Ex-Purgatory, Peter Clines [top ten books of all time .txt] 📗

escape without suffering losses. Infection at least, although there is a strong chance at least one of us would be killed.”

She let the words sink in.

“I guess we’re staying out here to look for Barry, then,” Danielle said.

“This places a great deal of responsibility on you, Captain,” said Stealth. “Do you feel recovered enough to accept it?”

Freedom’s enormous chest swelled, and he lifted his head higher. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He managed to keep most of the annoyance out of his voice.

Stealth turned and stepped out into the broad street. Each step was paced to avoid the cars that went back and forth. St. George followed a few feet behind her. He dodged cars until he caught up. They reached the far side of the street and headed for the hotel entrance.

“I shall go in,” she said. “I need you to keep watch outside.”

“So we’re splitting up even more?”

“I shall be fine, George.”

“What about your … ummm, your dad?”

“I shall be fine.”

“Are you sure? The guy who’s supposed to be your father is … pretty intense.”

She looked at him. Her face seemed especially calm and stoic. “He is my father, George. Almost exactly as I remember him.”

“Minus the whole international terrorist thing?”

She said nothing.

“Jesus,” muttered St. George. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“He had very little to do with my life or upbringing, or our life within the Big Wall. It never seemed relevant.”

“Relevant? Your dad’s a borderline supervillain who’s on a few dozen top-ten wanted lists around the world and you didn’t think it was relevant?”

“Would you have trusted me less? Would it have changed how you felt about my abilities?”

“No,” he said. “No, of course not. It wouldn’t change anything.”

He held out his hand. She took it and squeezed.

“In our world,” she told him, “my father is dead. If I had any reason to believe you would have encountered him, I would have told you everything. I still will once we have resolved this current situation, if you wish.”

St. George managed half a smile. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. It is important to me that we are open and trust one another.”

“I meant, are you sure he’s dead? It seems like the Quilt family is known for their toughness.”

Her eyes dropped and her fingers loosened. “I am certain he is dead in our world.”

There was a moment of silence between them.

“Ahhhh,” said St. George.

“Again, I will tell you everything, if you wish.”

The hotel entrance was a block away. A man with a camera leaned against a car. He perked up when he saw Stealth.

St. George looked at the man, then up at the hotel. “Maybe I should come with you.”

She shook her head. “It will attract far too much attention for me to enter the hotel with an unknown man. Also, the Quilt of this world is still enough like my father that he will react poorly to surprises.”

“Do I want to know how he’s not like your father?”

“I would think not,” said Stealth, “but I will tell you if you feel it is important to know.”

“I’ll probably sleep better if I don’t,” said St. George with another half smile.

“You will,” she said. “Wait here. This should take fifteen minutes at the most.”

Stealth marched onto the hotel grounds with long strides, moving past the handful of paparazzi before they could register the chance slipping away from them. A few quick cameras clicked and snapped, but she did not pause for them. She heard one man mutter about the fact she was wearing the same clothes she’d left in the night before.

She had not been here before with her own mind and memories. It was, she could admit, disconcerting to be exposed in front of so many people. To not be wearing her mask.

The doorman pulled open the door for her before recognition sparked in his eyes. Heads turned as she slipped out of her coat and hung it over her arm. She scanned the lobby for any sign of Barry but saw nothing. A few whispers reached her ears while she waited for the elevator. One girl, a Welsh tourist judging from her T-shirt, raised a Canon PowerShot S30 camera and took a picture.

The S30, Stealth noted, had been new in 2003.

The elevator pinged and the doors sealed her off from the lobby. There were thirty seconds of solitude before the doors slid open on her floor. She found the plastic keycard in her pocket and opened the suite.

Two of the couch pillows had been moved, and so had the oversized television remote. The vertical blinds had been rotated to the left. She could smell furniture polish. From the lines in the carpet and the faint scent of an electric motor she knew someone had vacuumed the suite. A subtle odor of tobacco lingered beneath the electric scent. The vacuumer was also a smoker.

The door clicked shut behind her. Her heart beat nine times. The only sounds were the almost subsonic rumble of the refrigerator in the kitchen area and the low whistle of central air conditioning.

She stepped across the suite, the coat-draped arm held out ahead of her. Her feet landed toes first, and the soft carpet muffled her steps. The knob on the closet door scraped as she turned it. The hinges rustled when the door opened.

Two flat cases hung on either side of the closet. They were bright blue, a color chosen to attract attention and thus deflect it at the same time. On casual examination, each one looked like an oversized garment bag. Against the back wall sat an oversized Versace suitcase, a pink monstrosity one would expect to find in a traveling supermodel’s closet.

From her memories of this world, she knew each of the blue cases contained an array of frames and straps designed to keep their contents secure. One held an array of hand-to-hand weapons—knives, sais, collapsible batons, brass knuckles. The second case contained a quartet of Glocks, a pair of Colt pistols, a trio of Mk23 USSOCOM pistols, two micro-Uzis, and a Heckler