Working Stiff (24 page)

That was the end of it. Bryn retrieved Mr. French from where he’d been snoozing in the corner of a very empty plastic-walled room, and five minutes later they’d negotiated the spy-quality security and were driving out into the sunlight. Mr. French wiggled into the front seat, onto Bryn’s lap, and gave a pointed whine as he put a paw on the door.

“Oh—ah, we need to stop somewhere,” she said. “Time for a walk.”

McCallister was frowning, very inside himself, but that startled him into an even
deeper
frown. He said, “Do you trust me?”

“I hate it when you ask me that, because it means you’re about to do something I won’t like.”

“Bryn.”

“It depends.”

“That’s … not what I was hoping for.”

“Look, could you please just stop the car?”

“Not yet. We have an alibi to establish.”

“Which is …?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

It took fifteen minutes for him to finish his drive and arrive at the destination, and he was entirely right: she didn’t like it.

“Seriously,” she said, as he parked.

“Take Mr. French for a walk. I’ll check us in.”

Bryn opened the door, and Mr. French hopped down and ran, loose skin flapping, for the small, straggly strip of brush and grass at the rear of the parking lot. “Wait!” she called, and hurried after him as McCallister headed in the opposite direction. “Stupid dog.”

Well, it wasn’t exactly his fault; he clearly had needs. So did she, as a matter of fact, and standing out here fidgeting from one foot to the other reminded her of it. Not that she was looking forward to exploring the bathroom facilities of the Hallmark Motor Court Inn, which looked like it had last seen any kind of upgrade in the 1970s. It was faded pink stucco, flat roofed, built in an
L
shape around a parking lot and a fenced-off, trash-filled dry pool that insurance issues had probably long ago rendered useless. There were six cars in the parking lot, mostly beaters, and it didn’t look like a place anyone stayed for more than a couple of hours unless they were seriously down on their luck.

She was starting to get a sense of what McCallister’s alibi would be, and no, she didn’t like it at all.

When she blinked, she had an image of utter darkness, of being trapped in a coffin, like Manny Glickman; of gasping for each trembling breath, knowing that each one was one closer to the end. That would happen to her, too, when she missed a shot. How long would it take for the invisible little machines that kept her breathing to slow, drift, shut down? How long would it take for the toxins to build up and poison her?
God
, how long would she be able to feel it?

Mr. French watered a few dry spots on the ragged lawn, then wandered over to the edge of the building. The wilderness was thicker there, mostly knee-high grass and some very wild-looking shrubs, everything shrouded in shadow by the angle of the sun. Bryn patted her thigh. “Come on, boy. Let’s go.” He ignored her to sniff the concrete, intensely interested in some ghost of a prior dog or cat. “Oh, come
on
! Seriously?”

He waddled farther into the shadows, nosing out scents, peeing where he felt it might be necessary, and then squatting down at a modest distance.

Bryn was peripherally aware of a man coming out of a room a couple of doors down, but her attention was on the dog and her near-bursting bladder; when a shadow came into her peripheral vision she was sure it was McCallister, returning for her.

But it wasn’t.

The shove caught her unprepared, sending her stumbling after Mr. French, and as she twisted to get a look at the man who’d pushed her she realized that she was in deep and immediate trouble. He was big, and his eyes were dead in an immobile, expressionless face. “Cash,” he said. “Give it up, bitch.”

She didn’t have a purse, or anything in her pockets. “I don’t have—”

He hit her, hard, in the face, and the pain exploded into black waves and red stars. Mr. French came charging out of the grass. He latched on to the man’s pant leg, but was kicked away.

Bryn immediately went for her gun.

Too slow. Her attacker grabbed her by the shirt and punched her again, even harder, twice in the face, once with shattering force in the gut. She only managed to jerk her sidearm partway from the holster before he’d slammed her down on the ground, and then twisted, trying to throw him off to get leverage to draw it the rest of the way. No good. He grabbed the gun butt and pulled it free. She struggled with him for it, but the knee in her stomach was making her giddy and weak.

With a final wrench, he got control of the weapon.

