came out of nowhere and they were huge, and one of them slammed Daria against the washing machine again and again, and he was going to kill her. I fought them both off and disabled them, we didn’t get dimed by the target, we had wigs on so those two goons will never make us, and we got out of there without the jacker police getting involved. If it hadn’t been for the malfunctioning alert system—”

  “Don’t blame the equipment. It’s up to you—to Daria—to ensure your technology functions properly. You know the rules, Quinn. You agreed to them like everybody else, and so did Daria. No matter what, you do not lose the data.”

  “I had the data! I fought for it and won! I just didn’t expect him to tear my jacket pocket off me while I was two steps from getting out of there—”

  “Where was Daria during all this?”

  Quinn hesitated. “I told her to run.”

  “To run. Instead of backing you up.”

  “She was probably disoriented. She had a head injury.”

  A sigh. “There’s nothing I can do, Quinn…”

  Quinn squeezed her eyes shut as she paced, gathering her thoughts. “Please don’t cut me,” she said, her desperate tone making her hate herself. “Please. This is everything to me. I’ll do anything, Yolanda. Anything. Any job you need, no matter how bad or difficult, including the ones the other jackers won’t do. I’ll do it for free. Just let me prove myself. I know this went bad, but look at my record, Yolanda. It’s spotless. I’ve given you guys five years of hard work and dedication, with stellar results. Dar, too. I can get her to come around. She’s just freaked out right now. If you give me one more chance, I’ll prove I’m the person you invested in. And if I don’t… then you can cut me.”

  Silence at the other end. This time, Quinn hoped the silence meant there was a shred of hope.

  “Lots of agents have good records,” Yolanda said. “When you reached Tier Two, I took you on not just because you were good, but because you had that something extra, that drive. You come from tougher circumstances than most of the privileged types who seek this kind of work for the money or the excitement. The best don’t do it for those reasons. They do it because they want to make a contribution.”

  Quinn rolled her eyes at that. Contribution, her ass. The Protectorate had its code and Quinn appreciated that, but hearing that from Yolanda, who reeked of a solid Midtown upbringing and a formal education, sounded pious and idealistic. Like some Uptowner hoping her clothing donations or occasional work in a soup kitchen was a “contribution.” Yolanda didn’t know shit about what it was to get down and dirty, to risk her fucking life for pennies in the hopes of achieving something more than rotting in Downtown the rest of her life. It was one thing to want something; it was another to need it because you had no other options.

  “I haven’t seen that drive in a long time, Quinn,” Yolanda went on. “You’ve spent more time covering for a weak partner than you have showing me what you’re capable of.”

  “Daria just needs someone who understands her. She’s the reason I’ve gotten this far.”

  “Is she? Or are you letting a childhood loyalty hold you back?”

  Quinn sighed. How could she make Yolanda understand?

  “I want to see the Quinn I took on,” Yolanda said. “I want to believe she’s still there.”

  “She is,” Quinn whispered, again hating how weak she sounded, but knowing that she had a gun to her head, and that Yolanda’s finger was on the trigger.

  “Okay. One more chance. Whatever job I give you, you will execute it perfectly. Then, we’ll see.”

  Quinn nodded, relief flooding her. “Thank you, Yolanda.”

  “I mean it, Quinn. This is it. Get it done right… or you’re out. For good.”

  Chapter 12

  Quinn checked her phone. No calls.

  Not from Daria, who Quinn had stopped calling, realizing that if Daria needed her space, then she should have her space. Not from her dad, either, who knew that waiting a while was a better bet, despite Quinn resolving to not answer then either.

  And no call from Noah, who she’d temporarily forgotten about during the fallout from the Clive McCloskey job. She gave a half smile at that. She’d won the bet, besting the guy whose belief that he’d win had bordered on cocky. Yet, despite her triumph, a small part of her wished that she’d lost.

  Yolanda had sent her the details on her next job. The client was Tony Borelli, who owned an Italian family restaurant in Midtown. Borelli wanted dirt on Gary Linden, the well-known restauranteur trying to run him out of business, so Borelli could use that dirt as leverage to get the restauranteur to leave him and his family business alone.

  It was a bottom-of-the-barrel job. The client was a little guy, and the terrible pay reflected that. The target was an Uptowner and likely had training to prevent mind invasion. There was no guarantee of finding any “dirt”—most people had some, but Linden might not have enough for Borelli to use against him. No dirt meant even less pay.

  In other words, the job required a lot of time and risk for little money. It was too low-paying for a Tier One or Tier Two agent, but too complex for Tier Three. Jobs like this were left for those hoping to level up or to win points with the Protectorate.

  And both applied to Quinn.

  Quinn had put the Clive McCloskey debacle behind her, her injuries had mostly healed, and she was ready to move forward. She had a new plan.

  She would find a new tech, one who could help her do the Borelli job. They would execute the job, helping her get back into the Protectorate’s good graces. Then, Yolanda would offer her another job, perhaps a shit job or maybe even a decent one, and that would prove she was
Tier One material. Once she got promoted, she would tell Daria and request to have her reinstated, something only a Tier One agent could do. Daria would overlook the downsides once they started getting top tier jobs at top tier pay.

  Everything would work out, and Quinn would achieve her goal. Win, win.

  Yolanda’s words about Daria not being capable of partnering a Tier One jacker drifted through Quinn’s mind again. She could understand Yolanda’s perspective, especially since Daria’s skills weren’t as good on paper as some others, but Yolanda didn’t know Daria like she did. Yolanda couldn’t see that Daria’s value wasn’t in her eval numbers, it was in her character. She could never understand what Daria and Quinn had been through. Daria wasn’t your typical thrill-chasing jacker, but that’s what made her great, that she did it for more important reasons.

  Yolanda could also never understand the reasons Quinn wanted what she wanted… for herself and for Daria.

  Growing up Downtown meant fewer choices. Quinn got good grades in school and some of her teachers encouraged her to apply for university, but Quinn hated sitting in a classroom and hated book learning. And going to university would have meant crippling loans for thirty years, just to spend those years commuting from Downtown because she couldn’t afford to move and competing against Midtowners and Uptowners for jobs and promotions. The few who tried it always ended up burned out and angry. That’s why Quinn chose this, why she brought Daria in. Without the Protectorate, who knows where they would’ve wound up.

  Quinn sat down at her computer and logged on to the Protectorate’s net. It was time to find a tech to help her with the Borelli job. Just as she began entering her credentials, her phone rang. It was a number she didn’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Quinn,” came a masculine voice. “It’s Noah.”

  Quinn sat back in her chair, dumbfounded for a moment. Then, she smiled. “Damn it. Just when I thought I’d won our bet.”