The Administration Series (121 page)

Then he closed his eyes tight behind the blindfold, feeling the grit in his mouth and the handcuff digging into his throbbing wrist. Cold mud clung to his chest, making him shiver. It couldn't take long. Now the order had been confirmed, they wouldn't stay out here in the open, wherever here was, for longer than they had to.

Time stretched out, filled with the sound of the waiting water.

Please, let them finish him before they threw him in. He'd always loathed the idea of drowning — been terrified by it. Nightmares, since forever, of fighting the need to inhale. Feeling the pressure of water against his face, then pouring down his throat, flooding his lungs. In the sim he'd never been able to breathe underwater, even though Sara said it was piss easy, and now he felt himself starting to gag at the thought of it. Not with his hands bound. Hands bound and his life bleeding away into the cold water as —

Focus. Focus on at least not acting like the worthless piece of shit who'd put him here. He swallowed the sickness and the fear and clenched his fists, distracting himself with pain.

Time passing, and the river.

Then Toreth heard vehicles approaching and his tenuous hold on dignified resignation vanished. Friend or foe? He tensed, listening desperately, ready to run or fight.

He heard nothing around him to suggest that the arrivals were unexpected. A firm, blunt pressure between his shoulder blades and a sharp "Keep still!" put an end to any idea of resistance. Whether gun or shock stick, it wasn't something he wanted fired into his spine.

Pathetic, really, that he could still cling to the slimmest hope that it wouldn't happen anyway.

The vehicles drew up nearby — two of them. Doors opened and closed. Jonny come to witness his execution in person? Low voices, then silence. His whole awareness shrank down to the hard contact against his back. Soon. The pressure shifted slightly. Now. Christ, it would be soon, it would be now, it was —

Hands under his armpits hauled him upright, steadied him. A few steps sideways and they pushed him against what felt like a car and held him efficiently as the cuffs were removed. The relief from the pressure on his wrist was instantaneous, despite the agonising protest of strained muscles as he moved his arms.

Then he was turned and the blindfold pulled away, leaving him squinting into the sun setting beyond the river. Shapes became visible through the orange and gold, more men than the four who had brought him here. Too many, too close for escape, even if he'd been in any condition to try it.

Without a word, one of the newcomers handed him a towel. It was damp and, most bizarrely of all, faintly scented. Something floral.

He took it numbly in his good hand. What the
hell
was going on?

There was nothing else to do, so he cleaned the mud from his face, wiped the worst from his chest and trousers, and then handed the towel back. He was tempted to say thanks, but considering the reason he'd needed the towel in the first place, it seemed inappropriate to say the least.

Next came a fresh shirt, again offered silently. He put it on, struggling against the painful clumsiness of his arms and shoulders. His fingers left smudges on the white fabric as he buttoned it awkwardly, left-handed.

A smartly dressed, slender woman — management, not muscle — opened the rear door of the large dark blue car. Its minimalist sharp lines made it look brand new and expensively corporate, and Toreth wondered if that was good news or very, very bad.

"Get in, please," the woman said.

Still unsure as to exactly why he wasn't dead, but not feeling like pressing the point, Toreth did as he was told.

Inside the car were two large men with the look of extremely professional bodyguards. Opposite them sat an older man, dark-haired — maybe dyed — and with dark eyes which assessed Toreth with sharp, arrogant intelligence. His suit must've cost more than Toreth's yearly salary.

Then the man smiled, showing perfect, even teeth. "My name is Gil Kemp. Please, sit down."

Chris or one of his sidekicks — one without a death wish — must have tipped the man off about what Jonny was up to. Toreth sat, opposite Jonny Kemp's father and between the watchful guards. Moving slowly seemed to be a sensible idea, as well as all he could manage.

When he had settled into the seat — wonderfully comfortable despite his bruised back — Kemp continued.

"I apologise unreservedly for your unfortunate treatment, Val. I assure you that I had nothing to do with it. I make it a rule never to interfere with Int-Sec employees."

