Working Stiff

Chapter 5

The first thing Bryn did, once she’d checked her office for damage, was pull out the paper on which she’d scrawled the phone number from the voice mail, and dial it. Joe Fideli hadn’t left; he took up a post in the chair across from her, and even though she made significant motions for him to leave, he shook his head and made himself more comfortable with a steaming cup of coffee. He’d gotten her one, too, which was nice. Mr. French was waddling around the room busily sniffing things, which included a close inspection of Fideli’s socks and shoes.

As Bryn dialed, Fideli said, “Put it on speaker.”

She did, and they listened to three rings before the connection clicked in and a shaky voice said, “Hello?”

“Hello,” Bryn replied. “This is Fairview Mortuary. I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Fairview.”

There was a brief silence, and then the man said, “Is he there?”

“No. There’s been … an accident. I’m afraid Mr. Fairview is dead.”

“Oh. Oh, God.” She heard him take a damp, shaking breath. “What am I going to do?”

“Sir—what’s your name?”

“Spiro. Spiro Kanakareides. Look, Mr. Fairview, he was … doing something special for me—do you understand?”

“Yes. Yes, I understand.” Bryn glanced at Joe, who nodded encouragement. “Mr. Kanakareides, why don’t you come in to talk to me? I’m sure that I can help with your problem.”

“You can?”

“Yes, I can.” She tried to sound soothing, professional, and utterly reliable. She must have succeeded, because after a moment he agreed, and hung up the phone.

“Good,” Joe said. “Let me know when he gets here. I’ll have a team ready to take him.”

“Take him where?”

Fideli frowned. “I thought you understood, Bryn. We’re in the cleanup business. We get Fairview’s contacts and his clients. Mr. Kanakareides has to be brought in and debriefed and we have to decide what’s to be done with him.”

“But you’ll probably let him die, right?”

Fideli looked away this time. “Yeah, probably, unless there’s a real good reason to keep him maintained,” he said. “Look, I’m not wild about any of this, but it’s got to be kept inside the company. That’s what we’re here to do: seal the leak, repair the damage. People will get hurt. Can’t be avoided. The good news is that we’ll have all of them within a few days; they can’t be skipping too many shots in a row, and they’ll be contacting us. This isn’t the hard part.”

“Isn’t it?” she asked softly. “He preyed on people who were scared and desperate, and made them even more scared and desperate. And now we’re going to victimize them all over again. That doesn’t bother you?”

“If it did, I’d be in the wrong line of work. Look, I’m as compassionate as I can be, but there have to be limits. These people weren’t supposed to live. They’re only here because Fairview got greedy, not because God came down from on high and granted them a miracle.”

“And what about me? I’m only here because you had a spasm of conscience, right? Now I’m marking time, because you already told me your mysterious supplier was done with us. I’m surplus goods. After the last one of these … these revived checks in for their shot, I’ll be dealt with, too.”

He didn’t deny it. “Theoretically. But in practice, there may be other ways you can be useful to us.”

She laughed, and it sounded empty. “Forgive me if I don’t feel reassured by that. It’s not very theoretical to me.”

“Bryn.” He leaned forward and took her hand in his. “I’m not going to let you down. Pat’s not going to let you down. You can count on that, okay?”

She didn’t believe him—not that he wasn’t sincere at the moment. She did believe that. But Fideli wasn’t a rogue; it wasn’t in his nature. He’d do what he was ordered, even if he didn’t like it. Sooner or later, Patrick McCallister would order Fideli to walk away while she was put in some sterile little room again, to die. And Fideli would feel bad about it, and probably carry guilt for a while, but his life would go on.

And hers would not.

There was absolutely no point in saying all that, she realized. Nothing was going to change her fate.

So Bryn smiled and said, “It’s okay. What do we do now?”

“We get this place running,” Joe said. He seemed relieved that she’d accepted his reassurances. “So let’s get started.”

Going through the files was empty work, but at least it passed the time, and that was all Bryn was doing now … passing time.

Mr. Kanakareides—Spiro—showed up two hours later. She knew only because she was looking out the window, sipping her coffee; he never made it to the building. Joe Fideli had a car there, and two plainclothes security men, and Spiro was intercepted and put in and driven off without a single ripple of alarm. That was how easy it was to end someone’s life, she realized. All it took was being polite and efficient in public, until you didn’t have to be polite anymore.

