I open my mouth to reply no, then hesitate. “I’m leaving my options open.”
“Understood.” Edgar circles my head once and then buzzes away.
Ten flights of stairs later, I am debating whether or not to just let the cyberterrorists have the building. Finally, I stumble toward a door marked “Roof Access.” There’s another digital lock and I pause for a moment to catch my breath. I don’t want to explain to Prefect that the terrorists caught me because I was wheezing too loudly. Then I touchMatthew’s ring to the scanner. The lock clicks open and a shaft of sunlight pierces the darkness.
I shake out my hands, then slip through the door.
It isn’t a pretty roof: all white gravel, HVAC vents, and solar panels. Rocks crunch as I duck under a panel. It won’t block a bullet, but it helps hide me while my eyes adjust to the brilliant sunlight. At first I see nothing: just several large vents and more panels.
Then I catch sight of someone beside the edge of the roof.
It’s the woman with the brilliant orange hair and the zip ties for bracelets. Anasova. Her golf bag lies beside her, as empty as a deflated balloon.
Anasova is on her stomach, her fingers gently resting on the scope of a sniper rifle. It’s angled downward, the bipod mount balancing in the gravel.
She’s an assassin. Sometimes I hate being right about things.
I should leave. It’s the smart thing to do. I can use Matthew’s ring to lock the door from the inside and block the mainframe’s access to it. Anasova will be trapped on the roof, unable to help her fellow terrorists.
But she’ll still have her rifle. And a clear shot at anyone on the ground.
Like Prefect.
Prefect stands at the intersection of mentor and warden, jailor and teacher, friend and watcher. Half the time, I can’t even tell if he really likes me. But he has sat with me on countless stakeouts. He buys me tea whenever he goes out for coffee. When I get sick, he makes sure I have time off.He forces me to do homework programs, insisting that I continue my education. I’m not going to let him get shot.
Taking on Bud was one thing, but Anasova is a different kind of criminal. Looking at her, I feel that apex predator tingle along the back of my neck. She will kill me if given the chance.
I have to be smart about this. I reach down to activate my ringware, then type a command into my visor.
Finally, when I’m sure of my plan, I pick up a small piece of gravel and throw it toward Anasova.
She jerks away from her rifle, one hand unholstering the pistol at her belt. Her gaze sweeps across the rooftop and her mouth tightens with suspicion. Silently, she edges toward the rows of solar panels.
There are only so many places to hide.
She moves with careful, measured steps. Her orange hair—smart-dye, like mine—shines in the sunlight. Any other criminal would have dyed it a more nondescript color. Particularly a sniper. But maybe Anasova is just that cocky.
She approaches, her footsteps nearly silent despite the gravel. Her gaze flicks from panel to panel.
And then she sees me.
Her pupils dilate and her lips part. It’s like watching a cat sight a mouse—all predatory instinct as she brings up the gun and falls to a firing crouch.
The gun goes off four times.
Then she lowers the weapon, clearly expecting to see her target on the ground.
But I have not moved. I kneel there, frozen.
Anasova stares at me in confusion.
Or, rather, theholographic projectionof me.
My visor sits beneath the solar panel, dutifully projecting the full-body selfie I took. It’s not a particularly high-tech projection, but it keeps her attention for a few seconds.
Which is why she never sees me coming.
I crash into her with the force of a wrecking ball. I take her down at the waist, one hand scrabbling at her wrists. The gun has to stay pointed away from me. That’s the only thing that matters.
