“But,” the man fumbled, face darkening in the dim van. His expression abruptly shifted when he figured it out. “Ah, shit.” Falling back into the long bench seat, he stared at the silent equipment, disgusted. “I could go back in and dart her while her back is turned,” he said, knowing this was the last time he’d ever see the field.
Latisha chuckled, thanking Jen when she handed her the darts. Bill was tempted to let the idiot do just that. “What a capital idea,” he said as he watched Peri at the register. She looked smaller than he recalled. “You don’t think she has a handgun? She can shoot first, ask questions, and draft later to fix a mistake.”
Ron shrank down, embarrassed.
“You’re right that she’s coming out,” Bill added, his tone distracted. “If our own beloved Allen Swift was there this afternoon, she knows her anonymity is blown and is running.”
Jen threw her long-empty cup into the trash, clearly wishing she could chance Ron’s abandoned venti. “It was Swift. How do you think I found her? She’s sitting on a medical dump to hide the tracker you gave her.”
A real smile lifted through him as he recalled Peri’s bullheaded bravery when she chose to be chemically tagged for the chance to blow Opti all to hell, but it soured fast. Seeing her emptying the trash and washing other men’s dishes didn’t give him the satisfaction he’d been hoping for. As much as a pain in the ass as she was, she was better than this. It’d feel good to have her back. Anchors were expendable, but he did try to make lasting relationships with his drafters. Usually.
Peeved, he thumbed the circuit open. “Michael. Your call.”
“I can down her alone” came back immediately.
Bill seriously doubted it, and he wondered who would draft first: Michael, who drafted only as a last resort due to a mistrust of the anchor who would bring his memory back, or Peri, who had none and would suffer permanent memory loss. “Okay, we’re a go,” he said, and he could almost feel the tension rise as small pockets of his people readied themselves for 125 pounds of unforgiving quick fists possibly coming their way.
Latisha was humming a creepy southern lullaby to her rifle as Peri turned the “Open” sign around and pulled the shade on the thick glass door. Her humming ceased. “Cat carrier is on the counter,” she said softly, her words jerking through Bill. “Big purse next to it. Here we go.”
“Ready, Jen?” Bill asked, and the woman muttered she was, restraining harness jingling as she checked it. Bill leaned forward. He wanted to get out so he could see better, but contented himself with a pair of night goggles, adjusting the contrast until they could handle the overhead light bathing everything in a goggle gray-green. She’d fight until she downed Michael or was bested, and if that happened, she’d draft and run. If Latisha missed, they’d have to track her down like a rabbit.
“What if she goes out the back?” Ron asked.
Bill’s nose wrinkled at the stink of the man’s sweat. “She has too much pride to retreat,” he said as Peri turned off the lights before picking up her purse and cat carrier and heading for the door. His anticipation quickened. The best prey were those who were hunters, and Peri was a savage when cornered.
Latisha steadied her rifle, tracking Peri, though she wouldn’t shoot until Bill told her. Bill held his breath as the faint tinkling of the door chimes sounded. Large purse over her shoulder, Peri set the cat carrier down on the piled snow to lock the door.
“I love this part,” Jen whispered as Peri bent to pick the carrier back up, and a flash of desire, misplaced but potent, snarled like knots through Bill. He’d been a field agent once—that’s how he knew Peri wanted to come back. She couldn’t stay away any more than he could.
“There’s my girl,” Latisha said, then jerked her finger away when Peri abruptly threw the cat carrier into the shadows, grunting in the effort.
“Son of a bitch!” Michael shouted, falling into the manicured bushes with the carrier on his chest. The sound of breaking dishes came loud through Michael’s live mic, a sliding crash as he shoved the heavy, dish-laden carrier off him and got up.
Bill’s breath came fast and held. His grip on the goggles tightened when Peri jumped at Michael, her slim fingers reaching for her boot knife even as she landed on him, pinning him to the icy walk. “Where is he? Right now!” she shouted, so loud that he could hear it before Michael’s open mic could bring it to him.
“Son of a—”
She flicked the knife, nicking the skin under his eye and then shifting it to his throat to keep him unmoving. Bill smiled, proud of her when her expression changed in recognition. “You’re Michael,” she said, the words out of synch with her lips. “Who’s with you? Bill?”
Pressed into Bill’s back, Jen made a soft noise of disappointment. “I would’ve thought he’d have lasted at least a punch or two.”
Bill lowered the goggles. “Michael knows her idiosyncrasy about only killing people who kill her first. It will get interesting now.”
Michael was laughing, thinking her self-imposed rule a weakness. The derision would only make Peri that much more determined. “Peri Reed,” he mocked. “You changed your hair.”
“There she goes!” Jen exclaimed as Peri lurched off Michael to flee, and Bill put a hand on Latisha’s arm to stop her.
“Wait,” he whispered as Michael scrambled after her. Still on the ground, he caught Peri’s ankle and gave a yank. Peri turned even as she fell, her first kick missing. Michael still had her foot, though, and she used it to drag herself closer before he could break it, nailing him right in the chest with a boot heel.
Swearing, Michael let go. His foot flashed out, knocking her Glock into the road, where it skittered into the far gutter. Angry, he was on her in half a second, flinging her knife away and pinning her to the sidewalk. “Little soldier girl, playing army,” the man said.
Bill’s lips turned down in disappointment, but with a curious flip of vertigo, the world flashed blue and he was back a second in time, watching Peri roll away instead of reach for her knife. An instant of red coated his vision, and time meshed.