The phone rang.

Bryn looked at it with dread and misery, and picked up the receiver. “Fairview Mortuary,” she said. “Bryn Davis speaking.” She fully expected it to be another of the desperate revived, and it made her sick to her soul—if she still had one—to think that she had to lure these people into the trap. But she had no choice, and really, they had no choice. Fate. It was a bitch.

But this time, the call wasn’t from one of those people. There was a silence, and then a strangely modulated voice said, “Now I know your name. Good. I’ll be seeing you, Bryn Davis.”

The call ended. Bryn stared down at the phone, frowning and a little creeped out. It could have been a prank call, but it felt … different.

“What’s wrong?”

She looked up to find Joe standing in the doorway, watching her. Full of concern, just like those men had been down in the parking lot, calming down poor Mr. Kanakareides.

“I had a call,” she said. “Caller ID was blocked.”

“Do you think it was one of our revived friends?”

“It didn’t seem like it.”

“Our supplier?”

“Maybe,” she said. “And now he knows who I am.”

Joe hesitated for a second before he said, “Well, that was bound to happen. And it’s what we want.”

“Maybe what you want!”

“Bryn, we may still have a shot at luring him in. You can still make the case that you went to the meeting to fulfill Fairview’s obligations, since you took over the business. You can convince him that you know everything, and you’re willing to deal with him. It can happen.”

“You’re kidding, right? You shot at him! I’d think that would cancel any deals.”

“Nah, people in this line of work expect to get some return fire when they shoot up a car. So you have a bodyguard. He’d expect that, too. I’ll bet Fairview never met him alone. Fast Freddy was probably his muscle.”

She thought it over, because it did sound logical, and somewhere inside, she was still struggling for hope, any hope. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Wait,” he said. “He’ll call back, or he’ll contact you some other way. Stick to the story. Make sure he believes that you want to deal. He hasn’t got too many moves right now, if he wants ready cash; this guy is too cautious to take it to the street. Fairview Mortuary is a known quantity.”

“He’ll recognize that your goons are in the parking lot!”

“They’re contractors, not Pharmadene employees. Even if he’s watching and makes their faces, he can’t trace them back. We’re good.” He gave her a warm smile. “Relax, Bryn. I’m not taking any chances with your safety. I promise.”

That, Bryn reflected, made her feel both better and worse, because she really didn’t want to like Joe Fideli any more than she already did. But as the day went on, as the two of them found reasons to talk, she couldn’t help it. He was just … likable.

The last call came in as she was gathering up her things to leave, and Mr. French let out a mournful whine as he stood at the door. “I know,” she said. “We’re going, I promise. Hang in there.” She picked up the phone. “Fairview Mortuary, Bryn Davis speaking. Can I help you?”

“Maybe.” It was the modulated voice again. “You surprised me last night. I was expecting my usual contact.”

Bryn put down her purse and sank into a chair. Mr. French came over and flopped down onto the carpet beside her, looking depressed but resigned. She hardly noticed when he laid his warm, heavy head over her feet. “Well,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even, “you have to admit, I think you surprised me a little more, what with the gunfire and all. I was just keeping my uncle’s appointment.”

“Your uncle.” She couldn’t tell if he meant that to sound suspicious; the modulation ironed all expression out of his voice. In fact, she wasn’t even sure it was a him “You’re telling me you’re related to Lincoln Fairview.”

“Yes. And I inherited his property.”

“Let’s pretend I believe you. How did you know where to meet me?”

“Honestly? I didn’t. My uncle’s car had a nav system. I thought it was probably the warehouse, but it was a guess. He didn’t leave me your contact information.”

“He didn’t have it.”

Bryn waited, but he didn’t say anything more. Still, he hadn’t hung up on her. That was something. “So,” she said. “You were supplying him with … a certain drug. And I’m going to need new stock, obviously. Whatever my uncle had on hand burned up with him, and I’ve got clients. Desperate ones. I need something to sell.”

“I don’t trust you,” he said.

“My clients don’t have a lot of time to wait around for us to develop a relationship.”

“That’s too bad for them. My advice is to recruit new clients. This is going to take some time, and you’re going to show me some goodwill to start or this conversation ends now.”

