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Retrieval
Chapter Two
The first thing Annie became aware of was that she was uncomfortable. Like, really uncomfortable. Sore arms, aching head, bruises everywhere, the works. Of course, that could probably be explained by the fact that (a) her arms were restrained behind her with what felt like handcuffs, (b) she was bouncing around on what she decided was most likely the bed of a truck, and, oh yeah, (c) the last thing she remembered was someone beaning her really hard.
The second thing she noticed was that she couldn't see. She was pretty sure her eyes were open, so that meant blindfold. OK, then, blindfold, handcuffs, truck, blunt-force trauma. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that that added up to kidnapping. Well, this was really turning into a peach of a day.
Annie lay still for a moment, listening. No car sounds, no planes or water or voices, or at least, none loud enough to be heard over the growl of the truck's engine. The jolting – which was starting to upgrade to bouncing – implied a bad road, probably unpaved. No breeze on her face, no light seeping through the blindfold, which implied either it was dark or she was in a space with no windows. Maybe both. There went the plan of trying to throw herself out of the vehicle.
One thing Annie didn't know was whether she was alone. The handcuffs were uncomfortable mainly because of the way they pulled her arms back – they weren't actually too tight. Sure, too tight to pull her hands through, but that assumed that her thumbs weren't dislocated. And OK, right now her thumbs weren't dislocated, but there was no reason that couldn't change. Which would be great, if she was alone, but if she wasn't, she'd've used up one of her escape plans with nothing to show for it. And given that, right now, it was her only escape plan, there might be something to be said for waiting for the right moment.
She shifted, seeing if she could get on her knees, but an extra-large bounce sent her flying. Landing heavily on her breastbone, she sucked in her breath for a moment, wishing she could at least see. She tried rubbing her face against the floor to shift the blindfold, but it was too tight. In fact, the way it pulled at her cheeks when she moved her face made her think it wasn't cloth at all. Duct tape, maybe. Damn, that was going to sting when it came off. She hated the no-eyebrows look.
The truck made a turn, and Annie made another attempt to get upright, this time more successful. The space she was in was high enough for her to be on her knees, but she could feel her head brushing against the ceiling. She was edging sideways to see if she could find a wall when the truck screeched to a stop and she found herself flying forward for the second time in less than ten minutes. Her flight was a short one, though: it ended when her face connected with something solid. Well, at least she'd found the wall.
Doors opened somewhere behind her and Annie lay still. There were voices, now – male and speaking Russian, and she quickly cleared her mind and concentrated on listening.
"Take care," said the first voice. "He says she's dangerous."
Laughter. Another voice. "She looks about as dangerous as my ten-year-old niece."
The first voice again. "Hey, I'm just telling you what he said."
And then hands on her ankles, dragging her backwards. She forced her muscles to remain loose, trying not to wince as the irregularities in the metal floor scraped across her face. Her ankles weren't chained. She could use that.
"Put her in the room with the other one," the first voice said, and then she was being lifted bodily. The second voice – coming from near her ear now – started to say something, but whatever it was was lost in a surprised grunt as Annie drove her knee forwards into soft flesh. She was falling, and then her feet hit the ground and she was running, suddenly aware that she wasn't wearing shoes, every sense screaming at her to stop because she couldn't see, but her senses didn't know that there were at least two Russian guys behind her, and she wasn't really in the mood for a sightless sparring match right now.
It might have been a successful strategy if she'd been able to see, or if, for example, her captors just happened to have dropped her off in the middle of a wide open space with an even floor and no obstacles. Neither of those things was true, however, and Annie estimated it was approximately ten seconds between her setting off running and her tripping and landing on her face. Something that felt a lot like pine needles stuck into her cheeks and up her nose, and something that felt a lot like a meaty Russian hand grabbed her by her collar and hauled her up.
"Fucking bitch," said Voice Two, and Annie felt all her breath leave her something hit her hard in the stomach. She aimed a kick, but apparently Voice Two had got smart in the last five minutes, because all she hit was empty air, and then there was something that felt a lot like the barrel of a gun pressed against her temple.
