The Operator

“Bill,” Jack began to protest, and he hung up. The counter dutifully recorded the phone call, then went dark.

“That’s my girl,” Bill muttered as he yanked the dishwasher out from under the counter. Fingers fumbling, he found the handgun taped to the underside of it and checked the clip. “Keep ’em reacting and disoriented.”

Adrenaline jerked through him as the door exploded inward. Bill dropped at the crack of a rifle, the shrapnel from the granite counter cutting his face.

“Stand up, you son of a bitch!” Michael shouted, and Bill sighed.

“Bill?” Susanne’s voice was clear, and Bill stood when she shrieked, just in time to see her flee back into the bedroom and slam the door.

Michael’s attention swung back to him, steadying as he saw the pistol pointed at him. The ambient glow of the city lit them, and Michael chuckled. Bill calmly took the safety off. “She’s lying,” he said simply.

“Like hell she is.” Michael’s voice was just as calm, and it unsettled Bill. “Jack said you had no intention of accelerating me.”

Pushing Michael into a corner would make the man more unpredictable. The pad by the door had stopped flashing, meaning a response was coming. A bead of sweat ran down Bill’s back, and with a deliberate motion, he set the pistol within his reach. It was doubtful that Michael would draft and risk Bill wiping his memory right down to the day of his birth.

“I’ve never lied to you, Michael. Think about it.”

“You’re lying to me right now.” Michael eased deeper into the living room, dangerous—like a lion. “Jack called me. He took her out of WEFT, you son of a bitch. You don’t need me anymore.”

“He called me, too.” Damn, even his feet were sweating, sticking to the tile floor. “Jack didn’t take Peri. Peri took Jack. She’s running rabbit, and she forced him to make that call in exchange for helping him. She’s trying to kill you,” he said, then hesitated in thought. “Or me. She doesn’t really care. Be smart about this, Michael.”

“Bullshit!” Michael shouted.

Not even looking at the rifle pointed at him, Bill showed his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “Think it through, Michael. I have been transparent about the research. You’ve seen the med wing. Hell, you’ve brought in the retired drafters we experimented it on. Once accelerated, a draft will cause a psychotic episode unless you buffer it with Evocane. That’s it. She is trying to kill you,” he said, his disgust thick in his voice. “And you believe her?”

The boom of gunfire jolted both of them. For an instant, Bill thought Michael had shot him, but it was Michael who fell, hands clasped about his knee. Bill’s gaze shot to the front door. A man thick with Kevlar garments rocked in, shouting. It was Bill’s men, not the police, and anger furrowed his brow.

“I won’t forget this,” Michael moaned, teeth clenched.

Furious, Bill strode from the kitchen, arms waving. “Did I tell you to shoot him?” he shouted at the armed men, feeling his face become red. “What the hell are you doing!”

“Sir.” The man fumbled, lights flashing on the walls from the cars outside. “He had a semiautomatic.”

“Get out!” Bill exclaimed, and then he staggered back when Michael’s rifle went off, the solid boom of it rocking the windows. The Kevlar-coated man was flung back, his head hitting the stone wall with a resounding thud. He fell to the floor, out cold but probably alive. The shouts outside became more demanding.

Flat on the floor, Michael grimaced, panting as he pointed the rifle at Bill. One hand clutched at his knee, the other shook on the trigger. “You lied . . . to me,” he gasped.

It was falling apart, and that pissed Bill off. “I said, stay out!” he shouted at the team clustered around the door. “If Michael wanted to kill me, he would have already!”

At least that’s what he told himself as he shoved the fear down and strode brusquely to Michael. Kneeling, he yanked the rifle from Michael’s grasp, tossing it to the blood-splattered couch. He wrapped a kitchen towel around Michael’s knee and sat him up. “I never lied to you,” he muttered as he tried to be as gentle as he could, thinking it was odd—tending to Michael as if he were a baby when the man had just pointed a rifle at him. “I told you she would try to kill you if you threatened her. This is her way of doing it.”

“Accelerate me,” Michael said, panting as he listed sideways. “Now.”

Blood coated his hands, and Bill levered himself up and back to sit on the edge of the cushy chair. A weary chuckle slipped from him, and he waved the guards away with a red-stained hand. “You’re not going to draft to fix this, are you?” he said, thinking it had to be getting close to Michael’s ninety-second ceiling. “It’s your lack of trust that holds you back. And now you’re going to let fear keep you out of the game of bringing her down. Michael, this is why I wanted to accelerate her first, not you.”

“I wouldn’t be weak if you accelerated me!” he shouted, so pale Bill wondered how he wasn’t passing out.

“No, you’d be dead,” he said, reaching out to push Michael upright again.

Michael lurched forward, falling into Bill and sending them both to the floor. Bill took a breath to laugh at Michael’s obstinate temper tantrum, but it exploded from him in a wash of pain. White-hot agony ran down his side, and he hit the floor, staring at the ceiling as his hands clutching his neck were suddenly slippery and warm.