Alex Unlimited, Volume 2: Split-Second Sight: Split-Second Sight

By Dan Jolley

America has always been rife with "mediums," but now it looks as though one girl is the real deal: Amy Titus -- a spacey, New-Age hippie chick from San Francisco. If Amy really can contact spirits, then the government has either a major ally or a potential threat to national security. When Amy disappears mysteriously, it's up to teen secret agent Alex to track down the missing medium. Is Amy what she appears to be? And can she really communicate with the parents whose death orphaned Alex so many years ago?

• Language: English
• Publisher: TOKYOPOP Classics
• Release date: Aug 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781427864116

Book preview

cover.jpg

STORY Dan Jolley

CONTENT DEVELOPMENT Paul Morrissey

LAYOUT ARTIST Courtney H. Geter

COVER DESIGNER Anne Marie Horne

EDITOR Kara Allison Stambach

SENIOR EDITOR Jenna Winterberg

PRE-PRESS SUPERVISOR Erika Terriquez

ART DIRECTOR Anne Marie Horne

DIGITAL IMAGING MANAGER Chris Buford

PRODUCTION MANAGER Elisabeth Brizzi

MANAGING EDITOR Vy Nguyen

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Rob Tokar

VP OF PRODUCTION Ron Klamert

PUBLISHER Mike Kiley

PRESIDENT AND COO John Parker

CEO & CHIEF CREATIVE OFFICER Stuart Levy

First TOKYOPOP printing: September 2007

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in the USA

© 2007 Dan Jolley and TOKYOPOP Inc. All Rights Reserved. Alex Unlimited is a trademark of TOKYOPOP Inc.

No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the copyright holders. This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jolley, Dan.

Alex Unlimited : Split-Second Sight / written by Dan Jolley.

p. cm.

Summary: Able to summon parallel-dimension versions of herself equipped to handle any task, eighteen-year-old Alex Benno, herself a plain and very average girl, resents these idealized women and the fact that she never gets any credit for the spectacular feats they accomplish while working for a secret government spy agency.

ISBN 978-1-4278-6411-6

[1. Spies--Fiction. 2. Espionage--Fiction. 3. Self-confidence--Fiction. 4. Science fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.J66244Ale 2007

[Fic]--dc22

2006033981

To Marie~

Who taught me that you don’t have to be perfect in order to be strong.

Special thanks~

To everyone at TOKYOPOP, but especially to my editors, Paul Morrissey and Kara Stambach, for going way above and far beyond.

prologue

Fog stretched like a shroud over the streets of San Francisco as Amy Titus ran for her life. The white mist seemed to clutch at her with chilly fingers, reaching through her flesh, wrapping around her bones.

Amy dashed across a street and grimaced at the pain in her side. Her long, lustrous blonde hair, which reached almost down to her waist, swung and whipped around her. A few damp tendrils clung to her cheeks and forehead.

The sounds of multiple footsteps echoed behind her. She couldn’t tell how far away they were.

Gasping, her leg muscles burning, Amy turned and struggled up a steep side street.

The footsteps faded behind her but didn’t disappear. She had no real hope that her pursuers might give up their hunt, but she thought they might have missed the turn and been forced to double back, at least.

Then, she heard a deep, coarse shout from down the hill. The footsteps began to grow loud again, coming up after her.

Amy glanced around, desperate.

It was just past two o’clock in the morning; all the businesses along this street had been closed for hours. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a cab; for once, there were no pedestrians anywhere. The street resembled the corridor of a dungeon: There was no exit . . . except straight into the arms of her pursuers.

Finally, Amy stopped, grasping a burned-out streetlight in an effort to stay on her feet. She wished she’d had a chance to grab a sweater before sprinting out of her apartment and down the stairs to the street. Her thin blouse and skirt did nothing to protect her from the night’s chill. Her feet ached and stung. She hadn’t had time to put on shoes, either.

The sound of another harsh voice reached her. Through the fog, she could make out the dim figures of the men approaching: five of them—all big, and all but one speaking German. Amy pushed away from the streetlight and struggled farther up the hill, grateful that her bare feet made only a whisper of sound as she moved.

* * *

Mirko Colak, the largest of the five men pounding up the fog-shrouded street, let out a quiet stream of curses in Serbian. This is ridiculous. What gave us away? What could have spooked her?

Achim Krause was in charge on this job. He wasn’t as tall or broad as Colak, but Colak showed him a large amount of respect. He’d heard what Krause had done in Dresden two years ago.

Krause shot Colak an irritated look and didn’t answer. He gestured to the other three men, motioning for them to spread out across the street. Her options are slim, he muttered. Keep moving.

* * *

God, how could one hill be this long? Just when Amy thought she couldn’t take another step, she spotted something ahead on the right: a parking deck.

Amy ducked into the entrance and dashed around the security gate. A guard sat in a small glass booth, but he was reading a magazine and looked half-asleep, anyway. Hugging the wall and staying in the shadows, Amy slipped past him and darted up the closest ramp. She came out at the end of a long row of parked cars.

From below, Amy heard another shout in German.

Closing her eyes, Amy concentrated for a second, maybe two. Then, she ran toward one particular vehicle, which was halfway down the row.

* * *

Krause, Colak, and the other three men advanced up the ramp, beyond the security guard who now lay limp on the floor.

This stinks, Colak said. We are to look underneath every car?

Stop complaining, Krause muttered. She’s trapped. It’s only a matter of time now.

But then, very close by, a car’s engine roared to life, and the sound of screeching tires filled the deck. Headlights blinded the men. They had no choice but to leap out of the way as a late-model sedan roared past them, down the ramp, and out of the deck. It nicked the security gate on its way out.

