The Administration Series (44 page)

So many important things that she'd never told him, that she had never been able to make him hear.

"Eight."

And now she never would, because she couldn't breathe, not noticing the moment when it finally became impossible.

This is how it must have been for them, how they must have felt.

"Five."

Silent terror, her heartbeat stuttering to an end and the room greying to a narrow tunnel focused on him —

"Three."

— on his lips shaping the words.

"Two."

The final words, going down with her into the darkness at last.

"One. Kill it."

It took him almost an hour to get away from the interrogation room. Toreth called for an emergency team, started the resuscitation he knew would be futile, waited around as the medics took over and finally pronounced the prisoner dead. Then there were the initial reports to file, a statement to make. All standard procedures, marking out an agony of waiting and worrying about what Warrick might be doing.

When he made it back to his office, Sara looked anxious. "I heard what happened."

Of course she had, even on a Sunday. Sometimes he wondered how the admin gossip network functioned so efficiently.

Wanting to go right past and into his own office, he stopped, sat on the edge of her desk. "No big deal," he said calmly. "Everything by the book. Everything inside the waiver. No need to look for another boss just yet."

She grinned. "Thank fuck." Suddenly she looked over her shoulder. "He's still here. Doctor Warrick. I haven't told him anything because you said not to go in until you. . ."

The sentence trailed off and she looked back at him, her eyes narrowing. "What's going on?" she said quietly.

"Nothing."

"Don't give me that — I know you. What's going on?"

"Sara, don't ask. I mean that. It's much better that you don't know." He saw the mutiny in her eyes. "I wouldn't want you to have to lie to anyone about it. Do you understand?"

Then he saw that she did. "You k —" Her voice rose, then dropped again. "Wasn't she annexed?"

"Yes. That's what the rep was here for."

Calculation on her face, trying to work out what was wrong if it wasn't the death itself. Then she glanced at the door to the office. "He
knows
?"

"
Sara
."

She sat back in her chair, staring at him in bewilderment. Then, like a seamless computer morph, she was Admin Sara again. "Do you want to me to take your comms?"

"Yes, please. And do me a transcript of the interrogation — just up to the prisoner's death. Send it through as soon as it's done. Get a couple of coffees first." Warrick would probably need one, and so did he. What he really wanted, in fact, was a huge fucking drink. Maybe later.

Toreth took a deep breath and went into the office.

There was a horrible moment when he saw the empty desk and thought that, somehow, Warrick had gone. That maybe the session hadn't been fixed. That he'd been recorded talking to Marian and —

All that went through his mind in the second it took him to register the vacant chair, and then Warrick standing by the window, looking out into the courtyard.

Warrick didn't look round, and after a moment Toreth went over.

"It's done. All we need now is — "

"I should have listened to her," Warrick said, almost too quietly for Toreth to hear him.

He moved closer. "What?"

"I should have listened to — to Marian."

Not good. "About what?"

After a long silence, Toreth cautiously put his hand on Warrick's arm, with a view to turning him round, but Warrick pulled away sharply. In the brief contact, Toreth could feel him shaking. Really not good at all.

"Do you know what I've been doing?" Warrick said suddenly. "Reading a diagnostic medical dictionary. Through your system. I hope you don't mind. A little research, rather too late."

"Into what?"

"Marian told me about you. Or to be precise, about para-investigators. That you were. . . sick. She said that you — they — were recruited on the basis of their psychological profiles. Personality disorders. The word sociopath cropped up."

He had an urge to ask if she'd mentioned his mother. "So? Listen, everything is going to be fine."

"They don't see people as people. They only interact with their own projections on the world. She said —" In the window he caught a shadow of a frown as Warrick reached for the memory. "'People like Toreth are dangerous. They charm you and make you think they're something they're not.' You don't care. You can't."

Why the hell hadn't he set it up so that Warrick wouldn't see her die? "You're tired, you didn't like what you saw — fine. But we stick to the plan. We go through the interrogation transcript. You — "

"No." Warrick turned abruptly, and Toreth saw his face clearly for the first time: corpse white, with red-rimmed eyes. "I'm going. Now."

Fear flooded him, with anger right on its heels. If Warrick left in this state, if he was stopped . . . Jesus, if he was questioned.

"Don't be so fucking stupid." Toreth caught Warrick's arm as he started to move. "What the hell are you going to do if you run out now? She's dead, and you can't change that, can you? But she's no deader than she would be after the Administration executed her. And no deader than Kelly, or any of the rest of them. You'll stay right — "

"No!"

Carelessly, he lost his grip as Warrick pulled away, and Warrick made it halfway across the room before Toreth caught him, barely managing to grab his sleeve. Experience told him Warrick would fight, which he did, with a ferocity and skill than caught Toreth off guard.

"Will you — shit!" Toreth twisted, trying to dodge a punch, and Warrick's fist caught him in the ribs instead of the solar plexus. He grabbed for Warrick's free hand and missed, getting a sharp blow to his arm in return. Only ingrained training made Toreth tighten his grip on Warrick rather than release him.

The risk of sabotage kidnapping ensured that most corporates were at least trained how to break a hold and run. With his right hand occupied with Warrick's left arm, Toreth was at a definite disadvantage — it was only a question of time before Warrick broke free. Toreth closed, unbalancing Warrick and bearing him back and away from the door. It took another minute of thankfully quiet struggle before he had Warrick against the wall, holding on to him securely.

"Let go." Warrick's voice rose as he twisted futilely, his face flushed with anger and exertion. "Let me
go
."

He abandoned approved restraint technique and shifted his grip, getting his hand over Warrick's mouth. If the bastard bit him, he'd break his neck and worry about the explanations later.

