Holidays are Hell

Her hands stilled around Chenglei's foot. She stood up. Neither man looked at her. She backed away, just enough, and took a slow, deep breath so cold her throat hurt.

The newcomer's gaze flicked in her direction, then settled again on the old man. "There are no others."

Chenglei's smile was strained. He resembled a fat slab of pork, sprawled on his reclining chair. Six watched his hands, his white knuckles, his fingers twitching toward his sides. She recalled his file, old surveillance videos. She knew the signs.

Six moved fast. She grabbed Chenglei's creeping hand and yanked him off his chair, using his momentum to slam two fingers into his throat. He started choking. Spit flecked her cheek. She wiped it away, reached beneath his suit jacket, and removed one gun, silencer already screwed on. Very illegal. Life imprisonment, just on that alone. But for everything else on his file, she could shoot him now and no one would complain.

The room was still cold. Six quickly checked Chenglei for more weapons, then dumped the wheezing man back on his chair. She looked over her shoulder, and met a dark hard gaze. Blown cover, but better than shots fired. Chenglei had been intending to kill this man. And she needed answers.

"Do not try to run," she said quietly.

"I don't run," said the man.

"Over there." Six pointed. "On your knees, hands above your head, palms and forehead flat against the wall."

"No," he said, gaze flicking to Chenglei, whose gasps were quieting. "This isn't over."

"I am with Squad Twelve," Six said in a hard voice. "It could be over with a bullet, if you do not obey me."

"No," he said again, but this time she knew he was not talking to her. She stepped sideways, cautious, and turned to look at Chenglei.

His skin was blue. Cold blue, corpse blue, the flesh around his mouth cracking and flaking. His eyes were wide open, unblinking, and his chest was very still. Not breathing. Six stared. She had not hit him hard enough for that. She had not done anything to cause the rapid physical reaction she was witnessing, which suddenly reminded her of forensics class, time spent in the military's morgue, learning how to understand death, to create death, on an endless supply of corpses. Cold air, cold bodies. Decaying on a schedule. Only Chenglei's schedule appeared to be accelerating in a most unfortunate manner. His eyes were caving into his skull. As was his mouth, lips shrinking inward, shriveling.

"You need to leave," said the man. "Right now. Run."

"I do not run," growled Six, echoing his words. "What is this? A disease of some kind?" SARS had created enough difficulties; it still did, despite government attempts to suppress the disease and keep it out of the media. But that was nothing more than some advanced flu—easy to comprehend. What she was seeing now was something else entirely.

Biological weapons, she thought. That is what this is all about.

The wire taped to her chest transmitted a live feed. Just one word, and this place would be overrun by military. Her team was in place. Ready. Quarantine was not an option they had discussed, but it would be just as easily delivered: brutal, swift, the cleanup efficient. No questions asked.

Six opened her mouth to give the order. The man held up his hand—as if he knew what she about to do—and though she did not trust him, there was something in the urgency of that movement that made her hesitate. That, and the look in his eyes. He stared at her as though he could see right into her heart, and as such, could speak to her heart, and what she heard in his eyes was Wait, please, wait.

So she did, feeling a momentary hush that fled with the cold. The air warmed, a flush of heat that curled over her skin and made her nose run. She ignored it. Stared at the man. Tried to watch Chenglei at the same time, which was why she saw his body twitch. Just once. In a manner as subtle as flexing three muscles: in his eyelid, his finger, his naked toe.

"He's alive," Six whispered, horrified. From man to cadaver to a ghost in a shell: she tried to imagine a similar fate, and it terrified her. "He's sick. Poisoned."

"Wrong," said the man, and it occurred to Six that he should really be facedown on the ground, unconscious and drooling. One tap against his head would do it. She had strong bones, good technique.

Except she could not move against him. Choice, instinct: she wanted him able to talk. She needed information. Right now. More than she wanted to be safe. More than she wanted to prevent any attempt to escape.

No chance to ask questions, though. Chenglei moved again. This time, fast. So fast, that it was not until much later that Six found herself able to recall any details of what happened—not the flash of his teeth, not the darkness of that shriveled mouth—because in that heartbeat when Chenglei moved, all Six had was training, instinct, and it saved her life.