Bryn’s office door opened, and Joe Fideli stepped in, moving in his usual ninja stealth mode. She pointed at the phone, and he nodded. Luckily, Mr. French had already gotten used to Joe; he raised his head and stared at him, but didn’t bark or even growl. “What kind of goodwill?” she asked.

“You’re going to do a wire transfer of a hundred thousand dollars into an account that I will name in the next call, and you’re going to do it without bargaining.”

“Really,” she said flatly. “What do you take me for, an idiot? You think I’ll just hand over that kind of money for nothing?”

“Not for nothing,” he said. “You’ll hand it over so I don’t put a bullet in your head the next time you go home to that crappy apartment, Bryn, or the next time you go out walking that ugly dog of yours—and I’ll kill the dog for free. A hundred thousand buys you a week for me to look you over and decide whether or not I want to deal. No negotiations. I know Fairview’s coffers are deep.”

Click. She waited, but he was gone.

Bryn hung up the phone and took a deep breath, feeling strangely violated—not so much that he knew so much about her, but that he’d mentioned her dog. Dogs are off-limits. “He threatened to shoot me,” she said to Joe. “And my dog.”

“Fucker,” he said, and bent to pat Mr. French, who allowed it with regal indifference. “What does he want?”

“A hundred thousand dollars. I suppose it’s an introduction fee. Black-market deals in Iraq used to be like that—you pay to play.”

“And you know about black-market deals in Iraq how, exactly?”

She smiled grimly. “I was in supply, on the ground, in a war zone. How do you think I know? We couldn’t always get what we needed when we needed it. My job was to get it, period.”

“You’re just full of surprises, kid. Okay, so you pay the hundred thousand, and …?”

“And maybe he’ll come back for more. Or maybe he’ll just shoot me and walk away.”

“Well,” Joe said, “the good news is that if he does, you’ll just ruin a good outfit.”

He was, Bryn thought, always looking for the bright side.

The next morning, she got a modulated voice on the phone, reciting a string of numbers, which she took down and read back. There was no conversation, and no additional threats, by which she understood he wasn’t screwing around. She gave the info to Joe, and he made the transfer using some method she didn’t know about, and didn’t want to know.

She got another call that simply said, “You’re not dead yet.”

Which almost made her laugh, because, hey, she really was.

It took exactly the amount of time Joe had said for the construction work to finish, and during that time, she got no more calls, except from two more of Fairview’s extortion victims; those were quietly spirited away by Pharmadene, but away from Fairview’s premises.

The grand reopening arrived, mostly thanks to Lucy’s hard work; Bryn honestly didn’t know what she would have done without her. Lucy knew absolutely everything about everything, including things Bryn had never imagined would have to be done. Plus, she was a complete sweetheart with inspectors, all of whom went away charmed and delighted with Fairview’s new improved looks.

Bryn had settled into a little bit of a routine—wake up, shower, breakfast, pat Mr. French on the head, drive her new car to Fairview, and get her coffee there. Joe Fideli had morphed into a totally acceptable funeral director, which did not surprise her much; in putting on the dark suit and tie, he’d also put on an air of gravity and seriousness. The only time he dropped it was when they were alone in her office, and even then, he used his little black pyramid device to give them a few moments’ privacy.

“Done,” he said on the morning of the grand reopening, as he emptied the contents of a syringe into her arm. She’d gotten used to choosing blouses that rolled up easily, determined not to have to go half-naked before him, and particularly McCallister, ever again. Fideli disposed of the syringe in a red biohazard sharps container, which he put in a second red biohazard bag. She watched this process, frowning, as she slipped her jacket back on.

“Is the syringe dangerous?”

“Nah, but it’s proprietary. So I try to keep it double-bagged until I can get it back to the mother ship. I’m responsible for every one of these bastards.”

“Have you found Fast Freddy yet?”

“No.” Fideli seemed peeved about it. “He must have had a stash of the drug somewhere, and was able to make it there safely before too much damage was done. Otherwise he’d have shown up by now. People tend to notice shambling, decomposing—” He checked himself and looked at her. “No offense.”

Bryn cleared her suddenly tight throat. “Uh, none taken, I guess. So what do we do now?”

“Same thing you were doing before, while we wait for our mysterious friend to get over his stage fright.”

“I need another trained mortician before I can open for business.”

“Luckily, I already got that covered. You’ve got an appointment in”—he checked his watch—“half an hour. Applicant’s name is Riley Block.”

