McClaren’s memories told me that Weissman was most likely in his office, which was at the end of the hall behind the door. I crept toward it, even steps, covering ground quickly and quietly. Breandan, for his part, did much the same, only marginally noisier than I was. When I opened the door, I tried to assume a normal tread. I was only going to get one shot at this, and if Weissman was out of position, I’d be ready, but if he wasn’t, just walking in pretending to be his returning raiding party would probably allow me to catch him by surprise. Probably. Well, hopefully.
The hallway was a hundred feet long, and the walls were a dim brick, like the rest of the building. The lighting wasn’t any better here than it had been out in the bay, and I started to wonder why the place was so dark. I pondered and realized that it wouldn’t surprise me if Century had vampires working for them. They were sensitive to light and excellent trackers, which would be just the thing for the outfit that was looking to find and eliminate all the meta-humans on the planet.
I crept down the hall, trying to walk normally, not muffle my steps, and I saw Breandan looking at me wide-eyed. I waved him forward and walked at a casual stride but kept my gun up as I came down the corridor, ready to wheel at the slightest notice of any danger. McClaren’s memory told me the place was clear, but his information was only as good as his most recent visit, which had been a couple hours ago. Just because he thought there was no one else coming didn’t mean he was right, after all.
I reached the last door and searched through McClaren’s thoughts again. A simple knock would suffice; that measure of courtesy was perfectly normal for how he’d treat Weissman. I gave one sharp thunk on the wood, and heard a voice from inside. “Come in.” It was high, and a little nasally. It was exactly as I’d heard it in McClaren’s mind.
I turned the knob and flung the door open, bursting in with my gun up and the barrel aimed straight at Weissman. He was exactly as I recalled—thin, a mop of dark hair up top. His age was tough to gauge, but he looked around forty, without any sign of grey hair. Wrinkles were also strangely absent, and he covered his shock reasonably well as he stared down the barrel of my gun.
“Sienna Nealon,” he said with a careful swallow as he leaned back in his chair, his hands raised where I could see them. He seemed deeply unconcerned.
“You know me,” I said. I wasn’t asking. “Should I be afraid?”
He chuckled. “You’re the one holding the gun, not me.”
“Now, now,” I said. “Perhaps I should have asked, ‘How do you know me?’”
He gave a slight nod, all calm assurance. “That is a better question. The answer is … because you’re the only meta-human in the entire world that I’m not allowed to kill.”
Chapter 22
I looked over the man across the desk, his slicked-back hair and oily demeanor reminding me of every joke I’d ever heard about greasy salesmen. He smiled, and I suddenly wondered exactly why he was so damned happy to be looking down the barrel of a gun. “Well, now, isn’t that a change from just a few months ago when your people tried to put me in the ground right after Andromeda?” I asked, getting the sense that I should pull the trigger and save myself whatever trouble he was cooking up.
He grimaced slightly. “Things change.” His face took a moment to readjust back to a smile. “It’s such a pleasure to finally be able to formally meet you.”
“The feeling is not mutual,” I said. “McClaren wasn’t impressed with you as a boss.” I lied. I hadn’t drained enough of McClaren to get that impression, and what I’d gotten from him at the meeting this morning had been fairly limited, mostly focused on the assignment.
“So you killed him?” Weissman nodded subtly. “Good for you. I’d heard you were on the killing floor now, off the bench, as it were.” He smiled again. “Zollers thought you’d never come around to it. I told him he was wrong, that everyone can be a killer if they’re pushed hard enough, but I think, really, he was just afraid to give you that push.”
“Maybe he was afraid of what would happen to whoever did the pushing,” I said, but I didn’t smile.
“Oooooh,” Weissman said, gleefully, almost ominously. “I like the sound of that.” The relish was evident in his voice. “I heard you did in all of M-Squad. One by one, brutal when necessary, clever by turn, and even improvised a couple times when you were backed into a corner.” He leered at me, and something about him reminded me of Rick. “Shame about Old Man Winter, though. Were you surprised when he ran from you? The big bad? The Old Man, running from the little girl?”