The Drafter (11 page)

“Yes, ma'am.”

Matt fumbled his way to the front and Silas pushed his cuticles back, ignoring Fran. He didn't like her. He didn't like Detroit. There was too much steel, in the people as well as the streets. The new layer of green wasn't fooling him. Detroit was a hard, unforgiving mistress.

“So how is our man?” Fran asked, her voice dry as she realized that
the only other place to sit was Matt's rolling chair, sticky with electrical tape.

“Ahh . . .” Flustered, Matt finished tightening his tie and reached for a printout. “He's fair with a gun, okay with hand-to-hand simply due to his size.” He chuckled in dismay and shook his head. “Good with electronics, though. Mrs. Jacquard, I've got better—”

Matt jumped when Fran snatched the printout, then gasped when she dropped it into the shredder.

“I meant,” she said as it roared into silence, “does he have his equipment? Is he ready to go? Reed is meeting Bill at that drafter bar in less than six hours.”

Silas loosened his tie and slouched in his chair—daring her to say anything.

“Ah, no,” Matt said, eyes flicking between them. “He keeps taking my equipment out of his duffel.”

“I'm so surprised,” Fran mused, clearly not, and Silas grinned insincerely at her.

“My way, or no way,” Silas said. “You said it yourself.”

“I most certainly did not.”

Silas closed his eyes. “I distinctly remember you saying I was the only one smart enough to see the extent of the damage and fluid enough to adapt a program to fix it.” Eyes opening, he sat up. “I'm adapting and fixing. Get them out of my way.”

“Mrs. Jacquard,” Matt said, clearly upset. “I've got six other agents more than able.”

“Oh yes. Put them on notice,” Fran said, her perfume finally overpowering the BO as she got angry. “But Dr. Denier goes in first. His charms are not ones that you can put on paper.”

Matt hesitated. “Wait,” he said, looking at Silas in a new way. “
Doctor
Denier?” Silas slumped again. “Denier, who invented slick-suits? Who pioneered memory cushions and talismans? How anchors rebuild memories?”

Silas exhaled, wanting to get out of the van. “It's not that hard when you are one.”

“Shit, man!” Matt lurched close, flushed. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to make up for it,” he muttered. “Fran.” He sat up, uncomfortable as Matt began to all but giggle, lurching about and . . . tidying? “This isn't going to work.”

“Why not?” She shifted out of Matt's way as he threw out a bag of chips. “Matt is extremely proficient on paper.”

“This wouldn't work even if I were a real agent,” Silas protested.

“And you aren't!” Matt chimed in enthusiastically. “Damn. Dr. Denier in my van.”

Silas scrubbed a hand over his face. “I can't walk in there, take out Jack, subdue her, and expect to get any information. She is a soldier, Fran. She kills people.”

Fran looked at her diamond-encrusted watch and frowned. “She only kills those who kill her first. And you'll have help. An old friend of yours.”

Friend?
Silas stood, hands clenched as he made an educated guess as to who that was. “I can't do this your way.”

Lips pressed, Fran clicked her way to him, being careful not to touch anything. “You will,” she said, eye to eye with him in her high heels. “All you have to do is find out if she has the info or not. Matt's people will bring Jack and her down. You don't even have to be there for the actual . . . reacquirement.”

“In which case she will be so adrenaline-soaked that retrieving anything will be impossible,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice. “You don't understand. This isn't something you can go into with both barrels blazing. It has to be subtle.”

Again she looked at her watch. “So we hit her with 741 MHz. Or Amneoset. Or any other of the wonderful drugs you helped pioneer to stop her from drafting.”

Frustrated, he forced his hands to unclench. “It's not the drafting I'm worried about. If there's too much going on in her head, if she's not relaxed and comfortable, there's no way to retrieve hidden memories. None. I can't do it your way and expect any results.”

Fran stared at him, the hunched figure of Matt behind her. “Make it work,” she said. Turning, she looked Matt up and down, gaze lingering on the burrito stain on his middle. “Get him suited up. Now.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Bloody fantastic,” she muttered, looking at her watch once more. “Now I'm late for the symphony. Matt, keep me posted.”

“Yes, ma'am!” Matt called as the van shifted with her leaving and the door snapped shut.