"I didn't think it was anything to do with you, sir." He didn't think he'd return the use of the personal name. No point going out of his way to sabotage the unexpected reversal of fortune.

"I also ask you to pass my regrets along to . . . your friend." Kemp's voice soured. "My son is a coward and a bully, amongst other of his less attractive qualities. However, he is also my only son and as such I am obliged to do the best I can by him."

Not so promising. "Does this mean you're going to make an exception to your rule?"

The expensive smile gleamed again. "No. I merely wish to secure an assurance that Jon has nothing further to fear from you. May I tell him that the matter is closed?"

Tempting to say 'yes'. Tempting, in fact, to say whatever the hell it took to get out of here. He could feel the pressure between his shoulders, the choking fear. The river still flowed by, only yards away.

As steadily as he could, Toreth said, "You can tell him that if he lays one finger on her again, I'll be back to do exactly what I said I'd do."

Silence stretched out for what felt like minutes, with Kemp's expression unreadable, then he nodded. "You have my word that your friend will be perfectly safe," he said, in a voice so hard that Toreth believed him instantly.

He let out the breath he'd been holding to steady his voice. "Then if I never see him again, it will be too fucking soon."

"More than acceptable. Thank you for your forbearance."

"It's . . . " It's my pleasure? Hardly. "It's over. As far as I'm concerned."

Kemp nodded to one of the bodyguards. Toreth expected him to open the door, but instead the guard touched a panel and the car began to move, over the rough ground and then onto a smooth, paved road. Leaving the river behind.

Through the window, Toreth caught a last glimpse of water, darkened by the tinted glass, as it disappeared behind a building. He still didn't recognise where they were, but he allowed himself to relax a tiny fraction.

The sliding hiss of a panel opening jerked his attention back to the interior of the car. It took him a moment to register the open drinks cabinet, tiny but well stocked.

"Would you like something?" Kemp offered.

After looking longingly at the range of bottles, Toreth said, "Just water, thanks." He'd forgotten for a while how thirsty he was, and his mouth still tasted of the dirty river mud.

He accepted the glass and drank slowly, gauging the reaction of his stomach. Throwing the water straight back up onto the expensive upholstery wouldn't create the best impression.

"Now," Kemp said, "we can get to the real reason I wished to speak to you in person."

The
real
reason? Automatically, Toreth glanced at the bodyguards, but they appeared to be as relaxed as people in that line of work ever were.

"Which is?"

"I wish to offer you a job."

There wasn't any way he could have misheard, but he still didn't believe it. "A . . . job?"

"Indeed. My businesses employ a number of former para-investigators, in various capacities. I would like you to join them. The precise terms of the position and remuneration can be worked out later with my representatives, but I can assure you they will be generous."

Too stunned for a considered response, he said, "Why the hell do you want to give
me
a job?"

Kemp seemed amused rather than annoyed. "You have qualities that I value highly in my employees. Loyalty. Courage. Intelligence. A willingness to take risks for people who are important to you. Your encounter with my son, while I may deplore your actions, demonstrated those qualities amply."

Toreth was becoming convinced that Kemp's disapproval was purely formal. "I fucked up," he said evenly. "I lost my temper."

"Considering the circumstances, I won't hold it against you." Kemp smiled thinly. "Your security file suggests that was a singular lapse."

Had everyone seen the fucking thing except him? He was going to have to ask Warrick for a copy, and damn the risk of letting slip to someone that he'd read it.

"Do you have an answer for me?" Kemp enquired.

He stalled with a mouthful of water, then said, "I'll have to think about it."

Kemp frowned. He obviously had the same problem as his son about not getting what he wanted. "May I ask why?"

"I try not to make important decisions when I've just had the shit kicked out of me."

"Then I suggest you sleep on the question and give me your answer tomorrow."

The conversation was clearly supposed to be over, but Toreth asked, "Where are we going?"

Kemp frowned, irritated. "When I was informed of your whereabouts, or rather, informed that your whereabouts might be a matter for concern, I was also provided with an address to which you should be returned."