"Bang," said Voice One, in English this time, "you dead."
Being handcuffed and blindfolded in the back of a moving vehicle had kind of sucked, but Annie was fairly sure that being handcuffed, blindfolded and tied to a chair in an unknown space was at least as bad. At least this time, she was reasonably sure that the handsy Russian guys were gone: she'd heard their voices receding down the corridor. On the other hand, there was also the indisputable fact that she wasn't alone. Whoever it was who was breathing to her left, she hoped like hell they were planning to take this damn blindfold off her soon.
"Who's there?" she said. "What do you want?"
There was a moment's silence, and then Duarte's voice. "Mymble?"
Annie felt herself sag slightly in relief. "Snufkin," she said, and even though she was handcuffed and blindfolded and tied to a chair in an unknown location, she couldn't help the smirk that had been practically permanently welded to her face when she'd found out what Duarte's codename was going to be. "Are you hurt?"
"We can't talk," said Duarte. "They might be listening."
Annie thought about that. "How about now?" she asked, switching to Spanish. "Think they'll be able to find an interpreter on short notice in the middle of the woods?"
"How do you know we're in the woods?" Duarte asked, his Spanish fast and strongly accented. Puerto Rican, Annie decided.
"Just a hunch," she said, twitching her nose to see if she could dislodge the last couple of pine needles. "They bash you on the head, too?"
"Something like that." Duarte shifted slighty, chair creaking. "You hurt?"
"Bumps and bruises. I'll live. Any idea who's behind this?"
A pause. "I'm in the dark on this one."
Huh.
"So you have no idea what the intel could be related to?" Annie said. "I mean, they obviously wanted the briefcase as well as us."
"I told you," Duarte said. "I don't know anything."
"That's interesting. You're a better liar in English than Spanish." Annie heard the slight intake of breath and grinned. Bullseye. Time to follow through. "Funny how you had a hotel room booked even though the mission was only supposed to last a couple of hours. It's almost like you knew something was going to go wrong. And you know what else is funny? An experienced field agent being sent on a job like this. This is the kind of crap only newbies get assigned. Believe me, I know. So let me ask you again, Snufkin, what the hell is going on here?"
She took a breath, waiting to see if she'd hit the mark. The pause was longer this time, and for a moment she thought maybe he just wouldn't answer at all. Then there was a sigh.
"I'm not a field agent."
OK, well, that wasn't what she'd been expecting. "You pretty much seem like you're in the field to me," she said.
"I used to be. This is my first mission for... a while." Duarte's voice was resigned, but he was still holding something back, she was sure of it. "I asked to be assigned this one because it was simple and because I'd heard that an acquaintance was going to be in Helsinki."
"An acquaintance?" Annie started, but the sound of the door opening cut her off.
"Well," said a new voice, in English, American, probably California. "I like a telenovela as much as the next guy, but I think that's enough of that."
Footsteps echoed on the floor – concrete, Annie though, and the ceiling was high – and then Annie was fighting back a yell as someone pulled the duct tape from her eyes. She blinked a couple of times, and the figure in front of her came into focus: white male, early to mid-thirties, slight build, red hair, smirk. Man, she hated the smirkers.
"Annie Walker," said the newcomer. "I see government stooges come Barbie-themed these days." The smirk broadened a little, and then he turned to Duarte, tied up maybe six feet from Annie, and ripped his blindfold off, too. "Kyle," he said. "Did you miss me?"
"You know this guy?" Annie said, but Duarte wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the newcomer, if looking was really an appropriate word to describe the full-on nuclear glare he was employing. If looks could kill, Annie was pretty sure most of the solar system would be dust by now.
"Dumont," Duarte said. "I hoped you were dead."
The guy – Dumont – grinned and turned back to Annie. "He's such a kidder, isn't he? After all the years we've known each other." He was all smiles, but there was something about his eyes that made nausea curl in Annie's stomach. Of course, the fact that he'd kidnapped her and tied her to a chair in what looked to be an abandoned factory didn't exactly endear him to her, either.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"Oh, I just want to ask you a couple of questions," Dumont said, grabbing a chair and settling on it backwards, facing her. "Like how a nice girl like you ends up doing the government's dirty work."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Annie said. "I work for the Smithsonian."
