Triggers

“She may not remember, but I do,” said Tarasov. “I’ll testify against you.”

“Shut up!” Susan barked. “Latimer, it’ll be okay. No one is going to accept linked memories in court; there’s no case law to support using them as evidence. Put the gun down, and we all walk away from this.”

“He’s going to tell Dora,” Latimer said. “He’s going to ruin everything.”

Tarasov twisted now against Latimer’s grip. “She deserves to know.”

“Don’t!” said Latimer and Susan simultaneously, and Susan added, “Damn it, Tarasov, shut up and let me protect you.”

“Like you protected Jerrison?” Tarasov said. “You have no idea what I’m seeing right now! Right now! The horrible things that little girl saw—the things that he did to her!”

Before this, Latimer had relaxed his grip a bit and had let the gun lower slightly, but now, in that slow motion that happens in times of real crisis, Susan saw him lifting the pistol, closing his grip, and moving his finger, and—

Blam!

Susan felt herself being slammed backward—

Oh my God!

—by the recoil of her own gun.

There’d been no way to hit Latimer in the chest; Tarasov’s torso was covering it. And so she’d shot Latimer just above the right eye, blowing that side of his head open, blood and bone flying.

Latimer’s blood splattered across the side of Tarasov’s face. The security guard looked as though he was unsure who’d been hit, and Latimer—

Latimer’s eyes were still open—wide, wide open—and tracking; his mouth opened as if to say something. Susan looked for an opportunity to get another shot off, but then Latimer collapsed, falling backward to the floor.

Tarasov wheeled around and recovered his gun.

Susan’s heart was pounding ferociously. She had trained for this, and trained for it, and trained for it—but she’d never killed a man before. Her hand was shaking as she reholstered her own weapon.

Tarasov moved partway across the room and found a chair; he dropped himself into it and put his blood-spattered head in his hands.

Susan lifted her arm to speak into her wrist microphone, but it wasn’t necessary. The door to the room was kicked open, and two agents, guns out, appeared at either side of it. They quickly surveyed the situation, then entered.

“Sue,” said one of the agents, while the other one rushed over to Latimer’s fallen form. “What went down?”

Susan looked at them then and at the ruined side of Josh Latimer’s head, lying now in a widening pool of blood. She found herself unable to speak as she groped for a chair.

Chapter 35

After they’d had lunch, Eric Redekop had taken Janis Falconi to his luxury condo, which was just a few blocks from LT, overlooking the Potomac. Jan was amazed. She knew top surgeons made a lot of money, but she’d never quite realized how much; Eric’s place was gorgeous, with a sumptuous marble entryway. He gave her a quick tour: separate kitchen and dining room, two full bathrooms, and four bedrooms. He used one as an office, another as a TV room, and a third was set up as a bedroom for when his son Quentin visited; Quentin was twenty-one, and was studying genetics at UC Berkeley. They came out to the living room, which opened on a wide balcony and had pristine white walls, a white leather couch, and a matching chair. Janis opened her mouth to say something complimentary, and—

And she heard a deafening sound, like a car backfiring right beside her, and she had a brief flash of—well, of light, and she saw the face of a woman. An “Ooof!” came out of her as she staggered backward.

“Jan?” said Eric wheeling around.

Agony. More pain than she’d ever felt—ever thought she could feel.

Jan reached out with her right arm, flailing for something to grab on to, but found nothing. She tumbled backward, falling to the hardwood floor.

“Jan!” shouted Eric, dropping onto one knee next to her. He touched her wrist, feeling for a pulse.

The pain continued to shoot through her; it wasn’t localized—it was everywhere. She couldn’t focus or turn her head. She thought—as much as she could think anything through the agony—that perhaps she was having a heart attack.

“Jan, what is it?” asked Eric. “Where does it hurt?”

With a massive effort, and although it felt like her neck was snapping to do so, she managed to turn her head to face him, but—

But her vision was receding into a long tunnel, andthe person at the end of the tunnel was—well, she didn’t know who it was, but it wasn’t Eric. The face she saw there, in the distance, was terrified, and—

She felt herself being lifted up in Eric’s arms, and he carried her a short distance and set her down—ah, it must be on the white leather couch she’d been admiring a few moments before. But she couldn’t see it; all she could see was the tunnel—and it was narrowing. And yet she knew she wasn’t dead: her pulse was pounding in her ears.