The Drafter (16 page)

“It's all I've got, ass-hat,” she said. The IV drip hung between them, and she stared at it, thinking it would be easy to rip it out of her arm. Painful, but easy. With a small nudge, she got the fingertip pulse monitor off. Silas looked at it as it thumped on the carpet tiles, clearly surprised she'd managed even that. He took a breath to say something, freezing when a voice in the hallway shouted, “He's in there with her right now!”

“Security!” bellowed a familiar voice, and Peri smiled smugly.

“That's Bill,” she said. “He's almost as big as you. You'd better run, rabbit man.”

“What a waste.” Silas was shoving things in his pockets, his motions full of grace. “You didn't see me tonight,” he said as he tucked the tablet under his arm.

“The hell I didn't.” Peri's pulse quickened as she shook the drug off. It had been a psychoactive sedative, not a hypnotic suggestion drug.

Frowning, he leaned over her. She drew back, thinking his skin looked . . . irresistibly smooth. Her focus blurred as she imagined it shining with sweat, muscles moving evenly as he pumped iron. “You didn't see me,” he repeated, his brown eyes scrunched up.

“You're the one who filled me up with drugs that make me want to talk, doofus.”

He pushed back, clearly frustrated. A rattle came at the doorknob, followed by a shout for the key. Jumping, Silas went for the second door, flinging it open to show a dark, tiled room beyond. “If you're smart, you'll keep your mouth shut.”

“Screw you!” she exclaimed, then fell back, lethargy taking its toll.
Who the hell is Jack?

Allen shouted and hammered on the door. Silas ran out, his lab coat furling, shoes silent. Slowly the door arced shut.

Peri rolled her head to look when something crashed into the hall door. The frame began to split, and with another blow gave way. Allen
and Bill rushed in, two security guards behind them. She wasn't corrupt. The creep had been fishing for information.

“Where did he go!” Bill exclaimed as Allen knelt beside her.

To stay silent would take too much effort. “Through there,” she said, looking at the door.

Bill bolted, security tight behind. A buzzing alarm began in the hallway. Peri didn't care, and she watched dispassionately as Allen took the IV out of her arm with more finesse than Silas had used putting it in. His hand was red where he'd hit the door, making it easy to see where his fingers had been broken in the past.
Martial arts?
she wondered, having seen the same damage on Bill's thick hands before. Not on Silas, though. For all his size, his hands were baby soft.

“I shouldn't have left. Are you okay?” Allen said as he bent her arm up to keep it from bleeding. “Did he touch you?”

“He drugged me,” she said, the blood seeming to rush to her head to clear it. “All he did was ask me questions.”

Suddenly still, Allen looked at her over his glasses. “What did he say?”

Peri's focus sharpened. He was more concerned with what Silas had said than with what he might have done to her? Suspicion flared. “Who is Jack, and why did I kill him?”

Allen's mouth closed, and he looked at the door Bill had gone through. “Ah . . .”

Angry, she sat up as the drug filled her with the sensation of pinpricks.
So worried about not looking stupid that you walk out of a bar with a man you don't even know simply because people assume you will
. “Who is Jack?” she insisted, and Allen stood. Men ran down the hall, and the alarm cut out and started again. “Allen?”

“What did he tell you about Jack?”

“He was more asking than telling,” Peri said, then started at a distant but loud bang. The hall alarm cut out again, this time for good. “He wanted to know if I was taking side jobs and who the orders came from. Jack's name came up. Who is Jack? Was he dirty?”
Oh God, what if I'm a corrupt agent? How would I even know?

Allen pulled the rolling chair close and sat in it, elbows on his knees. “I'm sorry, Peri—”

“Stop it!” she exploded, and his head snapped up, eyes wide. “Just stop it! Everyone keeps saying they're sorry, and I don't know why. Who is Jack?”

Allen's eyes searched hers, the pity in them scaring her. “Your previous anchor,” he said, and her breath caught. Silas had said she'd killed him. . . .

“A few days ago, while on task, you found out some of your past missions weren't Opti-sanctioned,” Allen said, and her heart pounded as she grasped another truth. She wasn't corrupt—Jack was.

