The Drafter (10 page)

Peri sank back into the cushions, remembering the horrific newscasts coming out of the tip of Africa. They had called it the White Plague, and it had been little more than organized murder. No wonder Nina wouldn't talk about it.

My God. This is real
. “What were we really doing at Global Genetics?” she whispered, and he folded up the list.

“Getting this, but I didn't want you to know. Bill threatened to take you away from me if I—we—didn't do a few jobs for him. It's gotten out of control. We have to run.”

Her head came up as she started to think again. They couldn't run. The same patterns that kept her sane would make her easy to find. Besides, Opti had the backing of the U.S. government, and they had no proof tying the corruption to Bill. It was his word against theirs. “We have to do something with this.”

“You mean give it to someone?” He flung a hand into the air. “Who? You think Bill could do this on his own? He's a cog. Someone else is pulling his strings, and if we take it to the wrong person, we're dead.” His head drooped. “We might be dead anyway. Or I might be. They'll always need you.”

A new fear slid through her. She was reasonably safe. Rare. One in a hundred thousand. Jack, though . . . She stifled a shudder as she remembered Bill threatening him. But it all made sense now, and her lingering distrust of Jack vanished: his pensive mood, the conversation with Bill he hadn't discussed with her, her gut telling her that something was wrong. She stood, frustration replacing her panic. Their only option was to find the root of the corruption themselves. But if they blew the whistle too soon, she'd lose everything. Everyone in Opti knew how to smother the guilt of a cold-blooded killing. That it might
be one of their own wouldn't slow them down at all.
Did Nina really facilitate genocide? For money?

“I can't lose you,” Jack whispered, and she blanched at his heartache. “I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. I should have told you right from the start.”

“Yes, you should have.” Her brow furrowed. “Running is out,” she said, knowing it would be futile. “Bill thinks I'm in the dark, right? Let's do a few of his jobs.”

“You'd do an illegal task?” Jack said, and she searched his face.

“It will be our cover as we figure out how far this Opti corruption really goes,” she said, heart pounding. Running would be a fast death; staying and ferreting out the depth of Opti's sickness would be a long game of cat-and-mouse. Same ending most times, but occasionally the mouse got away. “Once we know who's running it, we can go to the alliance.”

“The alliance!” Jack's expression held a moment of shocked fear, and then it was gone. It hit Peri like a slap and she fumbled, trying to figure it out.

“They can give us protection if nothing else,” she said, and Jack violently shook his head and pulled from her grip.

“Peri, the alliance is nothing but a vigilante group trying to wipe Opti out of existence. Good and bad. Everything. We can't trust them.”

Fear. He was afraid, and Jack was afraid of nothing. “They're made up of drafters and anchors themselves,” she said, suddenly unsure. “They won't turn us in, and they won't tell the world about us or they'll end up as science projects as well. Jack, they'll help us root out the corruption if we give them the proof. It's all we have.”

Brow furrowed, Jack looked at the kitchen. It was where he stashed most of his firearms, but they couldn't fight their way free, and he knew it. “Opti knows everything. They'll find out.”

Frustrated, she bit her lip. “Then we minimize. You said there was a chip. You didn't give it to Bill, did you?”

“No, of course not,” he said as he teased a tiny, pinky-nail-size chip from his wallet.

Her hiding things was a bad idea, but his keeping it in his wallet was even worse. Peri crossed the room to her knitting bag, feeling like this whole unfolding mess was somehow surreal. It was as good a place as any, better than most, because if she forgot, she'd eventually find it. As for the list itself? She could knit herself a message tonight in the tail end of the scarf like a modern-day Madame Defarge.

Needles clicking, she found the blue size 8. It was fairly large, and it was unlikely she'd lose it since a half-knitted scarf resided on the second needle of the pair. Fingers shaking, she wedged the cap off the blunt end and dropped the chip in. Unhappy, she gave it a shake until it wedged itself and was unmoving.

“There.” She recapped the needle and dropped it back into the bag. “Hard copy?”

