The Drafter (40 page)

“I hate computerized cars,” Tony was saying. “Better call it in and get a new van out—hey!” he managed to yell before she was on him. He lurched backward, avoiding her front kick.

Tony's eyes went bright in recognition, eager as he came at her. She blocked, pain racing to her spine. She grabbed the next blow, spinning around and getting behind him to yank his footing out from under him
with a swift kick to his knee. He went down laughing, which was just insulting, and she forced him to stay there, tugging his arm up behind his back until he stopped.

“Ow! Reed,” he said, his nose bleeding from the fall and Opti pin catching the street light. “You are so caught.”

“Say good night, Tony.”

He yelped when she jammed her second syringe in his ass, but she had his arm twisted, and he gave up fast. She sat on him a little longer to be sure, the van's bulk and the shadows hiding them. Exhaling, she stood and rolled him under the van and out of sight. Turning, she waved at Taf and Howard before she gentled the hood down and crossed the street. Jack was waiting for her at the entrance, and she scooped up Chuck's hat in passing, putting an extra sassy sway to her hips as she put it on her head in case Opti had tied into the building's facial recognition cameras.

“Nice of you to give me room to work,” Peri said, and Jack inclined his head.

“Nice to see you can do something on your own,” he said back, and she strode in, head down as she cleared the front door.

The enormous rock and silk flower arrangement by the entryway hadn't changed, and Peri shoved the four-foot-high vase over, snatching up her spare apartment card even before the heavy plaster hit the floor.
That was easy
.

The man behind the concierge's desk looked up at the crash.
This might be harder
.

“Reed is in the building,” he said into his two-way, telling Peri no one knew yet that Howard was up in Suite 606. Smiling, she tucked her card down her blouse. “No closer, Reed,” he said, dart gun pointed at her, and she threw Chuck's hat at him.

His eyes shifted and she dove to get below the angle of the desk. Her air huffed out as she hit the wall of the desk—

And suddenly—she wasn't pressed against the desk, but standing over him, three feet from where she'd landed and in the middle of the lobby.

Shocked, Peri looked down at the unconscious man, not knowing
how he'd gotten that way or how she'd moved across the room. The dart gun was in her hand. An empty syringe was jammed into his leg.
Damn it! I've drafted!

Scared, she smacked her hand against her boot sheath to find her knife still there. Then she looked at her palm for a note she hadn't written, her fingers closing into a fist as she listened to the silence and waited for the nightmare to begin. Her heart pounded.
Nothing
. Slowly her fist opened as she exhaled. She was okay. Silas's patch job had held through a draft—this time. “Jack?” she breathed, anxious for an answer. Her head hurt as if someone had yanked on her hair. Strands of it were drifting to the floor.

Gasping, she fell into a defensive crouch when Jack stood up from behind the desk. “You drafted,” he said, grim-faced. “Move. It doesn't matter if you don't remember.”

“How long?” she whispered, grabbing the heels of the Opti agent and dragging him behind the desk.

Jack looked down at him and shrugged. “Hell, babe. I don't know. You didn't lose more than the draft, though. Thirty seconds?”

“How about that,” she said, remembering what Allen had said about Opti being able to artificially scrub time from her when she drafted.
Damn it all to hell. It's true
.

A tinny voice calling her name pulled her to the square of black plastic kicked across the floor. It wasn't her original wire, and figuring it belonged to the man she'd just downed, Peri scooped it up as she went for the stairs. “Peri! Are you there?” It was Howard, and a second wash of relief took her.

“I'm fine.” She put her back to the fire door and leaned into the stairwell, listening to Howard babble as she took a quick look up and down the hall. “Howard. Relax,” she said, interrupting him. “I drafted, but I'm okay.” Peri opened the door wider, and Jack went before her, taking the stairs two at a time until he waited at the fire door. “I'm going up now,” she said. “Get Taf and leave. Don't wait for me. I've really pissed them off. I'll see you over the border. Tell Silas I'm sorry and that his patch works.”