Silas fell back into his chair, hand scrubbing at the faint bristle on his cheeks. This was going to kill her. Drive her mad. There were too many variables to plan this. It had to be done subtly, by feel, by one person, not a team that tripped her into fight or flight. She was going to fight him all the way regardless, but he'd rather have the battle in her mind than a physical one. He'd lose the latter, but in the former he had a chance. A good chance.

“You want her or not? This is all we have,” Matt said, and he looked up, startled at the man's empty expression.

“No. It isn't,” Silas said, coming to a decision. “I'm sorry about this.”

“Sorry about wha—hey!” Matt exclaimed, backpedaling.

But it was too late, and Silas's chair fell over, clattering into the back of the van as he sprang at Matt, fisted hand swinging forward with the force of a train.

He hit him with everything he had, all his anger, frustration, and fear focused into six inches of bone. Matt's head snapped back, and he fell, out cold even as Silas shook his hand out, not even bruised.

“For that,” he said, pulse fast. Silas snatched up the duffel, stuffing it with equipment he wanted from the shelves and cubbies. Finished, he threw it out of the van, tossing his coat to land on top of it. The sun was setting, and he took a moment at the door to breathe in the cold, snow-tinged air. Low-Q drones, barely visible in the dusk, skimmed up and down the river, their only legal pathway now that the sun was down. There was a chance that Fran would simply proceed without him. But the longer he gazed at the river, the wider his smile became. Maybe he could learn to like Detroit.

Breath held against the smell, he ducked back inside for a last check before he sank the van.

He needed to get her alone was all, away from Jack Twill in such a way that she didn't freak out. It would be nigh impossible due to the
heavy conditioning against being alone that Opti had instilled in her. It would have to be her idea; she'd have to be the one in control. But if he could get her alone and comfortable, five minutes with the right drugs ought to do it.

“But not these,” he said, looking again at what he'd taken out of his duffel. Angry, he yanked open the med drawers, riffling through until he found what he wanted. Something softer, something she was used to.

Vials clattering in his grip, he slammed the drawers shut, the memory of how sensitive she was lifting through him. His shoulders slumped, and then he hardened. Shifting the van into neutral, he shoved the vials in his pocket, then grabbed Matt's arms and dragged him thumping down the back step to land against the duffel. It was a job. That was all.

Matt moaned and sat up, holding his head. “What are you doing?” he asked when he realized he was sitting on pavement.

Feeling a new sense of purpose in the chill evening, Silas went to the back of the van. He put his shoulder to it, and pushed.

“Hey! Stop!” Matt staggered to his feet and looked at the nearby river. “Dr. Denier, what are you doing?”

With a groan of success, Silas got the van moving, creeping slowly and pebbles popping from under its wheels. “No!” Matt shouted, running after it and trying to pull it to a halt. Silas's smile widened as the van hit the water, slowing but not stopping as it crept deeper.

“Are you crazy!” Matt shouted as he stood at the edge of the water and shook. “Everything we need is in there!”

Silas put on his coat and went to stand beside him, satisfied as the van stopped in four feet of water. Clapping him across the shoulder, he said, “I'm not.”

Matt turned to him, aghast.

“Tell Fran that I'll get the information.” Silas swung his duffel up over his shoulder like a backpack. “I need at least three days to learn her state of mind and come up with an idea. If I see Fran or one of her stooges, I'll spook Peri myself and she'll never get anything.”

“B-but my van . . . ,” Matt stammered, lost.

Silas smiled. “I need three days,” he said, then turned and walked
away. Matt was already on his phone, but by the time they got the van out and dried up, Silas would have something to placate Fran with.

He'd get Peri back, and he'd do it his way, so she might survive it. But even as he strode forward, Matt's curses and threats growing faint, a worry wedged itself between his thought and his reason.

He knew she loved the control, the money, the sense of superiority and independence that Opti had lavished on her and used to lure her into self-blindness. It was why she'd volunteered for it in the first place.

The harsh reality was that there was a chance she might not want to come back.

P
eri tugged at the thick oak door of Overdraft to find it locked. Frank was a blurry image through the stained-glass window, standing on a ladder with his head in the sound system. Below him, the silver disk of a floor sweep moved in its methodical path, a purple haze of UV light glowing. It was just shy of one in the morning, but clearly they'd closed early.