She didn’t hesitate; she slammed her fist into his balls as hard as she could, and he flinched, off balance. That let her throw him off, but he held on to the gun.

She could hear Mr. French’s snarls, then a yelp, then more vicious snarling as he went back at her attacker.

The man aimed her own gun at her, and she knew in that second he intended to kill her, and the dog … and then he looked around, backed up, kicked Mr. French out of the way, and ran.

Bryn rolled over slowly to her side. Blood dripped onto the grass in vivid red globes, and when she coughed it sprayed out in a mist. It was all weirdly pretty, and seemed very remote. So did the pain. She was aware it was there, but a chemical firewall had gone up between her and her nerves, and that was a good thing. Very good.

Mr. French suddenly appeared in her field of vision, whining in concern, and licked her face anxiously. She tried to shove him away, but there was no strength in her arms.

“Bryn.” That wasn’t her voice; that was someone else‘s. Oh, it was McCallister, kneeling next to her dog, staring down at her. He didn’t look remote anymore, or cold, or guarded. He seemed worried. “Can you get up?”

“Sure,” she said, and tried. She couldn’t. He pulled her up, and when her legs folded, he lifted her and carried her with Mr. French growling and whining around his feet as he walked. “Shut up, dog. ’M fine.”

“No, you’re not,” McCallister said. “You’ve got a broken cheekbone, your nose is smashed, and that’s just what I can see. Bryn, I left you alone for
one minute
.”

“Not my fault,” she whispered. “Mugged.”

“Why didn’t you use the gun?”

“Tried.” She swallowed a mouthful of blood, which tasted awful. “He took it.”

“He won’t have it for long.” McCallister sounded grim and very sure. “I’m going to have to let you stand for a second. I’ll hold you up.”

“I’m fine,” she said again, as if saying it could make it so. He let her legs swing down, and she concentrated on keeping her knees firm. And holding on, because the first plan wasn’t working so well. McCallister slotted a key attached to a big plastic tag into the door that was facing them, opened it, and carried her inside over the threshold, which struck her as weirdly funny.

When she laughed and coughed, he looked down at her with a frown. “What?”

“Just married.”

“Did he kick you in the head?”

“A little?”

McCallister slammed the door shut and put her on the bed. He probably did it as gently as he could, but all of a sudden, the firewall came crashing down in Bryn’s brain, and the full force of her screaming nerves hit her in a wave. She couldn’t bite back the cry of pain, and McCallister put a soothing, warm hand on her forehead. “Easy,” he said. “Be calm. I’m going to give you a booster shot, but I have to wait. The shots have to be a couple of hours apart. You’ve got enough damage that the last one will burn off quickly”. His fingers stroked her brow, smoothing back her hair, then withdrew. She felt Mr. French’s warm weight drape itself across her legs, and heard him whining in concern. “How bad is the pain?”

She swallowed and lied, like a good soldier. “It’s fine.”

“You really need to look up the definition of that word. Hang on.”

He put a hand on her nose, and pulled. A glassy, hot snap of pain bolted through her head, drawing another cry, and she felt her muscles tense and her back arch. McCallister grabbed her hand and held it as she squeezed. She gasped out, “What—”

“I had to reset your nose so that the nanites could heal it,” he said. “You’ll feel some pain when the bones start healing in your cheek, too. Hold on. I’ll be back.” He disappeared for what seemed like an hour, and returned with a glass of warm water and a thin washcloth, which he wetted and used to wipe the blood from her face in slow, soothing strokes. Her nose was still bleeding, and the rose red blooms spread across the washcloth, but she felt it trickle to a stop.

The pain built up along her cheekbone, like an unanes-thetized root canal boring through bone. She grabbed for his hand again and held on, trembling, as the wave kept rising. It filled her head until she thought it would burst, and then there was that same glassy
pop
of bone shifting, and the pain began to recede. It left her weak and sick.

“Breathe,” McCallister said. “The worst is over. Soft-tissue damage doesn’t hurt as much as it heals.”