"Nice try." Dumont got to his feet and wandered over to a nearby workbench, picking up a manila folder and opening it. "Annie Walker," he said. "Field rating for four months. Two commendations. Miss April in this year's Bright Young Things of the CIA fundraising calendar."
"What is that?" Annie asked, schooling her features to reflect confusion and fear – and OK, that last one wasn't too hard. Where the hell did this guy get her file?
"What, this?" Dumont looked up "Just a few notes I've compiled. It's amazing the sort of thing you find lying around the internet these days." He looked back at the folder. "Domestic Protection Division. Interesting. Actually, you know what?" He looked up again, snapping the file shut. "I lie. It's not interesting, it's boring. They've left out all the good parts." He took a few steps closer and leaned down towards her. "Like how someone like you goes from training to active duty in ten minutes flat. Wanna tell me about that, Agent Walker?"
Annie met him stare for stare. No way she was letting this asshole faze her. "Maybe I'm just really good at what I do," she said.
"Oh, I don't doubt that." Dumont straightened up. "I don't doubt that at all." He took a couple of steps back. "What do you say, Kyle? Is Annie really good at what she does?"
"I wouldn't know." Duarte's nostrils were flared with anger, but his voice was even. "I don't work at the Smithsonian."
Dumont grinned. "That's funny. You're a funny guy. You know, for a spook. So tell me, Annie." He turned back towards her. "How does it feel to be owned?"
"Nobody owns me," Annie said, eyes narrowing. Where was this guy going with all this?
"Oh, that's what you think now," Dumont said. "That's what Jake thought to begin with, too. They told you about Jake, didn't they?"
Annie shot Duarte a glance. "Jake?" she said, and Duarte shook his head.
"Jake has nothing to do with this," he said.
"Oh, I beg to differ," Dumont said, not taking his eyes off Annie. "Jake has everything to do with this." He leaned closer again. "I bet they told you he died a hero's death, didn't they? Went down fighting for the country he loved? But that's not what happened. You see, Jake, he was just like you, once. And then one day, he up and killed himself. Just couldn't take it any more." He grinned. "In a few years, that'll be you with a gun in your mouth. Although it'd be a shame to mess up that pretty face. I'd like to take this opportunity to recommend pills." He was leaning right over now, getting up in Annie's face, and man, she would like nothing better than to headbutt this guy right now, but she was pretty sure that would be countr-productive. "Of course," he said, "that assumes you're going to make it out of here alive, which, let me tell you." He shook his head. "Not very likely."
Annie raised her eyebrows. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said. At this point, it wasn't even a lie any more, but she was definitely more freaked than she was letting on. This guy was crazy, no doubt in her mind, but he knew something about her that she didn't.
"Really." Dumont turned back to Duarte. "Did you hear that, Kyle? She's a better liar than he was, anyway."
"She's not lying," Duarte said. "She has nothing to do with the program."
Dumont paused, watching Duarte's face. "You know, I actually believe you," he said. "Or I believe that that's what you think, anyway. Poor Kyle, driving a desk for four years. I'm surprised they even let you out in the field again after what happened. No wonder you're out of the loop on this one." He shrugged. "It's a shame, really, because if you don't know anything, then I have no real reason to keep you alive." He jerked his head in the direction of the door, and then two huge men – Voice One and Voice Two, Annie guessed – were striding across the room, picking up Duarte chair and all and carrying him away. Dumont followed them, but just before he moved out of Annie's line of sight he turned.
"You, on the other hand," he said, "you can stay. I think you and I are going to have a lot of fun together."
The thing about dislocating your thumb was that it turned out to be really painful. Like, really painful. And it wasn't that Annie had a problem with pain as such, it was just that she preferred not to be inflicting it on herself. Of course, she also preferred not to be tied up in an abandoned factory with a crazy guy and for her only ally not to be possibly already dead, but apparently she wasn't going to get everything she wanted today.
