The Chemist

“And the Serpent?”

He looked at her blankly.

“Sorry, department nickname. The domestic terrorists?”

“My associates bagged two of the three ringleaders and took out the entire southern chapter. No survivors.”

She smiled tightly.

“You’re an interrogator,” he said in a suddenly icy voice. “A torturer.”

She lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“And you tortured my brother for information he didn’t have.”

“Yes. The very initial phases, at least.”

He backhanded her. Her head snapped to the side; the chair bobbled, and he shoved it down with one foot.

“You’re going to pay for that,” he promised.

She worked her jaw for a second to see if anything was broken. When she was satisfied that nothing was seriously compromised, she responded. “I’m not positive,” she said, “but I think that’s why they did this to him. Why they fed me this whole elaborate story.”

Through his teeth. “What reason?”

“They haven’t had the greatest success in killing me. I guess they thought you would get the job done.”

He clenched his jaw.

“What I don’t understand, though,” she continued, “is why they didn’t just ask you to do it. Or order you, I suppose. Unless… you’re no longer with the CIA?” she guessed.

The gun had been the giveaway. From her research, she was pretty certain that the HDS was the gun most commonly carried by CIA agents.

“If you didn’t know about me, how do you know where I work?” he demanded.

About halfway through his question, she saw the bright white rectangle in her peripheral vision go black. Trying to be inconspicuous, she sucked in the deepest breath through her nose she could manage.

“Answer me,” he growled, raising his hand again.

She just stared at him, not breathing.

He hesitated, brow furrowed, then his eyes went wide. He dove for the mask on the floor.

He was out before he hit the ground.

Another thump – the dog collapsed into a puddle of fur beside her chair.

Under testing circumstances, she’d once held her breath for one minute and forty-two seconds, but she’d never been able to repeat the feat. Usually she ran out of air at about one fifteen, still way above average – lung capacity had become a priority in her life. This time, of course, she hadn’t been able to hyperventilate beforehand. But she wouldn’t need a full minute.

She hopped her chair over to Batman’s inert form and pushed herself forward, bracing her knees against his back. With her hands secured in front of her, it was easy… ish. Kevin Beach had left Daniel’s gas mask on the floor; she hooked it with one finger and then tilted the chair back until all four legs were on the ground. She leaned her face as close to her hands as she could and slipped the mask over her head, pressing the rubber rim tight to her face to create a seal. She blew out her air in a big whoosh, clearing the chamber, and then took a hesitant breath.

If some of the chemical had lingered, she figured she still would have been okay. She’d built up a decent resistance and would not have been out as long as the others. But it was especially nice to have such a big head start.

She scooted to the desk and rubbed the zip tie around her wrists against the edge of the scalpel on her props tray. It popped quickly against the pressure she was generating. It was easy work to slice the rest of the ties, and then she was free.

First things first. She reset the screen saver on her computer to come on after fifteen minutes of inactivity.

She couldn’t lift Batman, sprawled facedown on the floor beside his brother, but his arms and legs were close enough to Daniel’s that she could use the restraints that had been around Daniel’s left wrist and left ankle to secure Kevin’s. He’d thrown the key carelessly on the table by Daniel’s side; she pocketed it.

She didn’t resecure Daniel. Maybe it was a mistake, but she’d already done so much to him, it just felt unfair. And underneath it all, she wasn’t afraid of him. Another potential mistake.

She stripped Batman of his guns and removed the cartridges and firing pins from the rifle and the HDS. She put the safety on the SIG Sauer and tucked it into the back of her belt. She liked it – it looked more serious than her PPK. She went out to the barn stalls to find her PPK and then shoved it in beside the SIG Sauer. She was more familiar with her own. Better to keep it handy, too.

She found her shoes, stashed the other guns, and then grabbed the movers’ straps on her way back into the tent. The dog was too heavy to move easily, so she wrapped the straps around it and hauled it back to the bunk room. At first she simply closed the door and walked away – dogs didn’t have opposable thumbs. A moment later, though, she changed her mind. The dog’s name was Einstein; who knew what it was capable of? She looked for something to drag in front of the door. Most of the heavy machinery was bolted down. After a few seconds of thought, she walked around to the silver sedan. It just fit between the tent and the stalls. She pulled it right up to the bunk-room door, wedged the front bumper tight against the wood, and then put it in park. She threw the parking brake on for good measure.

She closed the barn door and rearmed it. A quick look outside told her that it was almost dawn.

Back to Other Daniel. The Batsuit was a chore to remove. The fabric between the Kevlar panels was thick and ribbed with fine cables, almost like gristle. She snapped two blades on it before finally quitting at his waist. She settled for peeling back the top half and patting down his legs, which didn’t have as much Kevlar to disguise them. She found a knife holstered in the small of his back and one shoved into each boot. She pulled his socks off. He was missing the pinkie toe on his left foot, but he had no other weapons that she could find. Not that he’d need any if he got his hands on her again. His whole body was roped with lean, hard bands of muscle. His back was a mess of scars – some from bullets, some blades, and one bad burn – with one more telling scar under the edge of his hairline. He’d removed his tracker, too. Definitely no longer with the CIA. A defector? A double agent?