The girl advanced toward Laura again, her fists raised, forcing her back toward the walls of the pit that surrounded them. She struck like lightning, her foot lashing out and hitting Laura in the ribs, knocking the wind out of her and sending her staggering backward. She felt the cold, hard concrete of the pit wall against her back as the other girl pulled back her fist for a final blow.
“Enough,” a voice shouted from somewhere in the darkness behind the bright white floodlights that illuminated the pit. “One two five, you fought well, you may return to your quarters. I shall deal with three seven nine.”
The other girl lowered her fist with a nod and walked across the pit toward the steel door set into the opposite wall. She glanced back over her shoulder at Laura, a cruel sneer on her face, as the sound of heavy bolts unlocking came from the other side of the door.
“Typical H.I.V.E. brat,” the girl said. “No fight in you.”
Laura glared back at the other girl, wiping away the blood that trickled from her lip with the back of her hand. The door swung open and a tall, muscular man with a square jaw and shaved head walked into the room, watching in silence as Laura’s opponent left. His name was Heinrich, Furan’s right-hand man, and over the recent months he had become a regular feature in Laura’s all too frequent nightmares.
“I still do not understand why Furan tolerates your weakness,” the man said, looking at Laura with undisguised contempt. “If it were up to me I’d have thrown you to the wolves weeks ago.”
Laura did not reply; instead she just stared at the bloodstained concrete floor. She had learned the hard way that no one answered back to this man. Her life at the Glasshouse, Anastasia Furan’s training facility for young assassins, had taught her many harsh lessons. Her former life at H.I.V.E. might have been hard at times, but it was nothing compared to the ordeal she had been put through since she had been captured by Furan and thrown into this fresh new hell. Here there was no tolerance for weakness, no pause for rest, and no hope of escape.
“Look at me,” Heinrich snapped.
Laura lifted her head and looked into his cold gray eyes.
“Such weakness,” he said, “and yet I still see some shred of that defiance you showed when you first arrived here, three seven nine. Most of the other H.I.V.E. students we captured are either dead or have broken by now, but you’re still clinging on to something, aren’t you? What is it? Tell me.”
“Not something . . . someone,” Laura replied quietly.
“Really?” Heinrich replied. “And just who might that be?”
“Someone who won’t stop until he’s found this place and burned it to the ground,” Laura said defiantly.
“You’re talking about Nero, aren’t you?” Heinrich said, stepping toward her. “Do you really think he cares about you, three seven nine? The girl who betrayed him. The girl who is responsible for the death of so many of his students. I think you overestimate your value to him. If he was coming to rescue you or any of the rest of his brats, do you not think he would have done so by now?”
Laura felt a sudden wave of despair as Heinrich reminded her of what she had done. She had been blackmailed into revealing the location of the H.I.V.E. survival training exercise known as the Hunt, unaware that she was jeopardizing the lives of her friends and fellow students. There was barely a waking hour that passed when she was not haunted by that memory and now Heinrich was taking obvious delight in twisting that particular knife.
“He won’t be coming for me,” Laura replied. “He’ll be coming for the others and I hope for your sake you’re not here when he does.”
“I’m not afraid of Nero,” Heinrich said with a twisted smile. “By the time that Furan’s finished with him, he’ll wish he was dead. Nero’s time is past. Very soon the world will belong to the Disciples and there’s nothing Nero, G.L.O.V.E. or anyone else will be able to do to stop it.”
“They’ve stopped you before, they’ll stop you again,” Laura said.
Heinrich gave her a swift backhanded blow to the face and Laura gasped in pain.
“Clean yourself up,” Heinrich said, “then return to your cell.”