“But I didn’t even put out an ad yet!”

“Actually, you did. You’re paying pretty well, too. Oh, and you offer medical and dental. Lucy’s already prepared all the paperwork for you.” He stood up and smoothed the creases out of his pants as the front bell sounded. “That’d be your applicant, I guess.”

It was. Lucy bustled in, marched up to Bryn, and gave her a sassy grin and a thick sheaf of paperwork. Bryn took it and tried to smile brightly in return, but she must not have fooled anyone. Lucy gave her a concerned look. “Boss, you look pale. You need to stop working all day and night. You spend too much time inside this place.”

The more she came in contact with real human sympathy, the more isolated Bryn felt. “I’m okay, Lucy. Thank you. I have to say, between you and Joe, you’ve done an amazing job pulling this place together. I really don’t feel like I’ve done anything.”

Lucy smiled. “Well, that’s just nonsense. You pay me to know what I’m doing, and I know more about the death business than anybody you’ll ever meet. I’ve been through all the wars.”

“I’d love to hear some of those war stories,” Joe said.

“Why, let me tell you …” And she was off, chattering with Joe about her favorite mortician story, which was not just shocking but downright perverted, and hilarious. Bryn got herself a cup of coffee and left them to it as they walked from her office. She’d decided not to take Mr. Fairview’s palace of a workspace, but had kept her own; she felt more comfortable there. Less haunted by what had happened. Now she sipped her coffee, then got up and put on her white lab coat and modeled it for the mirror. How did I get here? She could still remember the echoes of how proud this coat had made her, how excited she’d been to dive into the new job on that first day.

It seemed like a million miles away now.

Bryn started a little as a brisk knock sounded on her door; she couldn’t help but flash back to Mr. Fairview, and her first morning with him. She took off the lab coat and hung it up, straightened the line of her jacket over the holstered gun, and went to greet her prospective new employee.

Riley Block was not what she’d expected—mostly because she’d expected, well, a man. Riley was a woman, older than Bryn by about ten years; she was taller, blonder, and had a square face with a prominent jaw that seemed all business, all the time. Even the smile she gave Bryn seemed artificial and businesslike as she held out her hand. “Miss Davis,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you. Please come in.”

They settled in the same comfortable area where Bryn would have placed a prospective customer, and Bryn tried to gather her wits. She’d never interviewed anybody else for a job; she’d expected Joe Fideli to be here and guide her through it. How do you tell if someone’s a lunatic, anyway? There had to be some kind of clue, but as she studied Riley Block, she didn’t catch one. She finally, somewhat desperately, said, “So, tell me about yourself.”

Luckily, that seemed to be the right thing to say. Riley whipped out an impressive résumé, which Bryn studied as Riley described her training (excellent), academic record (also excellent), references (ditto), and goals.

One thing was certain: she was no Fast Freddy, and Bryn loved her on the spot just for that.

Fideli finally showed up during the tour of the premises, but he let Bryn take the lead—just what she didn’t want, but she toughed it out. Riley seemed to have a good grasp of the prep room; she did a fast and thorough inventory of the restocked supplies and suggested a couple of additions, which Bryn added to her notes. All in all, it wasn’t a warm experience, but then, morticians weren’t generally known for their social skills.

Riley seemed perfectly competent, and after a quick consultation with Fideli, Bryn hired her.

Fairview Mortuary was back in business.

If Bryn didn’t feel especially great about that … well, she hoped it didn’t show.

They booked their first client the next morning: mercifully, it was a natural death, a ninety-year-old grandmother of four kids, twelve grandchildren, and twentysomething great-grandchildren. It was a sad experience for the family, naturally, but nothing traumatic. Bryn didn’t think she could deal with trauma anyway, not yet.

Fideli carried the bulk of the work, and was surprisingly good at it; for someone who’d initially seemed so alpha-male-soldier and intimidating, he could really empathize when it counted, or at least give a damn good imitation of it. Riley received the body later that afternoon and started her work, and Bryn was surprised to find that she, too, was efficient and capable.

I’m the only one with a learning curve, Bryn thought. It didn’t make her feel any better. Neither did her daily shot, administered by Fideli in the privacy of her office; it still stung, every time, and she was starting to really hate the sight of a needle.

