The Operator

Pissed, Peri grabbed his hand in a submission hold, bending until he grunted, his eyes flashing open. She had to lean in with all her weight. His wrist had been broken more than once. “Listen to me, old man. Listen real good,” she said when he focused on her in anger. “I don’t do this anymore. Now, I’m going to walk out of here. You can either watch me go or try to find me again, but the first will be cheaper, cleaner, and have the same result as the last. Got it?”

Bill’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she’d seen him angrier than this. She added a twist to his wrist, and pain pulled his expression into a snarl. “You’ll be back, Peri. You are my best. I’ll wait for you, but not forever. You don’t have forever. You’ve only got a week.”

Ticked, she slammed his head against the wall to knock him out. Heart pounding, she stood and looked down at the dancing people. Even now, no one had noticed them. I’m not going to be his weapon. But the chance that she might remember her drafts was irresistible, and after a second of indecision, she leaned under the table, grimacing at the tacky floor as she retrieved the syringes and recapped the Evocane. Taking the blue vial as well, she stuffed it behind her shirt, where it made a cold, hard spot against her middle.

Grabbing her journal, she turned and walked out. “Anchor in a can,” she muttered, the crash of adrenaline making a nauseating slurry. Conflicted, she held her arm to her middle, pressing the vial to herself. A part of her wanted to inject them both that very second. To remember her drafts would free her, make her dependent on no one. But the chance she might be hooked on a maintenance drug for the rest of her life, a slave to whoever held its source, was too great.

Silas, she thought. He could tell her if it was true. If it was safe.

You’ll be back resonated in her mind, and she stifled a shudder, even as she felt the pull.

Never.

CHAPTER FIVE

“I told you to stand down.” Bill’s voice was soft, heavy with irritation as he stood with his back to Michael, his feet in the sun streaming in over his rented office space, hands clasped behind his back as he looked out over Detroit. “You did exactly what I told you not to, and now you have a cracked rib and a possible concussion.”

Michael shifted in the worn chair, trying to find a position that didn’t cause his chest to ache. Bill no longer had a government-funded med wing to send him to, and he wasn’t about to take anything over-the-counter that might interfere with his ability to draft. The heat from his finger wasn’t registering on his phone’s screen, and he pressed harder. “I’m fine,” he muttered, distracted.

“Fine isn’t task-ready,” Bill said caustically. “I told you to give us a shot.”

Tired of Bill’s griping, Michael looked up from deleting old emails. Watching Bill try to be professional was a riot. The large man’s Bronx accent showed when he got pissed, and though he might eat imported chocolate and drink expensive wine, Michael doubted he could tell them apart from Hershey bars and Budweisers. “Have you got a new anchor for me yet?” he asked, allowing a hint of his annoyance to show. Ron had been an insult. Buying a cup of coffee with his phone? If Peri hadn’t killed him, he would have. The low skill level of available anchors said more than the fifth-floor office and reduced resources that Bill was on the skids, trying to make it work and find a way back to his lost power. And for that, he needed drafters.

Bill’s hands clenched, then released as he turned, and Michael hid his smile behind a quick rub under his nose. He could tell it was all Bill could do to not grab his phone out of his hand and throw it across the room. Egging the man on had become Michael’s favorite pastime.

“We’re having trouble finding someone who complements your profile,” Bill said.

Michael continued to delete emails, knowing it would piss off Bill even more. “Translation,” he drawled, stopping himself just before touching his sore nose. “You can’t find anyone with enough balls for the job. You know what? That’s fine. I won’t need one after you accelerate me.”

Striding to his desk, Bill yanked open a low drawer and set a heavy bottle thumping down upon it. “I agree Ron wasn’t optimal, but you have to start trusting your anchor.”

“Please. The man was a joke.” Still focused on his phone, Michael sent out a text to a woman he hadn’t seen in three months. “I don’t want another anchor. I want the accelerator.” Michael’s lips curved down as an old jealousy rose, thick and cloying. “Giving it to her wasn’t the deal.”

“Deal? The deal was it goes to the best,” Bill said, pointing at him with his empty shot glass. Expression twisting, he set the shot glass down and took a swig right from the bottle. “You were off your game, Michael.”

Bullshit. Michael’s eyes narrowed in anger. “You interfered. Darted me. Took me out of the equation. And now you expect me to be all scotch and cigars with you? I’m not buying into this. Give me a reason, or I’m taking a vacation. Right now.”

Bill scrubbed at the bridge of his nose.

“How many drafters you got, Bill?” Michael asked, knowing the few still at large were lying low, like he should be. But he liked it too much. This was who he was, and anything less felt dead.

When Bill looked up, his frustration was safely back in check, but Michael could see it, simmering just under the surface. “I like you, Michael,” he finally said, and Michael stifled a rude snort, knowing “like” had nothing to do with his sitting in Bill’s office. “I’m not going to risk your mental health until I know it’s safe, and you’d better hope to God we get your guinea pig back, or you’ll never be accelerated.”