Page 17 of Perfection

“You sound like Finn. You have his tone down.”

“Do you think so?”

“Positively.” York opened one compartment after the other of the gray cabinet housing the computer. He searched the small stacks until he found the one holding the memory dot where the surveillance information would be stored. He recognized it marked by the tinyM. “Dr. Finn instructed me to replace the surveillance record,” he explained to the computer. What he was attempting was tricky business. The computer had the ability to lock down the entire facility.

He grabbed the compartment on the right—he’d watched the tech crew deal with similar security computers hundreds of times—then quickly flipped the latch that held the tiny circular chip in place. As he plucked out a security chip from the center, the screens went black.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. My voice scan detects you are not telling the truth,” the computer said.

“Then something must be wrong indeed.”

York eased toward the door, which abruptly closed.Damn.How could he beat the computer? But he had to. With controlled breathing, figuring the computer would detect his stats, he was searching for another way out when he spied the break room on a monitor. He dashed to the keyboard imbedded in the countertop and entered data he hoped would scramble the computer’s logic, at least for a second. Typing seemed to take forever. Most buildings had a lockdown mode. Police codes would unlock some of them, but not all. He hoped the morgue’s system fell into the “some” category.

“Come on, come on,” he urged.

Anticipating the worst, he broke for the door, dragging a chair along with him. He jammed it in the opening before the door closed completely. With the final steps of his sprint, he dropped into a home run slide, barely scooting beneath the descending door. Like an accordion, the chair began to fold under the pressure.

York barreled into the hall, eyeing yet another closing door ahead of him. He slipped into the sunlight just before the door shut with a clunk.

He thought he was free and clear until a scraping sound demanded his attention. Across the courtyard, small gates lifted, and three robotic security dogs came at him like torpedoes locked on target.

The courtyard was exceedingly bright. He sprinted for a tree-shaded table, which he used as steps to put him high enough to grab a large tree limb. He hauled himself up, then looked down in time to see a dog launch a stun dart at him. He tried to dodge it only to collide with another tree limb, hitting his head.

Pain seared his ribs when the dart hit him. He bucked as a charge shot through him from one shoulder to his hip to the other shoulder. He lost his footing and tumbled from his perch, but caught hold at the last instant with one flailed-out arm.

Damn, those suckers were accurate. He groaned and hooked both legs over the branch, hanging upside down like a kid on a jungle gym while he allowed his shocked and damaged upper body to recover.

His head ached and his side hurt like hell from the stun spinner.

The security chip slipped from his pocket and fell. York snatched for it but missed.

He flung his head back, disgusted. The dogs were under him now, and there was no way he’d be able to get the chip without a distraction. Fuck.

He patted his pockets, realizing he wasn’t carrying any of the little computerized gizmos Chicago PD used to create a distraction. He’d used his last frog at his mom’s protest and hadn’t replaced them. After a moment of thought, he activated his old QuL and rang the link in his air-car. The receiver beeped again and again.

“Hello?”Kindra’s voice sounded uncertain.

About time she answered.

“I’ve run into a small glitch,” he said, trying to even out his breathing. That jolt had hurt. “I need you to start talking. Loud, do you hear me? And don’t stop for the next few minutes. I’ll be there soon.” When the pause from her end lasted too long, he raised his voice. “Talk. Now.”

“Okay. Okay,” she shouted and began rambling something about chromosomes and splicing and optimum incubation.

He unhooked the QuL from the rim of his ear and stared at the slim bar with its minuscule dots. The thing was ancient, but a favorite. Resigned, he hurled it across the patio. The dogs scrambled to follow the sound of Kindra’s voice. They jostled each other as they chomped on the electronic device. He told himself that was a good thing because it might not be tied to him if it was in tiny pieces. He figured he had about thirty seconds to get the chip and clear the fence.

* * *

Kindra sat in the transporter, waiting for York. Where was he? What was taking so long?Fooltar.It was imperative she get back to the lab.

She tapped her nails on the dash, annoyed as always when faced with the reality that despite hours of driving lessons, not to mention the fact that all vehicles had an autopilot mode, she couldn’t shake her fear of driving. The horrible memory of the childhood accident remained vivid.

What would she do if York didn’t return?

Then thoughts about Brianna and her rejection of spiritual communion slipped in like smoke through a window crack. Isabelle supposedly had difficulty with her communion also. Worry and uncertainty worked at Kindra. Could something be wrong with her daughter, as well?

Abruptly, the driver’s door opened. She gasped as York, drenched in sweat, dropped into the seat. He looked like a rumpled mess. There was a nasty-looking scrape on his forehead.

“Thanks for your help.” He finger-combed the unruly dark strands of hair into place.