"Warrick," he said without thinking, then cursed himself.

Kemp merely nodded. "One of my subsidiaries has a speculative investment in Doctor Warrick's corporation." He smiled at Toreth's expression. "That was not intended to influence your decision in any way, neither as a recommendation nor a threat. It merely made him a more credible source for information I did not want to hear about Jon." Kemp sighed, his voice becoming quieter. "I ought to be used to it, by now. Sometimes I wonder if he is punishing me for something that I've done. Or failed to do. I used to hope that I would find out what it was, so that I could make amends. But now . . . "

Toreth kept his mouth shut. People like Kemp didn't expect comments when they decided to share their personal problems with the furniture. All Toreth wanted was to get out of here in one piece, or at least in as few pieces as possible. He flexed his right wrist as carefully as he could. Sprain, he was sure.

Kemp sighed again, then turned away to look out of the tinted window, further discussion now very definitely closed.

Warrick hadn't spoken to Sara since he'd so nearly lost control in the kitchen. He'd stayed in the study, running increasingly unlikely searches, more for something to do than because of any lingering hope. They'd had only one chance, and it didn't look as if it had worked out. He should have let Sara call I&I.

Eventually, admitting defeat, he shut off the system and went to look for her.

He found her in the living room, sitting with a clock in her lap, staring out of the window. There was no trace of the day left in the sky.

"Did you call?"

She shook her head. "Fifty-six minutes."

"Sara, I'm sorry."

"Forget it. I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"I think, under the circumstances, you're entitled." He took the clock from her, being careful not to jar her injured hand, and set it back in its place. "Do you want to call, or shall I?"

"I'll do it."

Before she could pick up her comm, the door to the flat opened.

They both froze, looking at each other, Sara with her hand still outstretched. Then, as they started for the hallway, he thought, it could be Dillian.

As the car pulled up, Toreth still didn't truly believe they would let him go. Even as he walked away, he found his shoulders tensing, hurting the strained muscles, waiting for the shot. Stupid, because the middle of a corporate residential district would be an insane place to carry out a killing.

Then he was inside the building, inside the lift, outside the door to Warrick's flat, desperately racking his brain for the entry code. He should have knocked, but he didn't think of it. Then the door opened and he was safe.

He was still trying to lock the door behind him, left-handed, when he heard footsteps and turned to find Sara flying down the hall towards him. He lifted his injured arm out of the way just in time to catch her up with the good one. She buried her face against his chest.

"Oh, Christ, I was so worried," she said, her voice muffled in his new shirt. She looked up at him, without letting go, and bit her lip when she saw the marks on his face. "Are you hurt?"

Looked like he'd been right when he guessed she'd miss him at work. "I'm fine. Some bruises. Nothing fatal."

He looked over her shoulder to find Warrick standing just out of arm's reach, smiling slightly, although at which one of them he wasn't sure. Then Sara squeezed too tightly and he winced. She released him hurriedly.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Come sit down. Jesus, look at your wrist."

"It's okay." He let her lead him towards the living room anyway, because he did feel like sitting down. While it was still voluntary.

"What happened?" Warrick asked on the way down the hall.

He considered the options, then smiled. "I had a job interview."

They both stopped and stared at him.

"A what?" Warrick enquired after a moment.

Toreth grinned. "Get me a drink and I'll tell you all about it."

Even the edited version took a while. As he talked, Sara demonstrated how well she'd been paying attention on the admins' first aid course, and disinfected and bandaged his wrist. He'd have preferred she left it alone, but she looked to be enjoying herself, and it had to be done sometime. Warrick contributed tea and a couple of painkillers, then sat on the chair opposite, listening intently.

As he neared the end of the account, he began to wish he hadn't mentioned the job offer. It had been too tempting a line not to use. Now, however, it occurred to him that Warrick would probably like him to take it. A nice, safe corporate job he wouldn't have to remember not to talk about.