Memory Zero (Spook Squad 1)

“Proceeding, Earthling.”

Turning the sound up again, she glanced back at the gorilla. “What sort of message?”

“From your partner.”

She grimaced and rubbed her eyes. This wasn’t trouble, just a nutter. Either that or someone was playing a very cruel hoax. Someone like Suzy, maybe.

The computer hummed its readiness. She detached the wristcom and put it back in her handbag, which she tossed onto the nearby chair, out of the way. “My partner is dead. Leave before I call security.”

The white teeth flashed again. “The man you killed was not Jack. It was a replica—a means for the real Jack to officially disappear.”

The real Jack? The man was definitely a nutter. “You have three seconds before security arrives.”

Her finger hovered over the call button, but she didn’t press it. Because there was something about this man that almost made her believe him.

Either that or she was suffering from sleep deprivation.

His shrug was almost graceful. “Call them,” he said, “but not because of any threat you see in me. Call them because of the others.”

Others? What the hell was he? An alarm cut through the silence, strident enough to wake the dead. Someone had broken into her apartment. Her heart racing, she reached for her gun, only to remember that they’d confiscated it. And her spare was locked in the safe. She thrust up from the chair and ran like hell across the room.

“Safe open,” she hissed.

“Retina identification required.”

No time, her mind screamed, even as the bedroom door crashed open. She spun around, catching a brief glimpse of two men wearing black face masks, before a flash of white arrowed across the shadows. Her fear surged, and she threw herself sideways. Heat sizzled across her hip, and pain flared, short and sharp. She hit the floor with a grunt that turned into a yelp as another flash of light cut through the gloom, slicing through her shirt but missing skin. The wall inches from her shoulder peeled away and began to burn.

Lasers. The sons of bitches have lasers. She pushed to her knees and scrambled behind the sofa, though it wouldn’t offer much protection. Light flared again, and a two-inch hole appeared on her right. The carpet near her feet began to burn.

She had to get out of here before the bastards destroyed the apartment—and her. She shuffled backward, then twisted to look at the door. One of the men was standing there. It left her with only one option—the window.

She lunged to the left and grabbed her boots from the end of the sofa. Then, making sure the sofa still hid her, she half rose and flung the boots toward the kitchen. They clattered against the wall and dropped. Light flared again, spearing one boot as it fell to the floor. The smell of burnt leather stung the air. It was a smell that would be joined by burnt flesh if she didn’t get the hell out of here, pronto.

She scrambled upright and dove headfirst for the window. Heat seared the soles of her feet as she flew through the air, but in her desperation to escape, there wasn’t even pain, just a great surge of determination. Then the glass was shattering around her, glittering like diamonds even as it cut through her skin, and she was free-falling out into the rain-soaked night.

THE ACRID SMELL OF SMOKE stung the night air. Water sheeted across the pavement, flanked by the silvery-white fire hoses that snaked their way up the stairs and in through the main doors. The flashing red and blue lights of the emergency vehicles gave the small crowd of people huddled at the far end of the street an almost haunted look. Samantha Ryan was not among them.

But Gabriel would have been surprised if she had been. What did surprise him was the fact that she was here at all. Not many cops lived inside their patrol zone, and fewer still could afford an apartment in a place like Brighton. The old bayside suburb had once again become the playground for the trendy rich, and apartments like this, so close to the beach, cost more than Samantha Ryan would ever earn.

As Gabriel tried to enter the building, a young man dressed in the black uniform of the State Police stepped forward. “Sorry, sir. No one’s allowed inside.”

He stopped and impatiently dug his ID out of his pocket. “What happened, son?”

The officer’s eyes widened as he took in the badge.

“Bomb on the second floor, sir.”

His gut clenched. Ryan lived on the second floor. Sethanon had obviously made it here before him. He glanced around but didn’t see any ambulances. That could either be a good or a bad sign. “Anyone hurt?”

The officer shook his head. “Two apartments were seriously damaged, though.”

“Who’s in charge upstairs?”

“Captain Marsdan.”

Marsdan was the head of Samantha’s squad. Why would he be called down instead of the Internal Investigations Unit? Even suspended, she was still a cop whose apartment had just been bombed. That was IIU’s territory, not the beat police’s.

He nodded his thanks to the officer and made his way upstairs. Black uniforms were everywhere on the second floor. After flashing his badge at the officer manning the door, Gabriel stepped into the shattered remains of Samantha Ryan’s apartment. By the look of it, the front room had taken the brunt of the blast. The wreckage of what once must have been a coffee table and sofa lay partially embedded in the wall to his left. A few twisted metal shelves arched up the wall to his right, framing the hole that now led out into the corridor. The tangled remains of a desk and com-terminal sat in the far corner. What remained of the kitchen wasn’t worth salvaging.