After glancing at the photo one more time, Angela slipped it back into her pocket. She rounded the corner and stopped at the first door, extracting her card to swipe through the lock.
Because of her position as head of the Kripo unit held, her set of rooms was larger than those of her subordinates. The apartment opened to a decent-sized living room, decorated in soft earth tones, and a black and white walk-in kitchen. Immediately to the right of the kitchen, a small hall led to the bathroom and ended at the bedroom.
Angela went straight to the bathroom, shrugging off her jacket and clothes along the way, and turned on the shower. Steam rose in the air and coated the mirror with a sheen of condensation. She stepped into the hot water and quickly washed away her grogginess. There would be time for a nap on the train.
Her head wrapped in a towel, the detective hurried to her bedroom, where she changed into off-duty flared-leg jeans and a gold blouse. Then, she went to her closet where a military-green duffle bag hid on the top shelf behind blankets and other knickknacks. She yanked it out. The bag fell like it held bricks, and thumped against her thigh on its way down. She shuffled over to her bed and dumped the contents onto the cover.
A metallic clatter came from the growing pile, and the scent of old gunpowder and cleaning oil filled the air. Her green bedspread was covered in pistols and rifles. Unlike the authorized .40 S&W, the only weapon allowed when hunting Renegades, these firearms had been illegally obtained from the Renegades she’d captured over the years. None of them could be traced back to her.
Angela picked up an SG 550 assault rifle, liking the weight of it in her hands, and brought it firmly against her shoulder. She’d had the opportunity to sight it only twice, but the feeling of her finger on the trigger, the forced impact against her shoulder, and the odor of the powder as it filled her nostrils were all ingrained in her memory. Unfortunately, the rifle wouldn’t accompany her on the trip.
She set it down and picked up the Taurus PT145. Perfect. A smaller handgun, designed for concealed carry. She removed the double-stacked magazine and loaded ten rounds of .45 cartridges. Sliding the magazine back into place and chambering a round, she held the gun. Her fingers felt at home around the contours of the polymer grip.
Placing the gun on the bedside table, Angela grabbed three more magazines and stuffed ten .45 rounds into each one. She couldn’t imagine needing more. Then again, after what had happened at the park, who knew? She had no way of knowing whether Dr. Hirch kept other secrets, and she wasn’t going to be unprepared again. The embarrassing episode of waking behind the bush back at the park had been enough. Even now, the humiliation burned through her with a vengeance of its own when she thought about it.
If she could only get the perfect bitch alone…
Renegades would be blamed, and Angela would have her revenge and walk away unscathed.
She set the box with the remaining cartridges off to the side along with the ankle holster and magazine pouches and grabbed another box just for good measure. She replaced the rest of the firearms in the bag and hauled her illegal possessions back to the closet to store away from prying eyes.
With the holster tied to her ankle, the gun nestled inside, the leather hugging the metal contours, she stood and looked in the full-length mirror attached to the closet door. Her damp hair, like spun silvery thread, draped over her shoulders. And her eyes, although tired and tinged with red, remained alert. Her body was toned and lean. She was just as deadly as The Center’s children, and even more so with the stainless-steel weapon hidden by the flare of her jeans.
Pleased, Angela attached the ammo pouches to the inside of her waistband. In each pouch, she placed a magazine. They felt hard against her back, but not uncomfortable. She hid the extra rounds with a lightweight blue jacket that fell loosely around her waist.
Angela checked her watch. An hour left. She grabbed another suitcase and shoved in three pairs of off-duty pants and shirts, a set of camos, and other necessities. She wrapped both ammunition boxes in a pair of pajamas, placed them within her essentials, and zipped the suitcase closed.
After one last glance around the room to make sure everything was in order, Angela shut off the lights.
6
Ellyssa woke with her cheek against the cool moss-covered ground. Fine grass tickled her skin, and the sun warmed her hair. Soft gurgles of water rushed over rocks and intermingled with the hum of insects. For a brief second, she felt peaceful, before a dull throbbing echoed from her legs, up her spinal cord, and ended at her temple, informing her that she was not well.
She swallowed. Her throat felt swollen and scratchy, like she’d eaten a wad of sandpaper. Her tongue darted between her dry, cracked lips and pulled back the metallic taste of blood.
Tauntingly, just a meter away, the water bottle lay next to her bag. With the way she felt, it might as well have been a kilometer.
She wanted to close her eyes again, to let sleep take her away, but she couldn’t. She had to keep moving.
Slowly, she pulled her hands under her chest and pushed. Her body screamed in protest. Her sore muscles felt tight, like her tendons were tied into knots. Especially her leg, which was heavy and unresponsive. Gritting her teeth, she stood and stumbled forward before crumpling next to the bottle. The three or four swallows left in the bottle sloshed tantalizingly and reflected the morning sun like glittering diamonds.
Ellyssa flicked her gaze toward the stream. Cool, thirst-quenching water ran over river rocks, shimmering with browns and greys. So was the possibility of bacteria. She turned away from the rushing stream and unscrewed the cap, then took one last small, unsatisfying sip.
Standing with care, Ellyssa slowly distributed her weight. Sharp teeth of pain clamped onto her wound. She yelped as her right leg buckled, sending her back to the ground. The already tender leg banged against jagged rocks and more skin scraped off. A slow burn mingled with the rest of the aches and pains.
Thoughts of the beatings she’d endured while training were diminished to trivial nuisances. Nothing compared to the way she felt now.
Eyes watering, Ellyssa held her leg, refusing to let the agony get the best of her. She is superior. Weakness is intolerable. Absolute control over all situations. Her father’s words repeated in her head, over and over, until she managed to push the pain aside and gain control.
Calmly, she regarded her right thigh. An angry redness spread from under the makeshift bandage. She gingerly poked it with her finger. An unhealthy yellow depression bloomed before the red reestablished its presence. After untying the bandage, she carefully pulled it away. Stringy pus, tinged green with red dots, stretched from the fabric to the wound.
Disgusting.
Ellyssa glanced at what little liquid was left in the bottle, her only source of clean water, and then the stream. Given little choice, she rose and limped to the babbling water, grabbing her bag along the way.
After retrieving the scissors and the antiseptic cream, she took off the coveralls. Blood stiffened the material of her tan skirt. She took it off, too. She cut off the remaining leg of her coveralls, then cut the clean part of the skirt into strips.
Using part of the skirt, Ellyssa scrubbed the wound while biting the inside of her cheek to hold back the screams. The pain was beyond belief, clouding her vision and rolling waves of nausea through her stomach. When she was done, she let the blood flow to clean the wound before re-bandaging her leg and shrugging back into the coveralls.
She gathered her items and stepped into the stream. Water lapped at her calves. She cautiously measured every step to ensure she wouldn’t fall. She couldn’t afford any more injuries. Her pace was already considerably slower than yesterday.