"Shit," she muttered, and pushed harder against the edge of the chair. It was almost there. It had to be. No way it would hurt this much otherwise.
Then: a crunch and a shift in her bones and Annie swallowed her scream, white flowers of JesusfuckingChristthathurts blooming on the backs of her eyelids. She felt a tear slide down her cheek and gave herself three seconds to pull it together. One. Two. Three.
OK.
Sliding her damaged hand out of the cuff was an exercise in pain management. Breathe through your nose. Don't make any noise. Live to see tomorrow. And then it was free, and she bent down to start untying her ankles, careful not to let the handcuffs jangle too much. She should relocate her thumb, but she couldn't face it, not yet. And there was no time – she couldn't see anything that looked like a camera, but it wasn't likely that she would be left unwatched for long.
OK, so, restraints off. Next stop: the door.
It was locked, and Annie quickly discovered that all her personal belongings were gone, including the hair pin she kept in her pocket for emergencies. Whoever this Dumont guy was, he was thorough. But not as smart as he thought he was: the emergency back-up hair-pin sewn into the cuff of her pants leg was still there. That was totally worth pinging the metal detector every time it was feeling particularly sensitive.
The lock was an old one – everything here seemed old, disused and shadowy – and picking it took no more than thirty seconds, which meant approximately ten minutes since they'd left with Duarte. Plenty of time to shoot him in the head, but Dumont seemed like he was the grandstanding kind of guy, so maybe she'd get lucky and find Duarte hanging over a shark tank or something. She slipped out into the corridor and cast around, noting the grime thick on the walls and the exposed pipes overhead. Yeah, this was totally the kind of place that would have a shark tank.
OK. No time to think, just pick a direction. She went left because her left hand was throbbing, and moved as fast as she could while still listening out for guards. No shoes was an advantage this time – no way she could've moved quietly enough in the heels she'd been wearing in Helsinki.
Another corridor. Two doors, both green, metal and heavy-looking. An intersection. Damn, this place was a maze. Annie stopped for a moment to take stock, and then – what was that? Right on the edge of her hearing, something rising and falling like-
Voices.
Annie started moving again, slower this time, tracking the voices through the labyrinth of corridors. Left, right, left again, and then there was a door that was slightly ajar and the hum of the voice resolved itself into words.
"So do we have to worry about Princess CIA?"
Dumont. She flattened herself against the wall and tried to hear the reply, but whoever he was talking to was too quiet, and the next thing she heard was Dumont's voice again.
"Ha, right. But she still thinks you're a government robot. We can use that."
Annie felt her heart start to thump in her ears. It sounded like he was talking to – no, he couldn't be.
"It's not a problem," said Dumont. "I'll just tell her I changed my mind about offing you. She'll be falling over herself with joy, she won't question it."
Jesus. Jesus, he was talking to Duarte.
Shit.
Annie swallowed hard and started to edge away. Duarte. God. OK, OK, figure this out. Disused factory in the woods. Population: two meatheads, one crazed nerd who's seen too many James Bond flicks, one highly-trained traitor, and one terrified newbie CIA agent. What did that add up to?
Pretty much to run like hell.
A window, that was what she really needed. Or stairs. Anything that would indicate where in this damn building she was and, more importantly, where the exit was. She was trying to keep track of where she turned and what distinguishing marks she passed, but really, she could've been going in circles and she wouldn't've known for sure. Every corridor seemed to be the same: echoing concrete, exposed pipes, green metal doors. She had a sudden sympathy for lab rats.
And then she found the phone.
Annie was pretty sure she'd never been so glad to see a phone. Even the iPhone that Auggie was always waxing lyrical about was nothing compared to the sweet, sweet sight of this battered, graffitied dinosaur that looked like it had been last used before the Berlin Wall came down. And when she lifted the receiver and there was a dial tone, Annie thought that she might have just encountered proof of the existence of God.
She dialled fast, mentally thanking the instructors at the Farm for drilling it into her to always memorise important phone numbers. There was a long pause, and she thought maybe the call wasn't going to go through, her stomach swooping with sick disappointment. And then: a ring. Two. And a voice answering, but not the one she expected.