He walked out of the pit and Laura followed him into the spartan bathroom beyond. She walked to one of the steel basins attached to the gray concrete walls and turned on the tap, splashing the icy water on her face, watching as the trail of blood washed away down the drain. She pulled a couple of rough paper towels from the dispenser on the wall and carefully dried her aching face. She stared for a moment at her reflection in the mirror screwed onto the wall. The fresh cuts and bruises on her face were starting to feel normal after the months she had spent being subjected to the worst the Glasshouse had to offer. The bloodstains on the white vest she wore would have to stay there for now. They got a clean uniform once a week, a clean vest and a pair of gray camouflage combat pants to go with the regulation black leather boots. You trained in that uniform, you ate in that uniform, and you slept in that uniform. That was the way the Glasshouse worked. She let out a sigh and walked out of the bathroom and into the corridor that led back to her cell. She came out on to the balcony that ran around the huge circular central atrium of the underground facility. The center of the atrium was dominated by the inverted steel and glass spire that hung from the ceiling and which housed the facility’s control center. Wasp-like camera drones with whirring cowled rotors flew around the atrium, tracking the facility’s trainees’ movements using the barcodes printed on the back of their vests. There was rarely such a thing as privacy here. Laura looked over the balcony and down to the ground far below where trainees were receiving a hand-to-hand combat lesson in the large open training area.
The lowest levels housed the dormitories, but Laura was not afforded the comparative luxury of sharing a living space with the other trainees. She was kept in one of the isolation cells on the upper levels and that was where she was heading right now. At first she had wondered why Furan had singled her out for such treatment, but eventually she had decided that it was all part of the perverse delight that the woman took in tormenting her. She made her way to her cell on the other side of the atrium and the door unlocked with a clunk. She pushed it open and stepped inside, closing it behind her. The door locked again and she sat down on the concrete block with a thin mattress on top that was the Glasshouse’s version of a bed. The only other things in the room were a stainless-steel sink and toilet. Laura lay back on the mattress and closed her eyes. She refused to give in to despair, no matter how tempting it was at times. Instead, she thought of her friends and her previous life at H.I.V.E. and silently prayed that she might one day return there and see them again.
chapter three
The black limousine rounded the corner of the hangar and slowed to a halt at the bottom of the steps that led up into the sleek fuselage of the private jet standing on the tarmac. A Secret Service agent stepped out of the car and opened the rear door. Senator Matt Ronson climbed out of the car and trotted up the steps leading into the plane. With his swept-back silver hair, immaculate suit, and healthy tan, he was the very image of the successful American businessman and there was no bigger business than his current occupation. What neither the people who had elected him nor the men who had selected him as their party’s presidential candidate knew was that he was one of the most senior members of the organization known as the Disciples. That organization had been highly effective in ensuring his rapid rise through the political ranks and now he stood on the brink of claiming the most powerful office in the world. He smiled contentedly to himself as he sat down in one of the large leather seats that lined the cabin. His latest poll figures were excellent and all of the projections appeared to indicate that he would soon be moving into a new house on Pennsylvania Avenue. It didn’t hurt that one of the Disciples’ front companies was responsible for manufacturing the electronic voting machines that would be used in some of the most closely contested states during the upcoming election. Even if the electorate were foolish enough to choose
his opponent the final result would be no different. All he had to do was sit and wait for November.
“Your wife and son will be here shortly, Senator,” the Secret Service agent reported. “They were slightly late leaving the hotel, but the pilot assures me that we can make up the time once we get airborne.”
“Good,” Ronson replied. “I have a meeting that I can’t be late for.” The meeting in question was a teleconference with the other members of the Disciples and he was keen to get an update on how Anastasia Furan’s plan was developing. Nero and G.L.O.V.E. had been a thorn in their sides for far too long and it was about time they were finished off once and for all. Furan had dealt Nero a stunning blow with the assault on the H.I.V.E. training exercise known as the Hunt and now was the time to press home their advantage. Nero’s status with the other members of the global fraternity of villains had been weakened by his failure to protect his students and it would not take much to amplify that chaos still further. If Nero finally lost his grip on the reins of power, his fellow villains would turn on him in an instant, that much was certain. Ronson’s cell phone started ringing and he glanced at the screen to see that his campaign manager was calling. He took the call just as his wife and son climbed aboard and the jet’s engines began to spin up. He mouthed “You’re late” to his wife as she sat down across the aisle from him and she mouthed a “Sorry” in reply as the plane taxied for takeoff. He spent ten minutes discussing the latest polling data with his campaign director before finally hanging up.