"Shut the fuck up and
listen
," Toreth snarled, voice low. "Do you
want
to fuck everything up? Do you want to end up down on level C, where she was, spilling everything for one of the others? You want to commit suicide, go ahead and do it on your own fucking time, but you're not taking me with you. We're sticking to the plan, to the letter. You'll stay in here long enough to make it look good, whatever it takes. I'm not going to risk ending up dead, just because you're too fucking gutless to stick it out. It was your fucking idea, so get a fucking grip."

By the time he ran out of steam Warrick had at least stopped fighting, although he was still pale and shaking, his breath hot against Toreth's hand. Breathing quickly, now that Toreth took the time to notice.

Almost panting, in fact.

Not surprising, Toreth thought, when he considered the position they were in: full body contact, serious restraint, and danger — real danger. Everything the game required. He smiled, unable to help it, feeling himself harden.

Relaxing his hold a little, he uncovered Warrick's mouth. Then, before Warrick could say anything, he pulled him close for a deep, bruising kiss.

"No!" Warrick said through the kiss, then jerked his head away. "Stop it."

Toreth pulled him back and did it again, feeling Warrick's lips twist as he struggled to break free.

Maybe he'd forgotten the safe word — maybe he thought it wouldn't apply here. Toreth felt no obligation to remind him. Part of Toreth was still calculating, working out how to use this to his advantage. However, the overwhelming idea of having Warrick — here, now — rapidly swept that cold consideration aside.

He held Warrick's shuddering body against his, smothering his protests until he stopped fighting and his mouth opened, hungry. Then Toreth manhandled him towards the desk, keeping his grip tight. Partly because he didn't want to risk him bolting for the door — unlikely as that seemed right now — and partly for the exciting feedback from Warrick's own excitement.

Turning Warrick, Toreth pinned him against the desk, although now there was no need. As he opened the drawer one-handed he felt Warrick struggling again — this time to unfasten his own trousers before reaching back to free Toreth's cock.

A brief scrabble in the desk drawer produced hand cream. An even briefer pause before he thrust inside Warrick, honestly trying to take it slowly at first, but losing the fight between his own fierce arousal and Warrick's urgent movements.

The screen on the desk still showed the interrogation room, now empty and silent, but Warrick wasn't looking at it. Or if he was, it had no dampening effect. He braced his hands on the desk, pushing back frantically towards Toreth, making a noise Toreth hadn't heard from him before — harsh, sobbing breaths, pure need and desire.

Shifting his grip, he held Warrick tight, driving into him harder, having trouble controlling the amount of noise he was making himself. A few more deliciously deep strokes, and Warrick bucked under him, but Toreth didn't register the strangled gasp as he came, because he was coming too. He crushed Warrick against the desk, pressing his face into Warrick's shoulder to muffle his own cry, for once the louder of them.

A tiny sound pulled him back to awareness of the room around them. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the door closing quickly. He'd forgotten Sara and the coffees, although she usually knocked or called through. Ah, well — Warrick hadn't noticed, so no harm done.

Made a mess on the desk, though.

Finally Warrick shifted, and Toreth moved back far enough to let him stand up and refasten his clothes. Still sufficiently close, however, that when Warrick turned Toreth could indulge an unexpected and uncharacteristic urge for a kiss.

It had an odd sweet-salt flavour, strangely satisfying, that reminded him of their first dinner and the steak. When he finally pulled back, he saw the bright red on Warrick's mouth, like smeared lipstick.

Warrick touched the back of his hand to his lower lip, inspected it and licked away blood. "Bit my lip. It seemed preferable to letting the whole office know what we were doing." A deep breath. "Although I didn't think I'd done it quite that hard."

At least he sounded calmer. "Feeling better?" Toreth asked.

"I — " Warrick hesitated, the answer clearly a surprise. "Actually, yes."

"Good." Toreth found a tissue and wiped his own mouth, then the desk. "Now — did the recording work?"

"As far as I could tell." Warrick took another breath, ran his tongue over his lip and winced. "Everything went smoothly, nothing unexpected came up that I couldn't handle. I faked a technical glitch in the system to cover the link between the sim and the genuine recording. The picture synched perfectly with the medical monitors, which was always going to be the hardest part."

"Then we've got one more thing to do, that's all. Go through the files with me, check everything's solid, and then it's all over."

"All over." Warrick looked at him for a moment, expression closed, then nodded. "Let's get on with it."

Toreth touched the comm. "Sara, I'll have that transcript and the coffees now."

When she brought them in, Toreth was worried that she might say something about what she'd seen. Warrick wouldn't find it funny. To his relief, she gave no sign at all that she'd seen them.

"I had a call from Internal Investigations about the prisoner's death," she said as she set the coffees down.

Toreth caught a tiny, quickly controlled movement from Warrick beside him.

"And?" Toreth asked.

"They said that, considering the waiver, unless something else comes up or you want to tell them anything, they'll process the enquiry without an interview."

"Tell them that's fine. Transcript?"

"I'm just authorising it. I'll send it through when it's done."

When she had gone, Warrick said, "Internal Investigations?"

"Int-Sec watchdogs." With big, nasty teeth. "It's a formality. Just paperwork. I told you — they expected her to die."

Warrick shook his head. "Everyone knows, you know."

"Every who knows what?"

"Everyone knows that deaths in custody are often deliberate. Why do we all collude in the pretence that it doesn't happen, do you suppose?" The question seemed to be genuine curiosity. "It isn't as if the Administration doesn't execute people anyway. Criminals and resisters."