“Jack tried to kill you when you found out,” Allen continued, and Peri's vision sharpened as she looked for the lie but saw only his regret that he hadn't told her sooner. “We thought you were safe, but he followed us to Overdraft.” Allen's hand was warm as he took hers. “He shot you. You jumped. Peri, I'm sorry. I wasn't there for all of it. I can't bring it back.”

Memory tried to rise, shredding even as she focused on it. “I shot my own anchor?”

“You lost everything.” Allen made a helpless gesture. “It seemed cruel to bring him up. Maybe . . . you forgot on purpose.”

Never
, she thought as two men ran down the hallway. Peri sat, stunned as her world shifted and resettled. Jack had been her anchor, and now he was dead. What it meant was that apart from the memories tied to her talismans, the last three years of her life were beyond recall. She was probably suspected of being a turncoat as well. “He's dead?”

His hands still cradling hers, he nodded. “I'm so sorry.”

The subtle clues that had been telling her Allen was wrong now added up. Ruth's words in the reception office, her pity. Hell, Ruth knew more of her past than she did. “Did I love him?” she asked softly. Emotions never die, even when the memories tied to them are erased, and judging by the amount of bitterness in her, she must have loved him deeply.

“Yeah,” Allen said tightly, as if it bothered him. “Yeah, you did.”

Something in Peri snapped. Maybe it was the drugs wearing off, but she was suddenly ticked. “I want my memory of tonight back,” she said. “You were there. I want everything you saw. Now. Right now.”

She tried to stand, falling back into the chair when the pinpricks rose in a new wave. Silas had accused her of being a dirty operative, and the only one who knew if she was—Jack—was dead.

“It's going to get better, Peri,” Allen said. “I promise. Give it some time.”

Time?
Peri started when Bill came in through the open door. “Peri.” The head of Opti's agents looked both irate and comforting, his hands extended. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

Peri blanched, feeling the strength in his hands as he took hers. “Tell me you got him.”

But his creased brow said otherwise. She watched Allen closely as he stood, deciding that he was truly upset, not acting, and something in her eased—just a little. No wonder Allen had been pinging her paranoia meter. She'd probably known him less than a day.

“Not yet, but we will.” Bill gripped her shoulder reassuringly. “We know who he is.”

“Silas, right?” she said to shake a reaction from him. “From the alliance.”

Bill hesitated, his hand falling away. “How . . . He told you his name?”

Two lab techs went by, talking excitedly. Peri looked up at both men, feeling out of control. “He also mentioned Jack. My previous anchor?”

Bill's eyes darted to Allen. Allen raised his hand as if to say “What could I do?” adding, “Bill, I know you wanted a clean break for Peri, but Denier told her she killed her last anchor because he had her doing non-Opti-sanctioned tasks. She doesn't
know
any more than that.” His hand found hers, giving it a squeeze.

“Am I a dirty operative?” she whispered.
Damn it all to hell, how could I love someone who could try to kill me?

“Good God, no. But Jack was,” Bill said, surprised. “I never would have guessed it. Maybe it's good you lost the last three years. Start fresh with Allen. This might be a blessing.”

Allen's fidgeting became obvious. “I'm not taking her home until I know that alliance nutcase is apprehended.”

“I agree,” Bill said sharply. “I was going to check you in for observation—”

“I'll regain more at home than in the hole,” Peri protested, but Bill had a hand in the air, asking for patience.

“But if the alliance has gained access here, the entire campus is suspect. You need some time off. Both of you,” he said, voice demanding obedience. “Go to Allen's tonight, try to get some sleep, and we'll get you an early a.m. flight out to somewhere warm.”

She didn't want to go to Allen's, but a hotel would have been worse. Someone was lying to her, and all she could do was trust her gut.

Too bad her gut was telling her to run.

P
eri hated the airport chairs in the Detroit terminals. They were not made for the comfort of passengers, despite what they claimed: the worst of them had a severe slope that was supposed to be relaxing but wasn't. She had to believe the open back was there so security wouldn't have to worry about what people were leaving behind.