Jack said nothing as she reached for the lighter beside her candles, the quick whoosh of fluid igniting the only sound as she lit the scrap of paper and let it burn in his empty wineglass. The ribbon of smoke was sharp, the scent reminding her of the single memory she had of the last six weeks: her in Jack's arms as they connected with the universe beside a fire gone to coals.

Miserable, Peri sat on the edge of the couch, her elbows on her knees and her head hanging as she realized how deep in the crapper they were. Jack drew her close, holding her sideways as he took a sip from her wineglass and passed it to her.

Fingers shaking, she drank the last swallow and set the glass down with a clink. It was as if she could feel her world realign as the enormity of what they were up against became real. They'd have to play a very dangerous game, and there was no one they could trust but each other.

“I'm so sorry. This isn't what I wanted to happen,” Jack said, and she saw the heartache in his eyes, his guilt that he hadn't told her sooner.

Her hand rose to touch his face, needing to reassure him. “We'll get through it together,” she said, tilting her chin to find his lips with her own. They met with a soft passion that flashed hot, and need arced through her, more potent because of the danger they'd have to survive. His hands tightened on her, but he pulled away first, even as she reached for more.

A heady emotion flickered over his face, reassuring her that they could do anything together. “We find the key players?” he said, and she nodded. They'd plumb the depths and find out how far the corruption went—or die trying.

And if all else failed—she was a damned special ops agent. She knew how to lie.

“T
he mic is at the thick end, see?” Matt said, his fraternity ring glinting on his chubby finger as he held the pliable wire out. Silas took it, slumping in the folding chair at the stupidity of it all. The SWAT-size van smelled like his first college apartment, and the snap of ozone, electronics, and locker-room BO curled his lips. He felt cramped even sitting in the oversize aisle, and the faint but insistent electronic whine of the floor-to-ceiling surveillance equipment went right through his head.

It didn't help that he was mentally exhausted after an afternoon of putting his life on a shelf for who knew how long. Despite everyone's belief that it was a three-hour job, Silas knew better. Acquiring her might take one night, but to bring her back successfully would take longer.

“On its own, it has a reach of about four feet,” Matt was saying, and Silas tuned out the slightly overweight tech geek, almost embarrassed at his enthusiasm. “That's why you need the phone, see? Just coil it up in a pocket out of sight, and the phone will boost it to me.”

Just kill me now
. Silas's gaze slid to the white slab of plastic beside the duffel they'd prepped for him, the oversize phone looking out-of-date and clunky. “All the way out here to your van?” Silas said, but Matt didn't recognize his sarcasm. The tech's tie was loose about his neck,
and the black pants and white shirt screamed off-the-rack. His index fingernail was notched to snap nicotine caps.

“It's mostly one-way, but if we have something need-to-know, we'll text. No wires behind your ears to give you away. Nice, huh?”

Silas sighed. His fingers were too big to hit the phone's tiny buttons. Texting would be a pain in the ass. “Can I use my phone?” he asked, and the curly-haired tech started, aghast.

“No!” he blurted, as if Silas was being stupid. “It's not just a phone. It's full of stuff you need! God! Why do they keep sending me newbies?”

Silas rubbed his aching head as he imagined what Matt had wedged into the tiny bit of outdated electronics. Tracker, certainly, addresses for safe houses, contact numbers, and apps to find the nearest coffee shop. But it was too small for him to use, and if he tried, she'd realize he was something he wasn't. Besides, his phone was glass, the technology light-years ahead of what the alliance had.

“Keep it,” he said, and Matt fell back into his rolling chair, vexed. “I'm not wearing a wire.”

Matt filled the silence with downing his Dew, making it into a show of frustration and disdain. “It would be better if you wore it. Sir.”

“Why don't you just hang a sign around my neck saying
ABDUCTOR
?” Silas said, his voice growing louder. “You don't think she's going to see the buttons are too small for me to work? She is a finely tuned piece of paranoid intuition.”

“Only because we made her that way,” Matt said, and Silas leaned in, shoving the wire into Matt's front shirt pocket.