What alarmed her, though, was that after his usual ritual of bagging up the syringe, he reached in his pocket and took out his little black pyramid device, switched it on, and checked its effectiveness against his phone app, which led her to wonder, again, whether there was a countersurveillance app store somewhere.

Probably.

“Okay, two minutes,” Fideli said, and leaned forward, looking at her with unexpected directness. “Need to give you a heads-up. You’re going to get a visit today from Irene Harte.”

“I don’t know the name.”

“No reason you should. Ms. Harte is a vice president at Pharmadene, in charge of the division that makes our little wonder drug.”

Bryn frowned. “What does she want from me?”

“My guess? She’s going to try to shut all this down. And you.” He didn’t say it, but Bryn understood the subtext instantly—shut down was code for death. “McCallister had to make a situation report, and apparently Ms. Harte didn’t take it too well. So you get a personal inspection. We need you to be on your toes, Bryn. She’s got the power to destroy a lot more than just you.”

“You mean McCallister.”

Fideli nodded. “Patrick put his neck on the line when he brought you back, on my say-so,” he said. “And it’s still on the line, because he didn’t terminate your revival as soon as he knew you weren’t going to be an instant gusher of information. Harte likes results, fast, while McCallister prefers to invest time and get things right. It doesn’t make them buddies.” He glanced at the red indicator on his device, which was flashing a fast warning. “Time to wrap up. Be ready for her, and don’t let her intimidate you.”

Bryn nodded, and he tapped the top of the pyramid and shut off the surveillance jammer. It went back in his pocket, and he resumed talking about funeral arrangements for their new client as if they’d never stopped.

It set Bryn on edge. She was feeling a little odd anyway; maybe it was her imagination (and it probably was), but she felt jittery and warm, and she wanted nothing but to go home and sink into a hot bath with a glass of wine. Spend the evening curled up with Mr. French watching a shamelessly romantic movie. That kind of thing. She forced herself to cut down on the coffee, but that didn’t seem to help.

She thought they’d actually make it to the end of the day without the mysterious Ms. Harte making an appearance, but at ten to five, a whole entourage pulled into the parking lot—a sleek black limousine, flanked by two Pharmadene-issue black sedans. McCallister was driving one of those, and he was the one to open the limo’s back door and offer a hand to the woman getting out.

Even from the perspective of Bryn’s office window, Irene Harte seemed formidable—tall, attractive, with clothes that Bryn could never hope to afford (or pull off) and the body language of someone who went through life absolutely confident of her place in the universe. Which was almost certainly at the center.

Her bodyguards hustled to get ahead of her, open doors, check hallways. She didn’t slow down for them. McCallister trailed her, and Bryn had the impression he was doing the rearguard work. Either that, or he just didn’t care to be too close to Irene Harte.

Her phone rang, making her jump; it was Lucy, announcing—in a doubtful tone of voice—that Bryn had visitors. Bryn was actually pretty proud that her reply sounded calm and steady as she told Lucy to send them in.

She wished Joe Fideli were here, maybe just sitting quietly in the corner, but he was a no-show, probably for good and sensible reasons of self-interest. And I hope our mysterious supplier doesn’t freak out about this. He might, if he were watching; she couldn’t do anything about that.

The first man to open her door—without knocking— was the Fideli type: big, well muscled, with a shaved head. The difference came in the eyes; Fideli’s always seemed to hide a sense that he knew how ridiculous the world was and was secretly amused by it, but this man was deadly serious as he looked around the office, nodded to Bryn, and then stepped out of the way to assume some kind of guard position in the corner. A second guard, identical assessments, parade rest in the opposite corner.

And then Irene Harte strode in.

Bryn’s immediate first impression was that she was in the presence of someone whose face she ought to recognize—a high-powered politician, actress, royalty. Someone who was important. The smile Irene bestowed on her confirmed it—it was warm and professional, but somehow also definitely superior.

Bryn came around the desk as Ms. Harte held out her very well-manicured hand and said, “Miss Davis? Irene Harte, Pharmadene Pharmaceuticals. Very pleased to meet you.”

The handshake that followed was brief and impersonal, and Bryn managed a polite smile and indicated the chair opposite her desk. Ms. Harte ignored the offer to sit, and instead stood there in her six-hundred-dollar pumps and studied Bryn with the impersonal intensity of an accountant reading a spreadsheet. “I understand that you’ve been briefed on the trouble we had with Mr. Fairview and his operations,” Harte said, “and that you are unable to provide us with the identity of the person from whom he was obtaining his … supplies. Is that correct?”

