The Operator

Michael opened the door. Peri turned to him, jumping when he shot her with a dart.

“Hey!” she exclaimed, plucking it out and throwing it at him. “Show a little class.”

Grinning, he slipped in behind the wheel, starting the car with an obvious satisfaction. She pulled back in a huff, scrunching into the corner to sulk. One thing was certain in her nebulous plans. Michael wouldn’t survive them.

“You were a good girl,” Michael said, tossing her a candy bar.

It was an insult, but she said nothing, afraid he might take it away, and she was starving. Awkward from the cuffs, she tore the crackling cover off, the tingle of the antidrafting drug in the dart making the chocolate taste funny. The first hints of a headache had joined the faint tremor in her fingers. Withdrawal was coming. A few hours, maybe. That early dose yesterday had shifted her due time. She hadn’t been sure until just now.

Disgusted, Peri put her head against the window. She was going to kill Bill for this. Helen would be a nice second. Michael didn’t know it, but he wouldn’t live out the night, either.

His mood insufferably cheerful, Michael looked both ways before gunning into traffic. It was busy, and she held on to the door and he changed lanes and made a nuisance of himself. “Your girly car is starting to grow on me. Maybe I’ll keep it when you’re dead. Get it repainted.”

Peri wadded up the candy wrapper and swallowed the last bite. “Reeves. Change amplitude thirty down.”

The car made a pleasant ding. She almost could feel the electric blanket running through the car change as, outside, the car shifted from white to a steely gray.

Michael grunted. “Remind me to beat the master code out of you so I can reprogram it.”

Peri gazed listlessly at the entrance to the industrial park in all its bland grandeur. “Michael, honey, you’re not going to survive the next twenty-four hours.”

He chuckled. “I’m not the one slipping into withdrawal.”

Newb, she thought, rubbing a hand under her nose. “I’m not going to die of withdrawal, and you won’t live long enough to have to worry about it.”

Michael glanced at her, then back to the big three-story cube of a building they were aiming for, the landscaping lit up by flood lamps to show stark branches waiting for spring. “You still think you’re going to kill me?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t think you’ll give me the chance.”

“Got that right.”

The sign on the lawn said YEOMON INDUSTRIES. There were three cars in the lot, and Michael pulled into a spot at the outskirts, worried about a possible ding, perhaps. Peri watched Michael check his clip, watched as his game face settled in: a blank nothing holding his tension in check. “We’re just going to go in?” she asked.

He nodded. “I’m not letting you stay in the car like a golden retriever.”

“Good, because I’m not going to.” Even with the cuffs on, she got out before he did. Worried, she looked at the receptionist behind the window of glass. There was only one end here. Feeling ill, she sent her gaze to the cameras focused on the lot and the front door. Helen would be coming, called when someone she had asked to be killed walked in the front door of her research facility. Peri would have to have it done by then, or the woman would take steps to scrub her. Evading that would be a pain in the ass, and she was tired. This is so bad for my asthma.

Michael grabbed her arm, yanking her into step beside him. “Keep your mouth shut,” he said, weapon hidden by his leg as he strode forward to the door. “We are not a team, and I’m not going to draft if you get shot. If you die, it’s your own fault.”

A new feeling of vulnerability slid out from the cracks of her ill-defined plan. “Is that your new mantra?” she asked, hating that she got flippant when she got scared. “If you die, it’s your own fault?”

The door was locked and, ignoring her, Michael tapped on the glass.

Inside, the receptionist hit the intercom. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed. If you’d—” The woman’s eyes widened. She made a gasping scream, ducking as Michael shot the door.

Peri covered her face with her arm, stumbling when Michael dragged her inside. Heart pounding, she watched, disgusted as he leaned over the reception desk.

Again, the gun rang out with two short pops. The woman stopped screaming.

Angry now, Peri stood in the center of the lobby, turning to show the recording camera her cuffed hands. “That wasn’t necessary.”

With a familiar, intent focus, Michael wiped the splattered blood from his face and scanned the monitors behind the desk. “Upstairs. This way.”

Her mind went to the three cars in the lot, three people who wouldn’t make it home this morning. Sure enough, Michael detoured first to the break room, where he shot the security guard in the back as he ran for the alarm. The third person on-site was in a lab coat, and he died in the hall, his soda spilling a fast vanguard to his slowly seeping blood, his sandwich scattered across the floor in a fantastic pattern of lettuce and tomato mixed with the gray and red of his brain.

“You are a one-man killing machine,” she said, convinced Michael liked it too much. “Not a lot of finesse here, though.”

“I’m working, not making art.” Michael dragged her down the hall, her stocking feet sliding as he pulled her past a series of locked glass doors. Behind each one was an empty lab. “There he is,” he said, stopping before the last.