Chrysalis

53

Reginald Bryant moved away from the windows of his suite. From this vantage point, he’d had the luck — if that, indeed, was the word — to see where Wing landed.

He sat on the end of his bed, looking at himself in a large mirror. He’d been lucky: the 9x19 round had passed cleanly through his side before the hollow point could mushroom. More than a flesh wound, but less than incapacitating: another inch or two closer to his spine, and it would have been a different story. As it was, he’d cleaned the entrance and exit, stopped the bleeding, and applied the kind of field dressing he had employed on others several times. The bandage would allow him to move with as much ease as possible.

He was shirtless, having discarded the bloody security outfit and donned the jumpsuit worn by Chrysalis electrical engineers. These workers had more leeway to move around the Complex than almost any others. Currently, its top was pooled around his midriff. Now he pulled it up gingerly over his shoulders, fastened it, added a fresh ID badge from the set in his suitcase, and examined himself again in the mirror. Good — very good. Nobody would pay him any mind, especially with a level-two alarm going off everywhere. And since he’d “broken his profile” with the addition of some facial hair and a little makeup, he shouldn’t be flagged by any recognition systems, either.

Not that he would be in any case: he did not know much about the technological entity known as the Helix — only what scraps Wing had told him, but it seemed not only to be heavily integrated with all Chrysalis systems… but malfunctioning as well.

So much the better.

He stood up, moving this way and that, checking for pain. The jumpsuit fit well while concealing the weapons he carried. His side felt sore, of course, but he’d applied a strong topical anesthetic and there would be no more bleeding. He could move without a limp — and, if needed, move quickly.

He felt a sharp twinge, and he sat down again on the bed to apply a little more anesthetic. If he really wanted, he could just lie back on the bed, close his eyes, and call it quits. His mission had changed over the last few days due to unexpected events, but it was technically complete. Prawn was dead, and Wing — reading the tea leaves — had taken the honorable way out. Cardiff’s apprehension had posed a problem, but he’d been stopped before he said anything too incriminating.

But in his mind that didn’t mean his job was done: it simply meant a new objective. The cartel that employed him — a hybrid of corporate extortionists and ruthless venture capitalists — valued thoroughness almost as much as loyalty and success. He’d made sure that Prawn, Wing Kaupei, and Cardiff had paid the price of failure. But he also wanted to punish the target itself for noncompliance. This was important to his employers: it would be helpful in future negotiations. Asperton, the woman they’d chosen as the Chrysalis contact, had already been punished for lack of cooperation — as had Kramer, chief of security. A thousand more would die tomorrow, but nobody need know that was the plan all along.

Even so, entries remained on his punishment checklist. The man he’d watched interrogate Cardiff: he was overall head of Logistical Integrity. And the brains behind the Omega project, that useful smoke screen, Wrigley: losing that visionary would be a massive blow. Then there was the high-profile troubleshooter, the so-called enigmalogist. Jeremy Logan. From what Bryant could piece together, it was Logan, more than anyone, who’d stirred up this wasp’s nest. Logan interested him — he sported a background and skill set that was unique. Bryant would find it just as sporting to kill him.

Eliminating those three would constitute a fitting punishment — and free him of any residual taint from an operation gone wrong due to the shortcomings of others.

He stood up again, moving just a little slowly. The pain was now less noticeable, and his movement unimpeded. He turned his attention to his suitcase. It was time to deal with the checklist.