Behind her, Patrick McCallister quietly entered the room, closed the door, and took up a post with his back to it—at parade rest, like the other security men. But as Bryn met his eyes, he gave her a slight nod and what was almost a smile.

Bryn cleared her throat. “No, ma’am, that’s not correct.”

“No?” Harte’s eyebrows climbed in astonished, perfectly shaped arcs. “Please enlighten me.”

“I’m not unable to provide you with that information. I just don’t yet have all the facts.”

“Excuse me?” Harte’s smile was gone now, and her strong, beautiful face had gone still and expressionless. “Either you know or you don’t, Miss Davis.”

“I’m in a position to get that information for you. It will just take some time. I’m in contact with the supplier.”

“Time is something that I don’t like to spend, not on something as volatile and sensitive as this. Pharmadene has a significant intellectual capital risk at stake, and I can’t afford to fund your fact-finding expedition. Nor can I afford to spend valuable supplies of Returné in hopes that you can one day provide some small return on my investment.” Harte’s eyes were ice-cold, so cold that Bryn didn’t actually register them as being any particular kind of color. “I’m afraid that Mr. McCallister overstepped his authority in green-lighting this project. I’ll have to terminate the funding.”

“Why don’t you say what you mean?” Bryn asked, feeling her fists clench at her sides. “You’re not terminating money. You’re terminating me. Personally.”

“All right. You’re in a very unfortunate position, Miss Davis, there’s no doubt about that, but this is a business decision. Your life ended in a brutal and unnatural way, but Pharmadene is not a charity, and even if it were, extending your life support indefinitely is something even charities are reluctant to do when no hope exists for recovery. You won’t recover, you know. Ever.”

There was, Bryn realized, no reaching her on any human level. Irene Harte had no emotional buttons to press; her control and the smooth, untroubled way she said these things made it clear that Bryn’s play was over.

So change the game, Bryn thought. “How much is your leak inside the company costing you?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re losing product. I’ll bet it’s costing you plenty, but that’s not the real problem, is it? If your competitors get their hands on it, they can do some reverse engineering and come out with a cheaper version, undermining your patent opportunities before you really get the drug out there. Right? That’s worth millions. Billions. Bill Gates money.”

Harte still didn’t answer, but Bryn definitely had her attention.

“What’s it worth to you in the boardroom to save the day instead of being the one to fall on your sword? A few millions in bonuses to you, personally? A promotion? I’ll bet you’re at the level that it’s hard to get another step up on the ladder.” No reaction still, but Bryn kept going. She had, she realized, nothing at all to lose. “And how many of the men above you are looking for an excuse to kick you down a rung or two?”

That created a flicker in Harte’s calm, just a second of real emotion, and Bryn felt an immense surge of relief. Not that she’d won, far from it. But she’d actually reached her.

Whether it would matter was a different thing altogether.

It took an obscenely long time for Harte to say anything, but when she finally did, it wasn’t to Bryn at all. The woman turned to stare at McCallister, and said, “Patrick, this was your idea. Will you stand by it?”

“Yes,” he said. Just the one word, as solid as concrete. He didn’t try to explain, or coax, or threaten. He just gave her the certainty of his conviction, and waited.

It took a while, but Harte nodded. “All right. Miss Davis has a point; solving this problem may be worth a minimal investment of time. May be. I’ll give you two weeks, fourteen doses, from today. If nothing solid happens in that time, I’ll roll this up, and everyone involved will be rolled up with it. Are you clear on that, Patrick?”

“Yes, ma‘am,” he said. He wasn’t looking at Harte; he was, Bryn realized with a shock, watching her. “Will there be anything else?”

“No.” Harte checked her very expensive diamond-encrusted watch. “I have a dinner engagement. Keep my assistant informed daily on progress.”

She didn’t wait for any good-byes; she strode toward McCallister and the door, and simply assumed that it would swing open for her, and he’d get out of the way.

Which was exactly what happened. McCallister made it look as if it were his idea, which was an excellent trick, Bryn thought. As the two guards quickly left, ghosting Harte’s sharp, staccato footsteps, McCallister stayed behind. Bryn took in a deep breath and sat down in the nearest chair. Suddenly, her legs felt weak, and she thought she might actually pass out. She lowered her head and sucked down deep breaths, but still felt as if she were suffocating.

