The Operator

“I know that, Michael, but as you’re so fond of pointing out, I need you.”

Michael went up the stairs, and from the top, Bill finally spotted their on-siteman and motioned her to the front desk. It was unlikely that shots would be fired, but if they were, keeping witnesses blind would be an asset.

It was a beautiful morning, the air dry and cold. From the second floor, the wind lifted through his hair, and Bill breathed it in deep, relishing the way it tickled his neck where his shave had gone too close. Steps quiet, they settled before her door. The curtains were drawn, and there was no noise from the room as Michael took up position to the side where the wall would be the thickest. Glock in hand, he knocked.

“Shit,” came a feminine whisper, but no gunshots—meaning she was going for her weapon, not aiming it.

Michael jerked into motion. With one kick, the door was knocked off its hinges. Michael followed it in, Bill proud of him as he went without fear, without hesitation. “Don’t move!” Michael shouted, his loud voice brooking no disobedience.

He loved watching Michael work. Bill confidently entered the small, dumpy hotel room. Smiling, he moved out of the window and to the corner. Harmony stood as if frozen beside the made bed, powdered sugar on her front and fingers. There were two cups of coffee on the dresser, both of them steaming. Bill’s smile fell.

“Bathroom!” he hissed as he pulled his weapon. “Check the bathroom!”

But he almost choked when Jack rolled out, his weapon pulled.

“Jack!” Michael exclaimed, starting to laugh. “This just keeps getting better.”

Bill’s aim never wavered from the lanky man in his rumpled suit. Jack had said no to him too many times. He was here on his own agenda, not Bill’s. Knowing death crouched behind the mattress, Bill didn’t move, staying where he was in the open, and said the only thing that would keep Jack thinking he was safe, the only thing that would keep Jack from firing at him. Michael might not bring him back.

“Very good, Jack, but you brought me the wrong girl. Where’s Peri?”

Harmony’s mouth dropped open. Outraged and thinking she’d been betrayed, she turned. “You son of a bitch!”

Make the smart move, Jack, Bill thought, and then Jack relaxed, his aim falling from Bill.

“Sorry, Bill,” the man said, gun pointing to the floor. “Peri turned rabbit. I got her newest best friend, though.”

With a cry of rage, Harmony launched herself at Jack.

Bill hit the floor, rolling into thin cover as Jack howled in pain and Harmony in rage. “Michael, get down!” he shouted, but it was too late as Harmony wrestled Jack’s gun away, and, that fast, shot Michael in the chest.

The pop sounded ridiculously small for the damage it did. Michael fell. Gun in hand, Harmony bolted for the door. Bill let her go, crawling to Michael as five more shots rang out.

“You stupid fool,” Bill muttered, his hands bloodied as he turned Michael over, praying he was still alive. “Don’t you die on me.”

From the lot came an apologetic “Sean got her! Sorry. She’s, ah, dead.”

Michael made a weird, choking laugh, bloody froth at his lips. Bill pulled him up, his hands stained, warm and sticky. “Draft, Michael. I need you alive.”

“Bill!” Jack hovered close, shoving hotel towels at him to try to stanch the bleeding. “I was bringing Peri in, but I had to draw WEFT away, and I lost her.”

Bill said nothing, pressing towels into Michael, waiting for the bastard to draft. Jack was making this up as he went along, lying to him. What was it with his people turning on him? Had he ever been unfair or dishonest in his requirements?

“Say it,” Michael demanded, his face pale under his dark hair and blood. “I want to hear you say it.”

The towels soaked up the blood, making Bill’s hands sticky. “Say what? Pretty please?”

“Say . . . you need me,” he gasped, his long hands gripping Bill’s over his shattered chest. The team was gathering at the door now, and if Michael was going to draft, it would be soon.

“I need you?” Bill said. “Of course I need you, you little pissant!”

“Just making sure you knew it,” he said, and then Bill clutched at him, vertigo taking him as his mind disconnected from the present.

More like rubbing my nose in it, Bill thought as his balance reset. His grip on his Glock tightened, and he found himself standing outside the motel’s door. Fifty seconds, he estimated. Peri’s best was forty-five. But her reach was almost a half mile and Michael’s was limited at hardly a block.

“Take Jack down, but do not kill him. Do you understand me, Michael? I want him alive!” he hissed at Michael beside him.

“If you touch my mind, I’ll fucking kill you,” Michael said, his eyes mere slits. Teeth clenched, he slammed his foot into the door. Harmony shrieked as Michael stormed in. She screamed again at the sudden pop of Michael’s weapon.

Frowning, Bill lurched through the door, glad to find Harmony alive and clutching her arm. Sloppy. Michael was getting sloppy. This shouldn’t have needed a draft. “Jack!” he shouted at the closed bathroom door, knowing the anchor would remember the past they were rewriting. “She’s down. Come on out.”

Harmony’s face went livid as the lie took hold anew and she believed Jack had betrayed her. It was sweet irony it was really the other way around—and she’d never know.

Michael stood over Harmony, his Glock pointed down at her. “I hear you’re on unpaid leave from the CIA. Doing a little Dirty Harry with Jack to bring me in? There’s a good idea,” he said, and Bill winced, jolted into motion when his foot thumped into her.