The Drafter

“In which case she will be so adrenaline-soaked that retrieving anything will be impossible,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice. “You don’t understand. This isn’t something you can go into with both barrels blazing. It has to be subtle.”

Again she looked at her watch. “So we hit her with 741 MHz. Or Amneoset. Or any other of the wonderful drugs you helped pioneer to stop her from drafting.”

Frustrated, he forced his hands to unclench. “It’s not the drafting I’m worried about. If there’s too much going on in her head, if she’s not relaxed and comfortable, there’s no way to retrieve hidden memories. None. I can’t do it your way and expect any results.”

Fran stared at him, the hunched figure of Matt behind her. “Make it work,” she said. Turning, she looked Matt up and down, gaze lingering on the burrito stain on his middle. “Get him suited up. Now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Bloody fantastic,” she muttered, looking at her watch once more. “Now I’m late for the symphony. Matt, keep me posted.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Matt called as the van shifted with her leaving and the door snapped shut.

Silas fell back into his chair, hand scrubbing at the faint bristle on his cheeks. This was going to kill her. Drive her mad. There were too many variables to plan this. It had to be done subtly, by feel, by one person, not a team that tripped her into fight or flight. She was going to fight him all the way regardless, but he’d rather have the battle in her mind than a physical one. He’d lose the latter, but in the former he had a chance. A good chance.

“You want her or not? This is all we have,” Matt said, and he looked up, startled at the man’s empty expression.

“No. It isn’t,” Silas said, coming to a decision. “I’m sorry about this.”

“Sorry about wha—hey!” Matt exclaimed, backpedaling.

But it was too late, and Silas’s chair fell over, clattering into the back of the van as he sprang at Matt, fisted hand swinging forward with the force of a train.

He hit him with everything he had, all his anger, frustration, and fear focused into six inches of bone. Matt’s head snapped back, and he fell, out cold even as Silas shook his hand out, not even bruised.

“For that,” he said, pulse fast. Silas snatched up the duffel, stuffing it with equipment he wanted from the shelves and cubbies. Finished, he threw it out of the van, tossing his coat to land on top of it. The sun was setting, and he took a moment at the door to breathe in the cold, snow-tinged air. Low-Q drones, barely visible in the dusk, skimmed up and down the river, their only legal pathway now that the sun was down. There was a chance that Fran would simply proceed without him. But the longer he gazed at the river, the wider his smile became. Maybe he could learn to like Detroit.

Breath held against the smell, he ducked back inside for a last check before he sank the van.

He needed to get her alone was all, away from Jack Twill in such a way that she didn’t freak out. It would be nigh impossible due to the heavy conditioning against being alone that Opti had instilled in her. It would have to be her idea; she’d have to be the one in control. But if he could get her alone and comfortable, five minutes with the right drugs ought to do it.

“But not these,” he said, looking again at what he’d taken out of his duffel. Angry, he yanked open the med drawers, riffling through until he found what he wanted. Something softer, something she was used to.

Vials clattering in his grip, he slammed the drawers shut, the memory of how sensitive she was lifting through him. His shoulders slumped, and then he hardened. Shifting the van into neutral, he shoved the vials in his pocket, then grabbed Matt’s arms and dragged him thumping down the back step to land against the duffel. It was a job. That was all.

Matt moaned and sat up, holding his head. “What are you doing?” he asked when he realized he was sitting on pavement.

Feeling a new sense of purpose in the chill evening, Silas went to the back of the van. He put his shoulder to it, and pushed.

“Hey! Stop!” Matt staggered to his feet and looked at the nearby river. “Dr. Denier, what are you doing?”

With a groan of success, Silas got the van moving, creeping slowly and pebbles popping from under its wheels. “No!” Matt shouted, running after it and trying to pull it to a halt. Silas’s smile widened as the van hit the water, slowing but not stopping as it crept deeper.

“Are you crazy!” Matt shouted as he stood at the edge of the water and shook. “Everything we need is in there!”

Silas put on his coat and went to stand beside him, satisfied as the van stopped in four feet of water. Clapping him across the shoulder, he said, “I’m not.”

Matt turned to him, aghast.

“Tell Fran that I’ll get the information.” Silas swung his duffel up over his shoulder like a backpack. “I need at least three days to learn her state of mind and come up with an idea. If I see Fran or one of her stooges, I’ll spook Peri myself and she’ll never get anything.”

“B-but my van …,” Matt stammered, lost.

Silas smiled. “I need three days,” he said, then turned and walked away. Matt was already on his phone, but by the time they got the van out and dried up, Silas would have something to placate Fran with.

He’d get Peri back, and he’d do it his way, so she might survive it. But even as he strode forward, Matt’s curses and threats growing faint, a worry wedged itself between his thought and his reason. 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">