McCallister’s warm hand touched her shoulder lightly. “Breathe,” he said, and she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to bottle up the black genie of panic that was expanding inside her. She was shuddering now, as the alarm that had been flooding her veins began to subside, and she felt absurdly cold and nauseated. Something warm settled over her shoulders, and when she clutched for it with shaking hands, she realized it was McCallister’s suit coat.

Bryn looked up and saw him crouched down level with her, making needless adjustments to the jacket he’d draped over her. He wore a shoulder holster, one that appeared to be a match to what she had, and there was not a wrinkle or stain on his perfect white shirt. Even now, he looked calm, composed, absolutely in control of himself and everything around him.

Bryn said, “She just said she’d kill you, too, didn’t she?”

And McCallister shrugged, such a small movement that she almost missed it. “I doubt she’d actually try, and if she did, she certainly wouldn’t succeed. You made a good pitch,” he said. “And we’ve got two weeks. It’s something.”

“She’s going to kill you. And Joe.”

“Not a chance, and she won’t try to kill anybody if we find the answers, Bryn. Including you.”

“But—”

McCallister cut her off. “We got ourselves in it, and I’m not sorry we made the choices we did. Don’t be afraid for us. Concentrate on what you were brought here to do. Relax. Breathe.”

She did, big, slow, trembling breaths that she dragged in through her nose, blew out through her mouth, until her heartbeat slowed and her nausea began to subside.

As he started to get up, she said, “Thank you, Mr. McCallister.” And she meant it—not for dragging her back into this—God, no—but for not throwing her to the wolves when he could have. When he should have. He was in it with her now, all the way to his neck. And not just him—Joe Fideli, a family man, too. Not my fault. No, it wasn’t, but that didn’t matter anymore. They’d all go down together.

Perversely, that made her feel better. Maybe it was just having someone, anyone, at her back.

McCallister smiled, just a little, and there was a ghost of something warm in his eyes. He was surprisingly nice when he smiled. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said. She started to take off the coat, but he put his hands over hers, stilling them. “Keep it until you really feel better. I’ll be down the hall, talking to Joe. Take your time, Bryn.”

She watched him leave, and felt a frown grooving its way across her forehead. McCallister didn’t actually care, did he? He couldn’t. Not possible. And, of course, she had no reason to care about him, either. Absolutely none.

But she did. Hugging his jacket close, she felt the warmth not just of the fabric, but of his body, and when she held the collar closer to her nose she caught a ghost of his cologne, rich and dark. Like his eyes.

I don’t like him. I’m not going to like him.

But she kept the coat on for far longer than she needed to, in the end, and when McCallister asked her if she wanted a drink, after dropping off her dog, she found herself saying yes.

I should have known it wasn’t a date, she thought, as McCallister pushed her cosmo across to her, along with a thumb drive, and said, “I need you to study all of the material on this, and see if you spot anything out of the ordinary.” At least, that was what she thought he said. He was drowned out by someone’s drunken horse laugh at the next table.

She reached for the cosmo, not the portable storage device. “Why? What is it?” She had to raise her voice to be heard, because the bar was loud, trendy, and full of yelling and thumping music. He’d chosen the highest-volume pickup joint within easy driving distance. At first, she’d thought it had been some sort of odd date thing, but no. McCallister was never off duty, really. He was just using old-school noise canceling to discourage surveillance.

The taste of the cosmo, sour-sweet, lingered in her mouth like a kiss as McCallister pushed the drive closer. Their fingers brushed when she reached for it, and she glanced up into his face for one quick instant. Lights flashed in her eyes, blinding her, and then the moment was over and he was sitting back, as remote as ever.

“It’s surveillance we’ve compiled on Fairview,” he said. “Video, phone taps, e-mails, chat logs—”

“Mr. Fairview chatted? Online?” She honestly would have bet he couldn’t manage a computer at all.

He raised his eyebrows. “Brace yourself for that, if you still had any illusions about his character; it’s not pretty. We’ve also included his known associates. We’ve been through it, but you’ve got a better chance of spotting something we didn’t.”

She nodded and slipped the drive into her purse’s zippered pocket, and toyed with her drink for a moment before downing a courage gulp. Then she said, “You had a choice, didn’t you? Which of us who died in the prep room to revive?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Me or Fast Freddy. Or Mr. Fairview.”

