The Drafter

by Kim Harrison

  “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.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  “The 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 wh
ite-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.”

  “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 i
f 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.”