The Drafter

“Dragon lady,” the tech whispered. Face reddening, Matt shoved off the counter to send his rolling chair to the front of the van.

The driver hammered again, and Matt punched in the code to unlock the door. 31415. Pi, Silas thought, moving Matt’s pad to the duffel bag and hiding it under the sweats. How original.

The door swung open, and Silas breathed in the cold fresh air coming off the river in relief. Diamond- and ruby-strewn, Fran stepped up and in, her six-inch heels making her more formidable than usual. A white fur shawl was draped over her shoulders and she reeked of perfume. “Stay,” she said, pushing her driver back onto the pavement with a white-gloved hand before shutting the door behind her. “I have five minutes. Impress me.”

“Mrs. Jacquard, come in!” Matt said, already standing and shoving his rolling chair out of the way. “Welcome to Reed recovery central. Completely mobile, and ready to go.”

And as conspicuous as a dog in a cat show, Silas mused. Wrapping the surveillance van in a furniture logo only worked during business hours. Even here at the docks, the homeless had been avoiding them.

Fran’s nose wrinkled. “Why are we still using these? Couldn’t we have gotten you a real trailer?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Matt lurched backward as she came deeper into the van. Silas got to his feet, impelled by ingrained manners, not respect. “But I know where everything is,” Matt added. “All the information feeds into here, and from here, I can direct everyone’s movement.”

Eyebrows high, Fran looked at Silas, chuckling at his obvious annoyance. “Right.”

“A small ship turns fast,” Matt tried again, starting to sweat.

And it sinks faster, too, Silas thought, sitting down before Fran could take the chair.

“It has an air conditioner, doesn’t it?” she said, looking around. “Turn it on. And straighten your tie. We pay you enough to look better than a university reprobate.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Matt fumbled his way to the front and Silas pushed his cuticles back, ignoring Fran. He didn’t like her. He didn’t like Detroit. There was too much steel, in the people as well as the streets. The new layer of green wasn’t fooling him. Detroit was a hard, unforgiving mistress.

“So how is our man?” Fran asked, her voice dry as she realized that the only other place to sit was Matt’s rolling chair, sticky with electrical tape.

“Ahh …” Flustered, Matt finished tightening his tie and reached for a printout. “He’s fair with a gun, okay with hand-to-hand simply due to his size.” He chuckled in dismay and shook his head. “Good with electronics, though. Mrs. Jacquard, I’ve got better—”

Matt jumped when Fran snatched the printout, then gasped when she dropped it into the shredder.

“I meant,” she said as it roared into silence, “does he have his equipment? Is he ready to go? Reed is meeting Bill at that drafter bar in less than six hours.”

Silas loosened his tie and slouched in his chair—daring her to say anything.

“Ah, no,” Matt said, eyes flicking between them. “He keeps taking my equipment out of his duffel.”

“I’m so surprised,” Fran mused, clearly not, and Silas grinned insincerely at her.

“My way, or no way,” Silas said. “You said it yourself.”

“I most certainly did not.”

Silas closed his eyes. “I distinctly remember you saying I was the only one smart enough to see the extent of the damage and fluid enough to adapt a program to fix it.” Eyes opening, he sat up. “I’m adapting and fixing. Get them out of my way.”

“Mrs. Jacquard,” Matt said, clearly upset. “I’ve got six other agents more than able.”

“Oh yes. Put them on notice,” Fran said, her perfume finally overpowering the BO as she got angry. “But Dr. Denier goes in first. His charms are not ones that you can put on paper.”

Matt hesitated. “Wait,” he said, looking at Silas in a new way. “Doctor Denier?” Silas slumped again. “Denier, who invented slick-suits? Who pioneered memory cushions and talismans? How anchors rebuild memories?”

Silas exhaled, wanting to get out of the van. “It’s not that hard when you are one.”

“Shit, man!” Matt lurched close, flushed. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to make up for it,” he muttered. “Fran.” He sat up, uncomfortable as Matt began to all but giggle, lurching about and … tidying? “This isn’t going to work.”

“Why not?” She shifted out of Matt’s way as he threw out a bag of chips. “Matt is extremely proficient on paper.”

“This wouldn’t work even if I were a real agent,” Silas protested.

“And you aren’t!” Matt chimed in enthusiastically. “Damn. Dr. Denier in my van.”

Silas scrubbed a hand over his face. “I can’t walk in there, take out Jack, subdue her, and expect to get any information. She is a soldier, Fran. She kills people.”

Fran looked at her diamond-encrusted watch and frowned. “She only kills those who kill her first. And you’ll have help. An old friend of yours.”

Friend? Silas stood, hands clenched as he made an educated guess as to who that was. “I can’t do this your way.”

Lips pressed, Fran clicked her way to him, being careful not to touch anything. “You will,” she said, eye to eye with him in her high heels. “All you have to do is find out if she has the info or not. Matt’s people will bring Jack and her down. You don’t even have to be there for the actual … reacquirement.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">