Barbara Gracie glided across the blazing parking lot, like a glacier over the scorched pavement. The only thing impeding her smooth progress was the rubber tips of her heels sticking to the asphalt that the mid-afternoon sun threatened to turn back into tar.
Her pale skin bristled at the heat. Sweat fought to break free of her tight pores, but they stubbornly refused to show any sign of melt.
The front doors of the building led into the sixty-foot high, reflective gold, glass atrium. The rest of the structure was pink concrete and only two stories in height. According to the sign facing the highway, it housed Aira Cosmetics.
Barbara opened the door and was hit with a blast of wintry air conditioning. The relief of it coated her skin and loosened the tension in her back, but the only sign she made was to adjust the collar of her crisp, cornflower blue blouse.
She had been in Arizona for less than a day. Not nearly enough time to become acclimatized or to get over her jetlag, but it hardly showed.
The lobby was filled with a forest of palms and tropical plants. There were creamy beige leather sofas arranged in semi-private seating areas throughout the expansive space, as though an army of visitors were expected.
The only person visible was a bored receptionist, sitting behind a polished wood console. Barbara gave her name to the young woman and picked a couch facing away from her. She sat down on the edge of the seat and adjusted her hem, so her white skirt covered her knees.
While she waited, her eyes traveled across the foliage. Opposite her, there was an exotic plant with red flowers. Each of the large petals had a yellow mark in the shape of an angel. It looked like it might be poisonous.
"Ah, Dr. Gracie. We've been expecting you," a man said from behind her.
Of course, you have. I'm half an hour late, she thought.
His voice was gravelly. Most people would say it was deep, but she detected a subtle tenor under his hoarseness.
A smoker. He's a smoker, and he's weak.
She waited for him to circle around to greet her, without moving or showing any indication she had heard him.
"We are so pleased to have you join our team."
"And you are?" Barbara asked.
His clothes were neat but inexpensive and untailored — beige suit, white and dark blue checked shirt, and a plain tie matching the color in his shirt. His hair was dark, full but thinning. His face was tanned, the cheekbones sharp, a cleft in the chin, and faint lines marking the progress of time. The hand he put out for her was poorly manicured but soft and uncalloused.
Middle management, she assessed.
"R.J. Blass." He waited for her to take his hand and shake it. "But you can just call me R.J."
"And you are?" she asked again, looking up at him from her seat. There was disdain in the slow blink she gave.
R.J. let his arm drop. His face revealed no offense. "I'm the administrator of this facility. I guess I'm your manager. But we can discuss that more once we are inside. Would you be so kind as to follow me?"
She got up, but there was nothing that could be considered kind about her movements. Barbara had accepted the DTAA's deal, but she didn't have to like it. And she knew instantly she wasn't going to like working for them or this man.
Her new boss led her down a hall behind reception to a door marked "Testing – Authorized personnel only." He swiped a security badge and held the door open for her.
For the first time since Barbara Gracie arrived at Aira, she felt the magnitude of what she was entering into.
Her heels clacked onto the tiles of an enormous security center. Half a dozen uniformed men sat in front of monitors. There were another dozen unoccupied stations. From the screens, she could see views of desert and highway, the parking lot with her car sitting baking in the sun, the atrium she just came from, and various areas of the building she hadn't yet visited.
On one wall, there was a long metal cabinet with eight doors. Gun lockers, she guessed. If she was right, it must contain enough weapons to stage an invasion.
"Expecting trouble?" She asked the question to the room, addressing the guards as much as R.J.
"Always." The man who answered had appeared out of nowhere. He was at least five inches shorter than Barbara and seemed to have been crafted from tungsten steel. His skin was a deep bronze, and he wore a blue security guard uniform like the rest.
Barbara sized him up. He was no rent-a-cop. He was no cop. If she wasn't aware that it was a government operation, she would have assumed ex-military, but he must still be active. From the look of him: special forces.
She held out her hand and introduced herself.
"I know who you are Dr. Gracie. We've been waiting for you." He took the offered hand in a firm but tender grip and shook it. His skin was alive and warm. "I'm Major Delgado. Before you can proceed, I need to process you."