“Then maybe I don't want you hearing what I have to say. Everything you've given me is old tech and no-name brands. No one buys this stuff because it's military crap. I'll stick out.”

Expression dark, Matt pulled the wire out and dropped it into Silas's open duffel. “That imported coat of yours will stick out worse. And the wire doesn't need to be showing,” he added angrily. “It's designed to coil up in a pocket. That's why you need the booster.”

Impatient, Silas glanced at his watch. It was almost six. He'd been here an hour, and his first impression that they were going to get her killed hadn't changed. “I didn't say she'd see it,” he said, scanning the
van for anything useful. “I said it would give me away. If I need you, I'll call. On my phone. You have the number, right?”

“Yeah, I got your number,” Matt said sullenly, then sucked down another gulp of caffeine and sugar as he eyed Silas's coat, carefully folded over the back of his chair.

Silas pulled the duffel closer and threw the coiled wire up into the driver's seat. Pushing past the military gray sweats, he took out the tasteless, no-name running shoes.
Like I'm going to run anywhere?
The clink of medical vials drew his attention, and anger simmered as he recognized the heavy drugs. My God, they were butchers.

“You can keep these, too,” he said, dropping the vials on the counter in disgust.

Matt shifted his rolling chair back and forth in agitation. “How will you know she's got the information if you don't do a defrag?”

He didn't want to get into her brain, afraid he might find himself there. “Maybe I can just ask her?” he said, ready to walk away. If they didn't give him the freedom to do this right, it wasn't going to work. “I can use this, though,” he said, leaning to take the slick touchpad hidden under a coffee-stained cup. It wasn't glass, but he was betting it had this year's operating system.

“Hey! That's mine!” Matt protested, and Silas flipped it open, his eyebrows rising in pleasure.
All the right apps in all the right places
.

“So it's not going to be bugged, then, is it?” Silas tucked it behind his coat. It was scratched enough to be real, and if it belonged to Matt, it would have everything he'd need.

“Give it back,” Matt demanded, afraid to force the issue.

“Soon as I'm done with it.” From outside, a car door slammed, then another. The flickering vid screen at the front showed a long black car and a tall woman in formal cocktail dress striding forward, flanked by her driver. Beyond the car was the river and one of Detroit's casinos, looking dead in the low sun. “Someone's at the door,” he said, and Matt spun at the sudden hammering.

“Dragon lady,” the tech whispered. Face reddening, Matt shoved off the counter to send his rolling chair to the front of the van.

The driver hammered again, and Matt punched in the code to
unlock the door.
31415. Pi
, Silas thought, moving Matt's pad to the duffel bag and hiding it under the sweats.
How original
.

The door swung open, and Silas breathed in the cold fresh air coming off the river in relief. Diamond- and ruby-strewn, Fran stepped up and in, her six-inch heels making her more formidable than usual. A white fur shawl was draped over her shoulders and she reeked of perfume. “Stay,” she said, pushing her driver back onto the pavement with a white-gloved hand before shutting the door behind her. “I have five minutes. Impress me.”

“Mrs. Jacquard, come in!” Matt said, already standing and shoving his rolling chair out of the way. “Welcome to Reed recovery central. Completely mobile, and ready to go.”

And as conspicuous as a dog in a cat show
, Silas mused. Wrapping the surveillance van in a furniture logo only worked during business hours. Even here at the docks, the homeless had been avoiding them.

Fran's nose wrinkled. “Why are we still using these? Couldn't we have gotten you a real trailer?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Matt lurched backward as she came deeper into the van. Silas got to his feet, impelled by ingrained manners, not respect. “But I know where everything is,” Matt added. “All the information feeds into here, and from here, I can direct everyone's movement.”

Eyebrows high, Fran looked at Silas, chuckling at his obvious annoyance. “Right.”

“A small ship turns fast,” Matt tried again, starting to sweat.

And it sinks faster, too
, Silas thought, sitting down before Fran could take the chair.

“It has an air conditioner, doesn't it?” she said, looking around. “Turn it on. And straighten your tie. We pay you enough to look better than a university reprobate.”