“What kept you?” Ronson asked his wife with a frown.
“Sorry,” she replied. “I had to get changed.”
Ronson’s frown deepened. There was something funny about his wife’s voice. Her usual midwest twang was gone, replaced instead by what sounded like a soft Russian accent.
“We both did,” his son added, in a British accent.
Ronson’s eyes widened in shock as their faces shimmered and faded to reveal a pair of smooth black skintight masks, with mirrored silver eyepieces. The pair of impostors pulled off the masks, revealing two faces that Ronson found horrifyingly familiar.
“Good morning, Senator Ronson,” Otto said with a smile as Raven pulled a snub-nosed pistol from her handbag and leveled it at him. “I do hope we’re not interrupting anything.”
“What have you done with my wife and son?” Ronson demanded, slowly sliding his hand into his pocket.
“Oh, they’re fine,” Otto replied, “if a little unconscious at the moment. As are the two Secret Service agents in the rear compartment that you just tried to summon with the panic button in your pocket. I took the liberty of disabling it the moment I boarded the plane anyway, just in case. We wouldn’t want any air force jets interrupting our little chat now, would we?”
“Don’t bother shouting for the pilots either,” Raven said calmly. “They are equally . . . indisposed. Now, hands where I can see them.” Ronson complied, lifting his hands in front of him defensively.
“Then who’s flying the plane?” Ronson asked, a slight note of panic in his voice.
“I am,” Otto said, glancing toward the cockpit. “You’ve got to love fly-by-wire avionics.”
“You won’t get away with this,” Ronson said.
“You’d be surprised how often I hear that,” Otto replied with a sly smile. “Now, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I’m sure you know who we both are since you’re a senior member of the Disciples, so I’m equally sure that you’re aware that my friend here is really unbelievably good at hurting people. All we want to know is where Furan is and where she’s keeping the H.I.V.E. students she captured. If you tell us with a minimum of fuss there’ll be no need for them to hose down the interior of this plane after we land, if you catch my drift.”
Ronson glanced at Raven. They had all heard the horror stories that were told about her among the massed ranks of global villainy. The way she was looking at him gave him no reason to doubt that those stories were true.
“I don’t know where the Glasshouse is,” Ronson replied, shaking his head. “No one does.”
Otto noticed Raven’s eyes widen very slightly. He knew by now that was about as close as she normally came to being shocked by anything.
“The Glasshouse is gone,” Raven said, a dangerous edge to her voice. “I watched it burn.”
“The original Glasshouse, yes,” Ronson said, “but she had a new facility built in a hidden location. No one knows where it is except Furan and a handful of her most trusted people. She has not shared its location with any of the rest of us.”
“And you expect me to believe that?” Raven asked, lowering her pistol and pointing it at Ronson’s knee. “I read that you enjoy running to keep fit. Such a shame.” She cocked the hammer.
“Wait, please,” Ronson begged. “I swear it’s the truth. Furan’s paranoid about security—we don’t even know what country the Glasshouse is in, let alone its precise location.”
His pupil dilation and cardio-pulmonary activity indicate an honest response, H.I.V.E.mind said inside Otto’s head.
“I think our friend here might be telling the truth,” Otto said.
“I agree,” Raven said, “and unfortunately for you that means that you’re no use to us,” Raven said, leveling the pistol at his forehead.
“Wait, wait,” Ronson said frantically. “There is one person who might know where Furan is.”
“Talk,” Raven replied.