Knees crossed, she sat out of the late-morning sun glinting through the windows, fingers swift as she knitted, purled, knitted, purled the edge pattern of a scarf she didn't remember buying the yarn for. It was easier than she remembered, and she didn't even have to watch what she was doing. Clearly she'd been knitting a lot the last three years—which wasn't very cheering since it was an Opti-encouraged activity to relieve obsessive-compulsive stress.

Across from her, two Opti security agents bitched about the Big Ten being renamed to include an expanded twenty teams. A projected, muted TV hung over them, the code to listen in on an intuitive phone flashing for attention. Peri sourly glanced at her glass phone, wondering if it was intuitive or just smart, and how long it would take to find the right app to change the station.
Good Lord, when did Twitter get its own TV channel?

A third female guard had accompanied Allen in search of coffee. It was the second trio of security they'd had since leaving the hospital.
That the detail had camped out in Allen's hallway was probably why she hadn't slept well, but at least she knew
why
she and Allen weren't cohabiting. He'd been her anchor only a day, and she wished Bill had let her return to her apartment to at least pack a bag. What Allen had come back with looked great but lacked functionality.

The sleek white cashmere sweater she had on fitted tightly in all the right places and the wide collar fell off her shoulder to show her neck, but it would be problematic in a fight. She remembered buying the fitted jacket, lined with silk to be light and free-moving as well as warm. A matching black cap sat atop her carry-on, the red embellishment accenting her earrings, necklace, and nails. Black traveling pants finished it off, the traveling designation meaning they had pockets deep enough for her to stuff her ID, ticket, and phone for easy access. The boots from last night were still on her feet, but no knife in the sheath. She looked
good
—good enough to
feel
good—but the only thing on her mind was worry.

Fingers fumbling, she looked down at the soft red as she worked.
I killed my own anchor? No wonder I lost three years
.

“What was I trying to do?” she muttered, unwinding the red yarn from her fingers and spreading the scarf flat on her leg. It was nearly done, which was why she'd brought it with her. The completed end had a dagaz made of raised purls against a flat background of knits, but the end she was working on had a weird band of odd stitches she couldn't figure out. There was no pattern apart from three flat rows between nine individual rows of knit-and-purl nonsense.

Head tilted, she angled the nine odd lines to see if she'd been hiding an image in the knits and purls, but that would've needed a pattern, and there hadn't been one in the knitting bag Bill had brought from her apartment in his attempt to give her psyche something familiar to build on.

“This doesn't make any sense,” she mumbled, sliding the stitches off the needle to unravel it. She'd just repeat the dagaz pattern and bind it off.

Her focus went distant as she pulled the stitches out, her faint grimace deepening as she looked at the black, cheap fabric bags on tiny
plastic rollers that she'd bought this morning, Allen patiently walking her through how to do it with her phone. Apparently no one used cards anymore since the system-wide hack in '28. She was sure she had better luggage at her apartment, something with thick leather and big wheels that turned when she did. She'd tripped on her new stuff twice going from the car to security. Their escorts weren't happy about having to check their weapons, but her knitting needles went through with no problem—the smug satisfaction of which helped rub out her embarrassment at not knowing how to pay for things.

They were on their way somewhere warm that required a passport, and she kept shoving her vague unease down. Bill had blamed the alliance as the reason to avoid her apartment, but Peri suspected that Bill knew that she, like most drafters, kept a private diary. They wouldn't let her in until they found it and ascertained if she was dirty, or if it was just Jack. Sighing, she wrote off finding her past that way. She wasn't on vacation, she was on paid leave while they investigated her.

The only thing that had come from her apartment besides her knitting had been a cat named Carnac whom she didn't remember. He remembered her, though. Bill was watching him while they were gone, though it was likely his secretary who was checking the cat's food and cleaning the litter pan.

Her head hurt, and she felt the bumps and hesitations of the knits and purls of one of those odd rows pulling out all the way to the backs of her eyes.
Who names their cat Carnac?