“Peri, you can't do this alone. It's too dangerous—”

She didn't have time to convince him. Dropping the radio on the stairway, she stomped it into silence. Feeling his eyes on her through the scope, she went up the stairs and fished out her card key. It seemed stupid—needing a key to get into her own apartment—but she'd had the door reinforced and it would be easier to break a hole in the wall than to knock the door from the frame.

She ran down the hall, tapping her card key and turning the knob in a single fluid motion. There was no sound, and a ribbon of light showed from under the door. Images of a matted maroon carpet flashed in her thoughts. Shoving them aside, she went in.

She froze just inside the door. Lips parted, she stared at the brightly lit, demolished apartment as emotions fought to be recognized. Shock, dismay, heartache . . . anger. It didn't even look like her place. Everything was off the walls, her shelf where she put her talismans empty. Broken furniture and clothes made a pile in the middle of the room. The ceiling had been pulled down to expose the ductwork, and light fixtures dangled from wires to make the glow shine in weird patterns. The blinds had been jerked from the windows and piled in the corner, taking up an astounding amount of space. Blackout film had replaced them—blocking the view in, but not the view out—and Detroit glittered past the bare windows. Just as well she'd told Howard to leave. He'd never know if the lights were on or off.

“Change settings. Warm,” she said softly, but there was no cheerful ding. Peri came in a step. Jack stood before the pile, his head bowed over a shattered picture. Even the plants had been uprooted, the dirt scattered and the vegetation abandoned to wilt and die. They'd destroyed her home, her security, the way she found herself after every draft.

“I'm sorry, babe,” Jack said, and her anger at what they'd done grew heady, strong enough to taste it, sour in the pit of her belly. He had no right to tell her he was sorry. He was why her life was screwed up. But the sliding thump of sound from the bedroom brought her attention around.

“No weapons. They don't know you're here yet.” Jack dropped the picture and lurched after her. “Watch your control. He didn't do this. Don't kill him, Peri.”

“What do you care?” Peri snarled under her breath. Ticked, she shoved the bedroom door open, barely registering the savaged mattress and holes in the walls when she saw the man in a black suit standing before her dresser, holding up one of Jack's shirts as if measuring it for size.

“Hands
off
!” she yelled, launching herself at him.

She got one good front kick in that snapped his head back. She followed him as he fell backward, scoring a fist on his solar plexus. In uncaring rage, she punched him again, and he blocked it. Stinging tingles raced up her arm.

His foot came out, and she fell, her legs swept out from under her. She rolled, narrowly escaping his savage kick, and she kept rolling. Still on the floor, she lashed out, scooting backward and to her feet. With an eager smile, he grabbed her arm and swung her into the wall.

She hit it face-first, the breath knocked out of her as she staggered. His foot slammed into her chest and she slid to the floor.

Unable to breathe, she scuttled into the bathroom. She couldn't see straight, and finally she took in a breath, looking up to see the man leaning against the doorjamb, a hand to his chest and clearly laboring as well. An Opti-issue Glock lay behind him, totally out of reach.

“Reed's here,” he said, panting into an electronic wristband; then he came at her, his hands stretched to grab. If he got a grip on her, she was done.

Shit
. Peri stumbled into the bathroom, grunting as his weight slammed into her and pinned her face to the wall. Cat litter ground under her feet as she flung her head back into him.

He cried out, grip loosening. Peri dropped, her hand reaching for her knife. He followed her down, pinning her neck to the floor with a wide, heavy hand, wedging the knife from her with the other. There was blood on him. She'd broken his nose.

“Peri, do something!” Jack shouted, and she grabbed a handful of cat litter and threw it at the sound of the man's grunting breath.

“Bitch!” he exclaimed, and his hand lifted. Peri dragged herself upright, grasping the lid to the toilet tank and swinging it at him. He was halfway to a stand, and it hit his head with a dull thwap, the weight
of it spinning Peri full-circle to crash into the counter. Her hands went numb and the lid fell from her to break into two pieces. She slipped and went down, stifling a scream when her back hit the tub.

But the man was out cold, his cheek resting on a thin layer of cat litter soaking up the blood from his broken nose. A red lump showed at his hairline. Peri's eyes rose to find Jack. “I didn't like him touching your things,” she said, the absurdity of it making her eyes wide.

