C A Hartman [Hartman - Mindjacker

Mindjacker

Copyright 2018 by C.A. Hartman

All rights reserved.

There was nothing quite like invading someone elses mind.

Especially when it was done right, done ethically, and, most important of all, when that someone deserved it. For example, when the target was Jonathan Stilwell III, some rich asshole whod betrayed those who trusted him just so he could get even richer.

Of course, Quinn Hartley didnt know if Stilwell was actually guilty. Not yet, not until she got the necessary data from his mind. But he was. They always were.

It would be one thing if the guy was stone broke, but he wasnt. Quinn could easily tell by Stilwells tailored suit, his fine leather briefcase, and his perfect haircut. She sat next to him on the subway, his eyes closed and her tiny nodes attached to the base of his skull, noticeable only if you knew to look for them. Quinn sat patiently, pretending to read while Stilwells memories downloaded to her handy device, hidden in the inner flap of her jacket. She had no purse or bag. Such things only slowed her down, and where she came from, they were nothing more than fodder for thieves.

Her long dark hair tickled her face again. She brushed it back, knowing it would do the same thing a minute later.

She peeked into her jacket and checked her device. Just another minute or two and she would have the data she needed, and she could detach the nodes and let Mr. Stilwell enjoy what was left of his brief nap, the one Quinn had induced. It was much easier to access someones thoughts while they slept. The human minda massive jumble of neural signalswas more accessible then, not to mention that the target was defenseless and, best of all, unable to dime her.

No mindjacker could afford to get dimed. Not by targets, not by cops, not by anyone. Getting dimed meant getting kicked out of the Protectorate. For good.

Quinn checked her compact device one more time. The data numbers were getting there, including those from the hippocampus and amygdala, the brain regions responsible for the encoding and storage of the kinds of memories that were useful to Quinn and others of her kind. Memories of events, and those with emotions attached to them.

Just a few more minutes and Quinn would be gone.

The train stopped, and another load of commuters got on the already-crowded train, where it was standing room only. All business suits, of course. They were still in Midtown. The suits came from jobs in the financial district and were heading north to their sparkling neighborhoods and fine residences, the ones Quinn couldnt see out the windows because the train was underground.

But she knew what they looked like. Clean streets. Quiet. Gorgeous restored brick and stone apartment buildings, sleek glass high-rises, and, if in a really nice area, even a few flowers and arid-tolerant plants. And safeyou could stroll through such neighborhoods without looking over your shoulder or walking in a wide berth every time you passed those narrow alleyways between buildings.

Quinns heart began to race a little at the intense crowding on the train. She wasnt claustrophobic or even people-phobic, and at least the trains had air conditioning. But crowds meant more potential witnesses if the job went bad, and more people blocking her path if she needed to make a speedy escape.

Sometimes she needed that speedy escape. Not often, but sometimes. And it was always when she least expected it.

Quinn glanced around, spotting a man in a navy pinstriped suit, a smile and a gleam of playfulness in his eye. She realized his eyes were aimed right at her sleeping target.

The smiling man squeezed through the crowd, heading their way. Quinn cursed under her breath. Pinstripes recognized Stilwell, and was about three seconds from kicking him awake, which meant her mindjacking operation would be exposed and escape nearly impossible.

Abort. Right now.

But he was coming. It was all happening so fast and she couldnt detach her nodes in time before the target woke up and realized he was being mindjacked.

Do something!

Hey! Quinn called out to the grinning businessman, ready to block him from accessing her target if necessary.

He halted, his semi-handsome and clean-shaven face looking down at her.

I know you, dont I? Quinn chirped in a tone that conveyed an almost-natural enthusiasm.

Pinstripes watched her, his eyes searching for some semblance of recognition and finding none at all. There was just a hint of mockery in his eyes, like he would never know someone like her. And he wouldnt. Men who worked in Midtown, especially the financial district, didnt associate with Downtownies. And in El Diablo, it was easy to tell the difference.

I dont think so, he said, quickly shifting his now-bored expression away from her and back to her target. The smile returned as he squeezed past the last person in his way.

In desperation, she stuck out her leg to block him, her heart pounding as sweat built up in her armpits. Are you sure? she said, ignoring the annoyed look on his face. Dont you work with that guy over there? she added, pointing behind him.

Then she heard it. The squeal of the trains brakes. The sound that, until that moment, had always irritated her.

Turn around, Pinstripes!

He turned and looked behind him. The squealing got louder and the train slowed, pushing Quinn toward her target and allowing her to easily remove the nodes from the back of his head. She stood up, quickly shoving them into her pocket.

The businessman turned back to her, looking confused and even more annoyed. What guy?

Quinn shook her head, feigning impatience. Never mind. You suits all look alike. She quickly squeezed through the throng of commuters, her fistsand other defensive toolsat the ready if she needed them.

The train jerked to a stop and Quinn leaped off the train.

She glanced behind her. The train doors shut, its remaining passengers reading their devices like nothing happened. The sleek metal train disappeared into the dark tunnel, where Stilwell was about two minutes from waking on his own, unless Pinstripes had his way.

Quinn hurried away to find her own train, the one that would take her south, to where she came from. To a place where nobody wore a suit.

Quinn took an escalator deeper into the ground, passing others as she hurried down the steps. She walked through a holding area with benches and a mini-store that sold snacks, drinks, and storage devices filled with music or movies, whatever your commute required. On the benches sat teenagers with neatly cut hair, playing games on their tablets as a slew of semi-respectable-looking street folk lounged nearby. All killing time and avoiding the afternoon heat.

How much nicer the Midtown subway stations were.

Quinn found the womens restroom and lockers, opening one and taking out her just-in-case bag. She yanked off her dark-haired wig, giving her tousled, chin-length blonde hair a shake. How much better she felt without that damned wig making her head sweat worse than it already was, not to mention all that hair tickling her face and getting caught in the zipper of her leather jacket.