“Did you see that?” Jen exclaimed, her perfume strong as she leaned between them for a better look. “She hop-skipped to keep her knife!”
Latisha chuckled, thanking Jen when she handed her the darts. Bill was tempted to let the idiot do just that. “What a capital idea,” he said as he watched Peri at the register. She looked smaller than he recalled. “You don’t think she has a handgun? She can shoot first, ask questions, and draft later to fix a mistake.”
Ron shrank down, embarrassed.
“You’re right that she’s coming out,” Bill added, his tone distracted. “If our own beloved Allen Swift was there this afternoon, she knows her anonymity is blown and is running.”
Jen threw her long-empty cup into the trash, clearly wishing she could chance Ron’s abandoned venti. “It was Swift. How do you think I found her? She’s sitting on a medical dump to hide the tracker you gave her.”
A real smile lifted through him as he recalled Peri’s bullheaded bravery when she chose to be chemically tagged for the chance to blow Opti all to hell, but it soured fast. Seeing her emptying the trash and washing other men’s dishes didn’t give him the satisfaction he’d been hoping for. As much as a pain in the ass as she was, she was better than this. It’d feel good to have her back. Anchors were expendable, but he did try to make lasting relationships with his drafters. Usually.
Peeved, he thumbed the circuit open. “Michael. Your call.”
“I can down her alone” came back immediately.
Bill seriously doubted it, and he wondered who would draft first: Michael, who drafted only as a last resort due to a mistrust of the anchor who would bring his memory back, or Peri, who had none and would suffer permanent memory loss. “Okay, we’re a go,” he said, and he could almost feel the tension rise as small pockets of his people readied themselves for 125 pounds of unforgiving quick fists possibly coming their way.
Latisha was humming a creepy southern lullaby to her rifle as Peri turned the “Open” sign around and pulled the shade on the thick glass door. Her humming ceased. “Cat carrier is on the counter,” she said softly, her words jerking through Bill. “Big purse next to it. Here we go.”
“Ready, Jen?” Bill asked, and the woman muttered she was, restraining harness jingling as she checked it. Bill leaned forward. He wanted to get out so he could see better, but contented himself with a pair of night goggles, adjusting the contrast until they could handle the overhead light bathing everything in a goggle gray-green. She’d fight until she downed Michael or was bested, and if that happened, she’d draft and run. If Latisha missed, they’d have to track her down like a rabbit.
“What if she goes out the back?” Ron asked.
Bill’s nose wrinkled at the stink of the man’s sweat. “She has too much pride to retreat,” he said as Peri turned off the lights before picking up her purse and cat carrier and heading for the door. His anticipation quickened. The best prey were those who were hunters, and Peri was a savage when cornered.
Latisha steadied her rifle, tracking Peri, though she wouldn’t shoot until Bill told her. Bill held his breath as the faint tinkling of the door chimes sounded. Large purse over her shoulder, Peri set the cat carrier down on the piled snow to lock the door.
“I love this part,” Jen whispered as Peri bent to pick the carrier back up, and a flash of desire, misplaced but potent, snarled like knots through Bill. He’d been a field agent once—that’s how he knew Peri wanted to come back. She couldn’t stay away any more than he could.
“There’s my girl,” Latisha said, then jerked her finger away when Peri abruptly threw the cat carrier into the shadows, grunting in the effort.
“Son of a bitch!” Michael shouted, falling into the manicured bushes with the carrier on his chest. The sound of breaking dishes came loud through Michael’s live mic, a sliding crash as he shoved the heavy, dish-laden carrier off him and got up.
Bill’s breath came fast and held. His grip on the goggles tightened when Peri jumped at Michael, her slim fingers reaching for her boot knife even as she landed on him, pinning him to the icy walk. “Where is he? Right now!” she shouted, so loud that he could hear it before Michael’s open mic could bring it to him.
“Son of a—”
She flicked the knife, nicking the skin under his eye and then shifting it to his throat to keep him unmoving. Bill smiled, proud of her when her expression changed in recognition. “You’re Michael,” she said, the words out of synch with her lips. “Who’s with you? Bill?”
Pressed into Bill’s back, Jen made a soft noise of disappointment. “I would’ve thought he’d have lasted at least a punch or two.”
Bill lowered the goggles. “Michael knows her idiosyncrasy about only killing people who kill her first. It will get interesting now.”
Michael was laughing, thinking her self-imposed rule a weakness. The derision would only make Peri that much more determined. “Peri Reed,” he mocked. “You changed your hair.”
“There she goes!” Jen exclaimed as Peri lurched off Michael to flee, and Bill put a hand on Latisha’s arm to stop her.
“Wait,” he whispered as Michael scrambled after her. Still on the ground, he caught Peri’s ankle and gave a yank. Peri turned even as she fell, her first kick missing. Michael still had her foot, though, and she used it to drag herself closer before he could break it, nailing him right in the chest with a boot heel.
Swearing, Michael let go. His foot flashed out, knocking her Glock into the road, where it skittered into the far gutter. Angry, he was on her in half a second, flinging her knife away and pinning her to the sidewalk. “Little soldier girl, playing army,” the man said.
Bill’s lips turned down in disappointment, but with a curious flip of vertigo, the world flashed blue and he was back a second in time, watching Peri roll away instead of reach for her knife. An instant of red coated his vision, and time meshed.
“Did you see that?” Jen exclaimed, her perfume strong as she leaned between them for a better look. “She hop-skipped to keep her knife!”