"Murphy's Bar, how can I help?"
She knew, knew she was supposed to give her code and details of her mission, that it was ridiculous to be so thrown by something so simple, but all she could think to say was "Where's Auggie?"
"Annie? Where are you?" It was one of the other techs, Jim, she recognised his voice, a friendly voice thank God, but it wasn't the voice she wanted to hear. Wow, she really needed to pull herself together.
"I don't know exactly. I'm being held in a disused factory in the woods. It might be Finland still, or maybe Russia. Can you trace the call?"
"Already on it." Typing sounded down the line, and Annie bit her lip.
"Where's Auggie?" she said again.
"He called in sick," Jim said. "Can you-" And then there was silence. Annie blinked and took the receiver from her ear, shaking it. Nothing. Not even a dial tone. Apparently miracles were pretty short-lived these days.
Footsteps around the corner brought her back to herself. Time to move. All she could do was hope Jim'd had time to trace the call. If it'd been Auggie, she knew he'd have managed it somehow, but Auggie was off sick. Annie had been kidnapped, and Auggie had gone home sick. It wasn't fair, she knew – it wasn't like Auggie was a slacker, if he'd called in sick he must be practically at death's door – but she couldn't help thinking that if it had been the other way round, no way she would have left him out there alone.
Alone. Duarte was a double agent, Auggie wasn't at the other end of the phone, and all Annie could rely on was herself.
She made a left turn and stopped. There were footsteps ahead now as well as behind. Shit. OK, well, there were four doors ahead of her. Time to see what was behind door number one.
As it turned out, though, door number one was locked, as were two and three. Annie grabbed the handle of the last door, wondering if there was time for lock-picking before one or other of the approaching sets of footsteps arrived on the scene, and then the handle turned and the door swung outwards. Annie slipped inside and closed it behind her as quietly as possible.
The room she was in was cavernous and dimly-lit, crowded with huge machinery that bristled in weird silhouettes against the grime-covered windows set high up in one wall. It must have been part of the factory floor once upon a time. Plenty of places to hide. Good. The question was, was there a way to get up to the windows?
Annie moved forward, the moulded metal of the gantry sharp on her bare feet. It looked like this place had once had something to do with manufacturing paper. That didn't really narrow the region down, but information was information.
She was halfway into the room when a hissing noise behind her had her whirling. Smoke or steam was pouring out of a vent somewhere in amongst the machinery, and it was coming fast – in a few seconds, almost the whole top half of the room was hung with clouds of vapour. Annie coughed, and – oh, shit, that wasn't steam. Steam didn't burn your nasal passages when you breathed it in. Jesus.
Annie began to run back to the door, bending as low as she could to keep her face in the relatively breathable air near the floor. She ran through a list of all the poisonous gases she could think of as she ran, but really, the information wasn't a whole lot of use – whichever one it was, it was going to be a serious problem for her if she didn't get out of here soon.
Covering her mouth and nose with one arm, she reached out with the other to haul on the door handle, only to find that there wasn't one. The door was completely smooth on the inside, no handle, no lock, nothing to grab onto. She pushed on it frantically, but it didn't budge. The air was getting hazy now, and Annie wasn't sure if it was the smoke or if she was close to passing out. And that was when she spotted the keypad beside the door.
It was completely out of place, and if she hadn't been so focussed on the door itself, she would've noticed it immediately: a numerical keypad with an LCD display, like the ones on every door at the CIA. It was the most high-tech thing she'd seen since she woke up in the back of a truck miles from anywhere, but she didn't have time to wonder what the hell it was doing there right now. She knew the chances of getting through without the appropriate swipe card or code were slim to non-existent, but the chances of surviving if she didn't were looking even worse, so she reached out and tapped out the first number she could think of.