Both Colak and Krause had seen a glimpse of long blonde hair behind the wheel. They picked themselves up, both scowling, as the other three men rejoined them.

Was that her car? Colak wondered. How did we miss that?

She doesn’t own a car. Krause’s voice was tight. She found one with the keys in it.

Out of all these? In only seconds? How is that possible?

Again, Krause didn’t respond. Slowly, reluctantly, as if reaching for a poisonous spider, he pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, nine time zones away, a tall, lean man hit the end button on his own phone. His lips had turned an interesting shade of gray, but that was the only outward indication of his rage. The man’s name was Sabre Cromwell. And just then, he felt a near-uncontrollable urge to kill something with his bare hands. Something big.

Cromwell stood in the opulent parlor of a vast mansion, which was secluded in the Italian countryside. Cromwell did not own the place, but recently he’d spent enough time there to begin thinking of it as a second home.

The man who did own the mansion, Baron Giacomo Morbidini, sat across the parlor in a huge chair made of steel-reinforced mahogany. He did not look up from the thick sheaf of data reports—the first of which prominently featured the name Dr. Rodney Treece—but one eyebrow twitched, and he spoke in a voice so deep and gravelly that it sounded more like the engine of a giant machine than something produced by a human larynx.

Bad news, then?

Cromwell took a couple of deep breaths so that his words would come out steady. "Krause has . . . misplaced Miss Titus."

The Baron thought about that. Then put the data reports aside. He stood. A soft, muffled sound accompanied his movements, like the whir of tiny motors . . . and when he finally looked up at Cromwell, his eyes gleamed with a shocking ruby brilliance. Cromwell’s piercing black eyes, which seethed anger, met the Baron’s glowing red ones, which held a cold, inhuman patience.

Cromwell looked away first.

I don’t know why we can’t bring Sonnet back ourselves, he said, changing the subject. He stared at the fireplace, where huge oak logs burned. It’s not as if I couldn’t make it happen.

Have a bit of faith in Madam Ivandrova, the Baron rumbled. He could sound disarmingly calm and wise when he chose. Once all is said and done, Sonnet will be restored to her rightful place; we shall have Amy Titus . . . and Alex Benno will be delivered along with her.

Cromwell smiled a cruel, humorless smile, showing off his impossibly white teeth. Speaking of which . . . you were telling me about young Alex when I so rudely broke off to take that call.

I was indeed, the Baron said. Come, walk with me. We’ll go speak with the person who brought all this to my attention.

Cromwell followed Baron Morbidini out of the parlor and down a hallway carpeted with plush Persian rugs. The Baron opened an oak-paneled door, which revealed a stark, concrete, descending stairway. The stairs seemed glaringly out of place with the rest of the mansion’s grandeur, but Cromwell wasn’t surprised. He knew they led down to the labyrinthine corridors and laboratories that made up the Baron’s subterranean research complex.

The two men traveled down three flights of stairs. They emerged into one of the white-and-steel hallways, where the Baron’s staff of scientists traveled day in and day out. Continuing to lead the way, Baron Morbidini approached an unmarked door, pulled it open, and ushered Cromwell through.

Cromwell walked into what looked like an interrogation chamber. The same sterile white-and-steel construction held true here, but the steel table in the center of the floor had been outfitted with shackles, and the single metal chair next to it was bolted to the floor. A dark, shifty-looking man in his forties stood against the far wall, smoking a cigarette. He seemed nervous.

Everything all right, Henri? the Baron asked.

Henri tapped cigarette ash onto the floor; his hand trembled a little. I’m sorry about the ashes, sir. He sounded French. It’s just, I was nervous, and . . .

The Baron waved a hand dismissively.

Think nothing of it. Please, have a seat, and tell Mr. Cromwell what you told me upon your arrival.

Henri cleared his throat and sat, twitching. Well. All right. What it seems to be is this. He cleared his throat again as he pulled a glossy five-by-seven photo out of his coat pocket. You recognize her, yes? He held up the picture for Cromwell to see.

Centered in the photograph was a young woman—a girl, really—with very pale skin and a tangle of messy brown curls. She looked like any of several million other unremarkable American high school students.

Cromwell’s eyes hardened. Yes, he breathed out. Oh yes, I recognize Alexandra Benno.

Good. Henri laid the photo on the table’s top. Now, you know that she has some sort of connection with the operatives that have been such a thorn in your side for a number of years now, correct? But you never knew what that connection was, exactly. Well, I believe I have found out. Henri paused, uncomfortable.

So? Cromwell said testily. Are you trying to build suspense?

No no no, sir, Henri answered quickly. It’s just that it seems a bit far-fetched. Here. I have compiled everything. He pulled out a small, spiral-bound notebook.

Cromwell took the notebook from him and opened it, quickly scanning the pages. As he did, his eyes grew wider and wider; then, they narrowed to slits. To Baron Morbidini, Cromwell said, Have you read this, Giacomo?

The Baron nodded. It offers a new perspective, does it not?

Cromwell let the information sink in further. So that delectable young thing I fought in Berlin a couple of months ago . . . she was summoned here . . . because of her language expertise?

Henri nodded. "That was what the BGO needed at the time. You see? As long as they have Alex Benno, they can keep coming up with these—these specialists, and they’ll constantly gum up the works."

Cromwell began pacing, slowly circling behind Henri before returning to the front of the table again. "But . . . if we take control of Alex Benno . . . potentially, at least, could she not produce one of these specialists to suit our purposes?"

My thought exactly, the Baron rumbled.

Cromwell circled again until he stood near Henri’s right shoulder. Very impressive work, Henri, he said, admiration clear in his voice. How did you come by this bit of intelligence?

Heh, Henri