“Says you,” she whispered. Her whole midsection felt as if a truck were running over it, crushing and ripping things apart. But he was right; it faded fast. In five minutes, she was breathing easier, and the blood that had been choking her was just a nasty memory.

McCallister took the reddened washcloth back into the bathroom, and Bryn finally felt good enough to try to sit up a little. It was a mixed success. Mr. French watched her with unwavering attention, and if a dog could frown, he was definitely trying out the expression. She couldn’t decide whether he was concerned or annoyed with her initiative.

McCallister, as it turned out, had the identical expression when he came back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Sitting up.” Sort of.

“Don’t. Let the nanites do their job. You’re at least an hour away from the next shot, and the more you move around, the less effective they’ll be as they try to maintain additional activity. Understand?”

She did, but she’d finally gotten the thin motel pillow tucked where she wanted it, and it was more effort to lie flat again. “I‘m—”

“If you say you’re fine again, I swear to God, Bryn, I will drive you back to Pharmadene and dump you on the doorstep as a lost cause.” He didn’t mean it. At least, she didn’t
think
he meant it. “Stay still. Do not open this door for anyone. Understand?”

“Sure,” she said, and finally realized, as he grabbed the doorknob, that he was leaving her. “Where are you going?”

McCallister flashed her one of those rare, unguarded smiles. “I’m going to get your gun back,” he said. “After all, I’m responsible for it.”

She settled back, staring, as the lock clicked shut, then looked at Mr. French. He settled down across her legs, as if he intended to single-handedly hold her down. “How about you, dogface? You okay?”

He licked his chops and put his head down.

She rubbed his fur with trembling fingers, and knew just how he felt.

Bryn didn’t intend to drift off, but she woke to the sharp jab of a needle in her arm. Panic set in. For a second she thought she was back in that place again, that awful moment of screaming back to life. She jerked, but he was fast, and the needle was out of her skin in the next second, and McCallister’s hand was on her chest, holding her still. “You’re safe,” he said. “Booster shot. How are you feeling?”

She felt … well, weirdly enough, she felt
good
. Rested. Revived, if that wasn’t too sick a word to select. “Okay,” she said. “Better.”

“No pain?”

“No.” He took his hand away. Bryn sat up fully, expecting to feel a twinge from her abused abdomen, but the muscles contracted normally, as if she’d never been hurt. She put her hands to her face and felt carefully, but it was just smooth skin, and no bumps or complaining sore spots. Even her nose was straight. “Wow. That’s—”

“Amazing,” he agreed. “You have blood in your hair. You’ll probably want to shower.”

McCallister, she realized, also looked like he could use a rinse, and maybe a long, hot soak…. There was a livid red mark on his left cheek that was going to turn into a dirty bruise before too long, and his hands were bloody at the knuckles. His tie was crooked, his jacket torn at the shoulder and streaked with mud. His pants were filthy, too.

“What happened to you?”

For answer, he reached over and picked up a gun from the bedside table, showed it to her, and put it down again. “I got it back for you.”

Ouch
. “It doesn’t look like he gave it up without a fight.”

He shrugged. “No significant damage.” His lips stretched into a grim smile. “To me, anyway. I’m not as concerned about his welfare.” The smile faded. “I’m sorry I wasn’t backing you up.”

“You’re not my bodyguard, McCallister. I’m supposed to be
your
asset, remember? Not the other way around.”

“I don’t like my assets being damaged without any real benefit.”

“Charming.” She didn’t believe it for a moment, though; she was starting to figure out McCallister, and she thought the man who’d carried her inside and tended to her was more real than the corporate persona. “So, your alibi for Irene Harte is that we’ve sneaked away to a seedy motel for some private busy time?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how stupid that is?”

He smiled again, this time a little more warmly. “You underestimate yourself. Or possibly me. No one at corporate will doubt it.”

“Let me guess. You have a reputation.”

“I’ve taken pains to build it. It gives me the ability to duck out of surveillance without too much notice being taken. You do enough legitimate philandering and no one questions you when you drop off the radar for a few hours with a girl.”

“Wow,” Bryn said. “You really are a man whore.”

“I prefer the term
player
.”