Smiling, he held out a hand to help her stand. She lurched up, ignoring it as she took her knife back. Her chest hurt, and not because she'd taken a foot to it. She hated Jack, hated that it felt right with him beside her.

Shaking from adrenaline, Peri shoved her knife away and staggered into the living room. Someone had to have heard that. She had to go. But as she looked at her life in a ten-by-eight-by-four-foot pile, she couldn't focus. “My talismans,” she said, her anger growing as she saw a picture of Jack and herself in a desert, the coals of a fire behind them. She didn't remember it, but she looked happy. All of her memories were broken and lost. “Jack, where's the list? Did they find it?”

“I'm sorry, babe. I didn't know this would happen.”

Frustration spun back into anger, and she rounded on him. “Where is it!” she shouted, her hands in fists as he picked up the silver frame and ran a finger down her pictured face. Tears pricked and she came close, wanting to take it from him but reluctant to break the illusion that he was holding it. For all she knew, the picture might not even exist. “Jack, where's the list?”

He looked up, tears in his eyes. “I don't think it's here.”

Peri's breath came in fast. Had it all been for nothing? “They have it?”

“No.” His gaze traveled over the destruction, clearly pained. “It's just not . . . here.” Then: “You should have left. You waited too long. I'm sorry.”

The sound of the door opening spun her around and Jack vanished. “Silas!” Peri exclaimed as he stumbled through the door. “I can explain.”

Frightened, Silas caught his balance as Bill strode in after him. Peri slid to a halt, only now seeing that Silas's hands were cuffed before him.

“Then he wasn't lying that you're here on your own. Curious,” Bill said, looking menacing in his three-piece suit and expensive shoes, a gun pointed at one of Silas's kidneys. “If you jump, I shoot him in the new draft and he dies. Very fast.”
Bill is an anchor?
It was the only way he'd know if there was a draft or not.

“I shouldn't have left you, Peri,” Silas said, his eyes haunted. “I'm sorry.”

From the hall, Allen's irate voice rose, saying, “Is she down?”

Bill smirked, pushing Silas deeper into the room. “He's afraid of you.”

“Maybe he's the smarter man here,” Peri said as two unremarkable men in suits came in. She prayed that Howard and Taf had left. It had gone wrong, so very wrong.

The prick of a dart striking the back of her neck made her yelp, and she yanked it out, the drug taking hold as a chalky taste covered her tongue. She gripped the dart like a knife, unable to draft now if she wanted to. She turned, seeing the man she'd downed in the bathroom lower his dart gun, blood dripping from his nose as he leaned against the wall.

“Whore,” he breathed raggedly, and Peri backed to the bulletproof windows.

“Now, now,” Bill said jovially. “No need to be nasty. She's doing what we trained her to do. Ready to learn a new trick, Peri?”

Her boots ground on the spilled dirt from her plants. “Shove it up your ass.”

Amused, Bill called loudly, “You can come in now, Allen. She can't draft.”

Hunched awkwardly over a crutch, Allen peered in around the door. “She can still fight.”

“True.” Bill gestured to one of the men.

Adrenaline pounded through her as she spun. But it wasn't enough. The drug spilling through her muscles like honey slowed her, and she gasped, wide-eyed, as the man shoved her face-first to the floor. He knelt on her, and her air huffed out. She was helpless as he pinned her wrist to the floor with one hand and with the other forced her free arm
behind her, wrenching it up until she cried out in pain and went limp. The dart fell to the floor and was kicked away, her knife taken.

Please don't dislocate it, please
, she silently begged, as Silas protested. Her cheek pressed into the clutter, and a book she didn't remember reading was wedged under her shoulder. She clenched her jaw, refusing to let the tears of pain blur her vision. The picture of her and Jack in the desert mocked her. Dagazes decorated the silver frame, and she felt betrayed by the happy expressions in the photograph. They were gone now. Maybe they had never really existed.

“You're hurting her!” Silas exclaimed, and then her other wrist was cuffed to the first.

“Shut up,” Bill said, and then, lightly, “How about it, Allen? You feel safe now?”