Frank looked up as Peri tapped on the window with her car fob. She drew back, disconcerted as she realized the cut glass formed Opti's hourglass-like logo, glowing in the dark like a beacon. Frank's voice was muffled as he shouted to someone before returning to his task.

“I'll talk to Frank, you take Sandy,” Jack said, fidgeting as he scanned the barren parking lot dusted with new snow; Peri's Mantis was a sleek shadow under the security lights, recharged and back to its usual black and silver.

Cold, she hunched into her long cashmere coat and scarf. The thin wool wasn't enough to block the wind, but she'd bought it for the way it looked, not its thermal ranking. “You think our psychologists might be involved with Bill?”

“That's why I brought my Glock.” Jack patted his coat, worrying her. His coat was thick enough that the bulge of the weapon didn't even show. She didn't particularly like guns, though she agreed they
were handy in the right setting. The six-inch knife in her boot sheath was more her style: quiet, unexpected if done correctly, lethal only if she wanted—but always attention-getting.

Sandy's slight form darkened the window, wiping her hands on her jeans as she reached for the lock. Sandy had evolved from psychologist to friend a long time ago, and Peri smiled wanly as the long-haired woman pushed open the door. If Frank looked like a Viking in plaid and jeans, then Sandy was an Asian princess, slim, demure, and capable of dramatic outbursts when the situation called for it. Peri had seen her drive drunk twenty-one-year-olds out the door with her voice alone. And she was the only person Peri knew who was smaller than she was.

“Peri! Jack,” the late-thirties woman said with the faint Seattle-Asian accent that always made her sound slightly exotic to Peri's midwestern-bred ears. “Bill said you were coming for a debrief. I locked up to keep it more private. Come on in. It's cold tonight.” She glanced at the light snow before ushering them in and giving Peri a hug. “Everything okay? You're still in your work clothes.”

Cursing herself, Peri looked at her black slacks and matching blouse. She even still had on her pen necklace. Her subconscious had her ready to run—and Sandy had noticed. “Could be better,” she said as she scanned the bar with its low stage plastered with '90s band posters, scuffed dance floor, never-lit flagstone fireplace, and lotto kiosk in the corner, its flashing lights even brighter than the Juke'sBox online music panel that Frank had put in after someone blew out the '70s antique it was named after. Even Peri admitted it was easier to load a night's music from the tabletop ordering pads, but she missed the clunky singles stacked neatly in rows waiting to be chosen, knowing everyone was watching her as she stood before it.

The lights were down in the adjoining gaming lounge with its low tables, couches, and the testosterone magnet of a six-by-ten gaming panel, but she could still smell electronics over the varnished wood that held sway in the main part of the bar. Somehow the shadowy cushy booths and black ceilings with their bare support beams and hidden
state-of-the-art sound system felt ominous tonight, even with the band novelties that Frank collected and stuck on the walls amid the illegal drone shots of celebs, public figures, and the occasional sunbather seeking her no-tan-line perfection.

Chairs were atop the tables as the cleaner ran, and the floor was scuffed to a bland haze the color of spilled beer everywhere but a thin line along the walls. The dance floor's yellow parquet was so scratched, she could hardly see the original lines.

Bill wasn't here yet, which was both a relief and a concern. Jack gave Peri a reassuring touch before making a slow beeline for Frank, still on the ladder.

Sandy smelled of polish, a rag stuffed into a back pocket, and Peri felt a sudden wash of affection for her longtime friend and confidante—and more than a little guilty at suspecting Sandy's motives. “Hard day?” Sandy asked, and Peri nodded. “I worry about you two,” Sandy said, arm muscles showing a wiry strength as she returned to the bar and scrubbed at the brass. “Bill said you drafted. You lose a lot?”

Bad news travels fast
. Peri slid atop one of the stools. “Six weeks.” Taking off her coat, she set it on the gleaming black counter beside the glass jammed full of chopsticks. Frank liked his burgers, but Sandy had more cosmopolitan tastes, and every restaurant in a four-block area could be accessed for delivery from the tabletop pads. “It could have been worse,” Peri added as she decided to leave the scarf on. She didn't recall knitting it, but her fingers remembered the pattern, and it felt familiar.