The number flashed on the LCD, the faded. The door remained closed. Annie groaned in frustration and tried another code, and another, typing deperately on the pad. Number after number flashed and disappeared, until the keys were too blurry for Annie to read. Some time after that, she became aware that she couldn't reach the keypad any more, and it took her a few moments to understand that that was because she was one her knees. She struggled back to her feet, only to find herself on the ground, throat burning, eyes welling with tears.
I wonder what they'll tell Danielle, she thought, and closed her eyes.
If Annie thought she'd felt sore when she'd come to in the truck, it was nothing compared to how she felt when she woke up this time around. Every inch of her skin felt tender, like someone had rubbed a cheese grater all over her body. Her left hand felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size. Her throat ached so badly she could barely swallow. It took her three tries to unstick her eyelids, and when she finally managed it, she almost wished she hadn't bothered.
"Morning, sleepyhead," said Dumont, smirking face inches from hers. "I guess beauty sleep really is a misnomer."
She stared at him, thoughts moving sluggishly. She wasn't dead. That was really as far as she could manage right now. That, and that she really wanted to punch Dumont in his smug face.
"It's interesting," Dumont said. "You did pretty well, escaping and evading the guards, but you let yourself get caught again. Why is that?"
Annie blinked at him. It wasn't like getting caught again had been her intention.
"I mean," Dumont continued, "obviously I would've caught you eventually. I was the one who arranged for your escape, after all. I just wonder why you didn't use some of your... special talents. It seems a shame to waste them."
Annie started to take in details of her location. She was tied to a chair (again), and from the dinginess and general ugly green theme, she was guessing she was still somewhere in the factory. Everything else, however, was different. She was inside some kind of purpose-built chamber within the larger room. The walls were dark and heavy-looking, and there was the hum of electricity.
"It's an electromagnet," Dumont said. "A really, really big electromagnet." He cocked his head on one side, like he was waiting for a reaction.
Annie finally managed to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. "Is that supposed to scare me?" she asked, wishing her voice didn't sound quite so much like she'd been chain-smoking constantly for the last fifty years.
Dumont raised his eyebrows. "You know, I did think the whole bimbo look was a front, but I'm beginning to think you really are just really dumb," he said, then shrugged. "I have to say, Jake was a lot more fun than you are."
"Sorry to disappoint." Annie tried surreptitiously testing the strength of the ropes. He left hand throbbed in protest.
"Whatever," Dumont said, stepping out of the chamber. "I'd say it was nice knowing you, but that would be a lie." Grinning at her, he flipped a switch on the wall, and the hum of electricity kicked up several notches.
Annie waited. Nothing else happened. Dumont's grin faded.
"It's not working," he said. "You've found a way to shield them, is that it?"
"I can't believe I have to say this again," Annie said, "but I have no idea what you're talking about."
Dumont's eyes narrowed, and he flipped the switch off again, the hum fading. He stepped forward, back into the chamber, leaning over and glaring into Annie's eyes.
"I was hoping to avoid tearing you limb from limb," he said. "It's so... messy. But if I have to, I will."
Annie didn't have the energy to reply. It was all she could do to keep herself from passing out again.
"You two," Dumont said. "Take her back to the holding cell. And then find me some brighter lights. We'll need them for the surgery."
Annie had the sense of being lifted, and then she lost her struggle to retain her grip on consciousness.
It was a soft clanking noise that woke Annie this time. She still felt like she'd been bathing in sand, but her vision was less blurry this time, and her mind was noticeably more alert. She really wished she'd stopped to pop her thumb back in however many hours ago it was, but on the other hand, the pain was giving her an edge of urgency. Which wasn't exactly necessary, given that she was pretty sure Dumont was planning to perform some kind of operation on her for reasons unknown, which really ought to be all the urgency anyone could ever need, but every little helps.
The clanking came again, and she realised it was someone at the door. She was back in the first room she'd been in, where she'd first met Dumont. How long had she been out? Was he already prepared for the surgery? She steeled herself as the door started to swing open, opening her mouth to make a crack about electromagnets. The words never made it past her lips, though, because as it turned out, it wasn't Dumont at the door at all.
It was Auggie.
Guys, just a reminder: please don't mention any spoilers for any unaired episodes of the show. Thank you!