The Operator
Page 47

 
 
CHAPTER

SIXTEEN
Bill hardly noticed the soft bump as the chartered jet touched down. The hard brake the pilot was forced to make was substantial, though, and the med officer behind him gasped as they were nearly flung into the seats ahead of them. The runway was markedly short, originally built for private prop engines and still relying on Boston’s tower for guidance. If they didn’t leave before the approaching winter storm hit, he might have to take a commercial flight home. Or wait until tomorrow, he thought as he unbuckled his belt and began gathering his things. He’d been listening to the crew grumble about the possibility the entire way.
His frown deepened as he faced Michael, out cold in the chair across the aisle, his wrists bound to the armrests to keep them from flopping about. “Wake him,” he said to the med officer, and the quiet man began rummaging in his little tackle box. Bill turned away at the sight of the needle, confident that Michael wouldn’t make much of a stink. Guilt was a wonderful evener.
The jet was still moving, making its casual way to the single low building that housed the minimal security needed at the private landing strip that had once been the destination for Washington’s up-and-coming who could afford the summer retreat. The med officer sat across from Michael and injected him with stimulant, and knowing he’d wake thirsty, Bill gestured for a bottled water before the pilot serving as their flight crew went back to tidy the toilet. “He’ll need a few minutes,” the med officer said as he moved to the back of the plane with his things.
Bill shifted to sit across from Michael, wiping off the moisture from the cold bottle on his slacks as he waited for Michael’s breathing to increase. He had to get Michael to appease her, the little dick squirt. He could be unbelievably charming when he wanted to be, but he’d be a bastard if he thought it would make Bill’s life harder.
He checked his watch, impatient as the jet stopped right beside a waiting black car. Men dressed inappropriately for the weather got out, one taking chucks from the trunk and wedging them behind and before the wheels. “I don’t have a few minutes,” Bill grumbled. His hand went back, and with a grunt of satisfaction, he sent it smacking across Michael’s face.
Michael snorted awake, still groggy as he tried to lift his arms only to find them tied down. “You darted me,” he slurred, and Bill quickly pulled the straps free, stuffing them in his suit’s pocket and out of sight. From the back, the medical officer frowned.
“Mmmm.” Bill handed him the bottled water. “You wouldn’t have come if I had just asked. Don’t worry, you’ll be able to draft as soon as you can stand.”
Eyes unfocused, Michael grasped for the water, unable to manage the top.
“Let me,” Bill said, one thick hand covering Michael’s thinner fingers, snapping the seal.
Michael slammed it, his breath sounding in come-and-go gasps. The door to the plane opened, and a flush of cold air spilled in. It drew Michael’s attention, and his bobbing Adam’s apple slowed. Hands shaking, he lowered the nearly empty bottle. “If you dart me again like that, I’ll kill you.”
“But then you’ll have to draft to bring me back,” Bill said, smiling as he forced Michael’s head against the rest so he could watch his eyes dilate. Satisfied, he eased into his chair to give him time to find himself.
“Where are we?” Michael rasped, head hanging.
“Newport. Trying to keep you from being scrubbed,” Bill said, the sour taste from his stomach becoming worse. “Do yourself a favor and play nice.”
“Rhode Island?” Almost spilling his water, Michael fumbled for his phone to check the time. “Is this right?” he mumbled, words becoming clearer. “You,” he said, snagging the copilot as she went by. “What day is it?”
“Tuesday,” she said, taking his hand from her sleeve. “We need a three-hour prep time to go if we don’t leave within the hour,” she added, hoisting her daybag and heading to the bright rectangle of light.
Expresison sour, Michael plucked at the black-and-silver pin-striped shirt he’d had on when Bill had darted him in the locker room. “You pulled me off task. Why?” Michael asked, and Bill stifled his smile as the realization crashed over the younger man that he wasn’t making the Evocane drop, and was thereby missing his chance to take Peri out. He could almost see his unspoken question: had Bill known he was going to kill her, or was it just happenstance?
Bill put his ankle on his knee. “I was this close to letting you meet with her, Michael,” he said, enjoying the chance to see Michael sweat. “But you need to keep this gravy train going a few months more. Jack and Allen can handle getting Peri a stopgap supply of Evocane.”
Silent, Michael drank his water, staring out the window at the black cars gathering a dusting of snow. Anxious to get moving, Bill stood. “Don’t be sullen,” he said as he grabbed Michael by the shoulder and yanked him out of his chair. “You have more important things to do than be a delivery boy.” Submitting to his frustration, he gave Michael a little shove, pleased when he caught himself against the bulkhead. “It took me five years to get a bloody audience with Helen. You got one with me saying ‘pretty please.’ There’s a suit in the lav. Put it on.”
Ignoring him, Michael eyed his empty water bottle as he held on to the bulkhead and found his balance. Looking toward the back, he exclaimed, “Can I get another water here?”
Michael sounded peeved, not angry, and encouraged, Bill stood in the aisle and gestured for him to go put the suit on. “There’s water in the car,” he said, trying to hurry him along, but a crew member had come forward with a new bottle, and Michael grabbed it, wobbly as he brushed past Bill and took the stairs. He slipped on the last step, looking like nothing more than a wealthy drug addict coming off a high as he fell, legs splaying in the snow.
“You should have put on the suit,” Bill muttered as he followed him onto the stairs, squinting as the fresher air smelling of snow hit him. But he jerked to a stop when the world made a hiccup and he was back on the plane. Shocked, he looked out the window to see Michael carefully navigate the last step and stumble to the waiting car.
Lips parted, Bill stood where he was, astounded. Michael had skip-hopped. The man had actually skip-hopped. Bill hadn’t known he’d been practicing, having utterly refused to try it in front of anyone who might use the situation to wipe him. It both pleased and worried Bill. It was when drafters started experimenting on their own that he usually had to wipe them. Peri had been the worst of the lot, but it was that same experimenting that made her so versatile.