The Operator

A hum pulled his attention up, the streetlight catching a glint of shiny plastic. Bill reached for the radio. “I said all drones on the ground. Minimal presence. Minimal!”

“It’s not ours,” an anonymous voice came back, and Bill frowned at the carrier logo.

“She doesn’t know that,” he growled. “It’s after sunset. Bring it down.”

“Yes, sir.”

“For Christ’s sake, Bill. I’m not done yet,” Jen complained, and Latisha grinned, gum snapping as the blond woman hustled to finish her calculations. Bill leaned forward, watching the black silhouette against the lighter darkness, satisfied when an almost subliminal pulse flickered over the van’s electronics and the drone dropped like a rock. From the back, Jen sighed, her motions slow as she restarted her tablet and began her calculations again, the tactical EMP flick having taken out her glass-based technology as well.

A high-Q drone wouldn’t have gone down, and satisfied it was a carrier—illegal on the streets after dark—and not local security disguised as one, Bill settled back into the seat. His three-piece suit kept him from feeling the cold coming in Latisha’s open window, but he leaned to turn the van’s heat warmer when Jen pulled her light jacket tighter about herself. Her silk blouse was untucked, and a thin strip had been ripped from the bottom, now fixed and fluttering from one of the nearby trees to give Latisha an indication of the wind.

Sending a drafter to down another drafter was chancy, but this, too, was an evaluation. Latisha would dart Peri when Bill had the proof to back up what he already knew: Peri was the more effective agent despite Michael’s considerable drive and skill. The antidrafting portion of the drug would take effect immediately, but the sedative needed time to work. Michael would keep her occupied until it did.

Uncomfortable, Bill shifted his bulk. The seat was too small for him and his lip curled at the ugly vinyl. He’d be concerned if he wasn’t already confident of the outcome. Peri was a bitch and difficult to work with, but Michael still had his own agenda, not yet tempered or tamed. Even with the safeguards that Opti’s chemists had built into their latest miracle—currently sitting in Jen’s med pack—he didn’t trust Michael with it. Bill knew how to manipulate Peri—hell, he’d given her most of her hangups and coping techniques. Michael . . . not so much.

“Thank you,” Jen said, having noticed the new warmth, and Latisha frowned, anxious for her ammo. It was late, and the cold wind funneled between the buildings kept the dog walker’s head down and his pace fast. The coffee shop was empty but for Peri and Ron. A thrill spilled through him. Waiting was the second-best part. Seeing Peri’s face when she realized she was in his stable again would be the first. No one left him. Ever. She’d thank him someday.

“Ron is out,” Latisha said softly, her low voice filling the van. Her rifle was cradled in her thin hands, scarred thumb caressing it through the holes in her gloves. “Jen, I need those darts.”

“Hang on,” she said tersely. “I’m guessing at how much adrenaline will dilute it, and it’s not exact. I’ll make up a half-dose dart to follow it with in case the first isn’t enough, all right?”

“Holy shit,” Latisha swore, jerking Bill’s attention up. “Look at the size of that coffee.”

Vinyl creaked as Bill leaned forward, his eyebrows rising when he spotted the dark shadow picking his way down the walk to where Michael waited. It was a venti, and if the man couldn’t hold his bladder the next half hour, Bill would shoot Ron himself.

Jen pushed forward between him and Latisha, her light perfume spilling over him. “Are you kidding?” she whispered, her shirt hanging open. “He can’t possibly handle all that.”

“Can’t blame a person for trying,” Latisha said, smiling wickedly as her gaze rose from behind Jen’s shirt.

Bill’s breath hesitated as his thoughts realigned and the question of why the onetime Olympic sharpshooter would never agree to drinks with him was answered. Then he smiled back. It was hard to find fault with someone who liked the same things he did.

His expression slowly relaxed when he realized Ron was coming their way. Fingers made thick from hand-to-hand, he reached for the radio. “Michael? Talk to me.”

The circuit popped open. “The useless son of a bitch used his phone to pay for it,” Michael said, his anger obvious. “You take him. He’s yours. I’m doing this alone.”

“He used his phone?” Jen exclaimed, and Latisha leaned to open the side door as Ron approached. “You can’t muddle p-cash.”

“Maybe if you wouldn’t keep insulting my best anchors, you’d have a good one!” Bill barked, then caught his temper. Rubbing his forehead, Bill searched for strength. Drafters were prima donnas. They tended to shut down if you yelled at them.

Cold air shifted his short hair as Ron lurched in, the electronics-laden van barely rocking. “You used p-cash?” Jen demanded, and the man hesitated, eyes wide in alarm.

“It’s fifteen dollars a cup! No one told me to carry that much cash.”

Bill’s shoulders tensed. Ron was Michael’s third anchor in two months. He’d known he wouldn’t last long since Michael preferred his anchors curvaceous and willing to extend their working relationship to the bedroom, but he’d been hoping to get at least one task out of him.

“This is intolerable,” Michael said coldly over the radio, unaware or, more likely, not caring that Ron might hear. “I’m beginning to wonder if you secretly want her to escape, Bill.”