"Process?" She raised an eyebrow with the question, as though he had used the wrong word.
"Security formalities," R.J. said. Barbara had forgotten he was there. She continued to ignore him, as Delgado ushered them into his office.
Delgado's desk had a blue paper medical towel covering one corner. A flicker of nostalgia harassed her at the sight of it. How strange that such a little thing – something she used to dispose of by the dozen – could stir up so many memories.
On it sat a package of gauze, and a syringe with the thickest needle Barbara had ever seen.
Her eyes flickered to R.J. standing uncomfortably by the door, his arms crossed. There was a small scab of dried blood on his left hand, in the web of skin by his thumb, like he'd squashed a tick there.
"A chip?" she asked Delgado.
He pulled out a plastic pill bottle and rattled it. Something minuscule bounced around inside. "RFID Chip," he said. "It's required for the security beyond this point."
"And GPS tracking, I guess." She sat down and placed her hand on the towel.
"You read too much science-fiction," Delgado said, as he inserted the chip into the needle.
She pulled a loose strand of her blonde hair away from her face and brushed it back to the tight knot of hair at the back of her head. "I have never read science-fiction." Barbara had hoped it would sound like a good-humored joke, but the words came out flat and dour, like most of her words.
"This just opens doors." He smiled. His lips were full, his teeth were lustrous. "They're a lot harder to steal than an ID badge. Now, this won't hurt too much. And don't worry I'm certified."
Barbara let him lift her hand up and hold it in place. She was intensely aware of every point where his leathery skin met hers. It seemed like she could feel his strength seep through her nerve endings. I bet he's killed a man with those hands.
"And who was it that certified you?"
"The FBI." The needle brushed the surface of her hand. The scratch of cold steel sent a shiver down her back.
"I didn't know they had nurses in the FBI. Or majors, for that matter."
"I'm not with the agency. Just took a course."
He inserted the wiry needle. It was as thick as a cable. He pushed it in an inch. His rich, chocolate eyes surveyed her face, looking to see if any pain registered. Barbara sat there motionless, and he pushed it in deeper.
When the chip was implanted, Delgado delicately applied a bandage to staunch the bleeding. "Almost done."
The chip was only the first step of the procedure. Next, he captured biometric data: fingerprints, retina scan, and a voiceprint. After that, Delgado handed her a device that looked like a portable ATM reader to enter a passcode.
"Sixteen digits," he instructed. "Stay away from anything personal. Non-sequential. No repeating patterns."
R.J. moved forward and pointed at the keypad. "If you use the letters on the number keys, you can enter a phrase. It's easier to remember that way."
She slammed in the numbers at lightning speed, as though she had been asked to try and break the machine.
"I think I can remember a few numbers." She held the keypad up for Delgado to take. Her eyes darted to a point over her shoulder where R.J. was standing. "I'm not an idiot."
The Major grabbed the device, and Barbara brushed her fingers against his wrist. "Now what would you like me to do?"
"That's it." There was that smile again. It had been a long time since an attractive man had smiled at her. "Just remember to stow your electronics in one of the bins before going in. We have to confiscate anything you bring back out."
Barbara opened her mouth, vague words forming on her tongue. But Delgado was occupied with cleaning up, and R.J. could be heard leaving the room. She reformed her face into a more familiar expression of indifference. The last thing she wanted was for the Major to give her an apologetic smile and wave her off.
There was no hurry. She would see him every day until she managed to slip from the DTAA's clutches. There was plenty of time.
She caught up to R.J. at a simple wooden door at the back of the security center. He had his chip hand pressed against a black panel at its side.
"And what's in there?" she asked without any curiosity.
"The Music Box."
He was talking in riddles. And was that a smirk on his face? Was he actually being smug?
Barbara felt her tongue grow taut ready to whip out something scathing. But she forgot all about it when instead of the door opening, an entire section of the wall began to slide up revealing an elevator large enough to drive a pickup truck onto. The walls were made of blast plates. Heavy rivets marked the seams.
"I'm afraid it's a bit slow." R.J. seemed a little too pleased with himself, and Barbara tightened her jaw to make sure she wasn't gawking. "It was built to survive a nuclear bomb, not for speed.