Terminated

Chapter 9

What woke her was Patrick’s hand touching her bare shoulder—not a caress, a deliberate tap, followed by a firm pressure. Wake up, stay still. Bryn came instantly and fully aware, heart racing. They were still in almost the same positions in which they’d fallen asleep, but she could see the digital clock over Patrick’s shoulder, and long, much-needed hours had passed. It was almost midnight.

There was someone at the door. She heard it clearly—shuffling feet on the carpet, followed by a scraping, as if someone was inserting a key card in the door. Patrick let her go, and she rolled quietly one direction, while he went the other; they both landed near-silently on their feet and, still naked, took up posts out of the clear field of fire in case whoever was on the other side came in shooting. Bryn got closest, in the bathroom doorway; she was only an arm’s length from the door, and now she heard that scrape-click again as the card was inserted.

And then, a loud bump against the wall, and a drunken voice saying, “Shit, that’s not the right room. What’s the room? Yo, man, what’s the number?”

There were several of them in the hall, and Bryn didn’t take the whole thing on first impressions; she grabbed a towel, draped it around herself, and eased the door open enough to peer outside.

Frat boys, wearing matching T-shirts, two of them still clutching open bottles of cheap liquor. God, they really did still drink schnapps.

They didn’t see her. Bryn eased the door shut as they wandered off in the other direction, still arguing and bouncing shoulders off the wall as they weaved along. She let out a held breath and turned on the hall light switch. “Clear,” she said, probably unnecessarily, and ran a hand over her face to hold back laughter. Patrick wasn’t bothering. He sat down on the bed, head in his hands to muffle the chuckles. She took a spot beside him, and they leaned together a moment. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m awake,” she said. “And we need to talk, don’t we?”

“Do we?” The laughter faded fast, and when he looked up, he was tense and ready for some kind of blow.

“Not about us.” She sent him a warm smile, and his tension eased. “Work. We need to talk about what we’re going to do next. If everything worked, Joe and Riley should be making their way back to the bunker with a sample of Thorpe’s formula—the stuff that kills the nanites. The advanced models. Best case—we’re a distraction, until they can mass-produce the equalizer.”

“Worst case, they don’t make it,” he said. “And we’re all there is.”

“I didn’t like splitting us up, but we had a better shot that way. If Jane has to divide her attention and second-guess two groups . . .”

“Three. Manny will have a completely separate plan in motion, guaranteed. And she’d better be worried. She might be able to guess what I will do, but she’s a hell of a lot less conversant with you, Joe, or Manny. Joe will make it. He’s made it through—” An odd look crossed Patrick’s face, and then he shook his head. “I was about to say he’s made it through worse, but I’m actually not sure that’s true anymore. We’re into whole new levels of worse.”

“Then I hate to lay this on top, but we’re going to have to risk being spotted,” Bryn said. “Because we need to do some research. I have a name from Thorpe of someone on the Fountain Group board, but I don’t know how to get to him.”

“If you think we’re going to get anywhere using a Google search, I think you’re wrong,” Patrick said. “But you’re right, anyone we reach out to is an exposure, and it locks down a point of data against us. But we can’t just sit here, nice as that would be.” He thought for a few seconds, and then nodded again. “I think I’ve got a guy. Get dressed.”

“Are we leaving?”

“Didn’t you say you wanted a drink?”