“The only person who might be able to tell you is the man who designed the facility,” Ronson said quickly. “Furan let it slip that her new facility had been designed by the Architect.”
“The Architect is a myth,” Raven said, shaking her head slightly.
“No, he’s real, I swear,” Ronson said, sweat beading on his forehead. “He’s the only person who Furan would have trusted to have designed it. Think about it—who else could she be sure would never talk?”
“Supposing I believe you,” Raven said with a frown, “and the Architect did build a new Glasshouse for Furan? Where would I find him?”
“I have no idea,” Ronson replied. “You’ve heard the same rumors I have, no doubt. You don’t find the Architect unless he wants you to find him. I’ve never met anyone who has ever seen the man, much less talked to him.”
Raven stared at Ronson for a few seconds and then reached into her handbag and produced a pair of handcuffs.
“Cuff yourself to the seat,” Raven said. “I need to have a private conversation with my associate and I don’t want you going anywhere.”
Raven watched as Ronson did as he was instructed. She checked that he was firmly shackled to his seat before she gestured with a nod for Otto to join her in the plane’s rear compartment. He followed her into the conspicuously less comfortable area that provided seating for Ronson’s staff, who in this case were the two unconscious Secret Service agents slumped in their seats.
“Find us somewhere to land,” Raven said. “If what he’s telling us is true, then we have a considerably more difficult job ahead of us than we had anticipated.”
“I’ll try to find somewhere quiet,” Otto said, “but it’s going to start alarm bells ringing when a plane carrying a passenger like this diverges from its flight plan.”
“We’ll be long gone by the time the authorities arrive,” Raven replied. “Good work on the masks by the way.”
Otto had spent the previous couple of days adapting the hoods from the ISIS suits and combining them with the new holographic projector he had designed in such a way that their optical camouflage hologram projectors would display a perfect copy of any face that they scanned in. It had been relatively straightforward from a technical point of view. The hard part had been obtaining the high-resolution scans of Ronson’s wife and son’s heads. He’d left that part of the plan to Raven.
“It was just a small logical step from what the suit masks already did really,” Otto said. “It was no big deal.”
I have found a suitable landing site, H.I.V.E.min
d said. It is an abandoned military airstrip that is only a few miles from our current flight path. It should serve our purposes.
“Okay,” Otto said, “H.I.V.E.mind’s found us somewhere to put this thing on the ground.”
“Good. I’ll go and take care of Ronson,” Raven said, gesturing toward the forward compartment with her pistol.
“No,” Otto said. “I’ve got a better idea.”
“Nero made it quite clear that he was to be taken out of play,” Raven said. “We can’t take the chance that he’ll end up as president.”
“I know,” Otto replied. “Trust me.”
Fifteen minutes later the jet touched down on the crumbling tarmac of the disused military runway. As soon as the plane stopped moving, the hatch popped open and Raven dragged the unconscious bodies of the Secret Service agents and the two pilots out onto the dusty scrubland next to the runway.
“Make it quick,” Raven said to Otto as she headed through the exit hatch for the final time.
Otto gave a quick nod and headed back into the forward compartment, where Ronson sat slumped, still shackled to his seat.
“Please,” Ronson begged, “I can help you. I have more information I can give you, just don’t let her kill me.”
“Don’t worry, she’s not going to kill you,” Otto said. “I am.”
Otto closed his eyes for a moment and reached out with his senses for the jet’s autopilot system.
“The Disciples abducted and imprisoned some of my best friends and murdered dozens of my classmates,” Otto said, fixing Ronson with an icy stare. “Did you really think there wasn’t going to be a price to pay for that?”
The jet’s engines began to spin up as Otto turned his back on Ronson and headed out of the forward cabin. He climbed out of the hatch and down the stairs to the tarmac. As he walked away from the plane, he connected to the plane’s controls and the hatch whirred shut behind him. The plane began to turn in a tight circle, leaving it pointing back down the runway.