“Mr. Fairview had a head wound. He wasn’t revival material from the start.”

“You couldn’t bring him back?”

“Not in any condition that would allow us to question him. There are limits to what the drug can do.”

“But … Fast Freddy. You could have brought him back.”

“We didn’t know he was already on the drug, so it’s a good thing we didn’t.”

She gazed at him, not blinking this time despite the bright lights strobing in her eyes. He was still just a shadow against them, but she caught the random outlines of his jaw, his mouth, his eyes. All in flickers. “You chose me over Freddy. Knowing he probably had a better shot of telling you what was going on. I know Joe asked you to do it, but you didn’t have to. You must have had another reason.”

McCallister was quiet for a long moment, the pause filled with the thunder and howl of the music around them. Then he tossed back the rest of his drink—she didn’t know what it was, except it was light amber—and stood up. “I have to go,” he said. “Tell me what you think about the files, and if you have any leads that come out of it.”

She wanted to tell him to wait, to come back, but he walked out, weaving around the drunken, laughing crowds, and disappeared.

Bryn stared hard at her cosmo, frowning, and took another sip. No sense letting it go to waste.

A man slipped into McCallister’s abandoned chair—not her type, an aging surfer whose tan was starting to curdle, wearing a chest-baring open shirt. He looked sweaty, and a little mean.

“No,” she said, before he opened his mouth. “Just go. Don’t waste your time.”

He grinned, all teeth. The gold chain around his neck shot bright reflections at her eyes. “No, pretty lady, you are definitely coming home with me.”

And the oddest thing happened. Bryn blinked and said, “Okay,” although that wasn’t at all what she was thinking or feeling. “Okay”? What the hell was that? “No,” she said, quickly. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, which is it? Okay, or no?”

“No. Ugh.”

“Let’s try this again.” The man leaned over the table, looming over her, and fixed her with a stare. “You. Are coming. Home. With me.”

And again, Bryn immediately and uncontrollably said, “Okay,” and this time—this time …

This time she reached for her purse.

No, she thought in utter disbelief. I’m not doing this. I can’t be doing this. What the fuck?

She forced herself to stop, and looked at the man with furious intensity. “What are you doing to me?” she demanded.

He said, “All right, enough screwing around. Condition Sapphire. Verify.”

“Yes,” she said, although she had no idea why. “Verified.”

“Stand up and take your purse.”

She obeyed immediately, and the man took her elbow and guided her through the crowd. Her body was on autopilot, and her brain was shrieking, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do to fight it. She passed laughing people, bright eyed and chattering, and wanted to scream, Help me, God, please, but nothing came out.

Something in my drink, she thought frantically. But what kind of date-rape drug did this? She didn’t feel drunk, or sick, or woozy—she was just out of control.

The bouncer eyed her oddly as they left the club, and she wondered what he saw in her face. A terrified, desperate woman? Someone who needed help? Or just another sad hookup?

The man put his hand at the small of her back and steered her away from the bouncer, from the lights, from people, from safety, and her feet obediently made the steps. “You have no idea what’s happening to you, do you?” he asked, and moved his hand up to stroke the sweating nape of her neck. Disgustingly intimate. “Oh, sweetheart, you’ve got so much to learn. They didn’t tell you, did they? Didn’t warn you? Typical corporate bullshit. Come on; walk faster. Don’t speak.”

She couldn’t have, even if she’d wanted to. It was as if she’d become a puppet, completely under his control, and it made her want to vomit. Something was going on far bigger than she could understand, but she clung to one, burning thought: Typical corporate bullshit.

Patrick McCallister must have known about this, whatever it was. And hadn’t told her.

The man fished in his pocket and came up with a set of car keys. He pointed the remote at a row of cars ahead, and one beeped and flashed lights. “Now, you’re going to get in the car and be a good girl,” he said. “Say you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Oh, and before I forget, give me the drive that McCallister handed over.”

Bryn’s fingers moved quickly and precisely to the zippered pocket in her purse, retrieved the storage device, and handed it over. He slid it into his shirt pocket and opened the passenger side of the car. “In,” he said. He wasn’t trying to sound charming anymore. He just sounded impatient.

Bryn’s body, oblivious to the consequences that were bound to be coming, complied, and she settled into the soft leather interior. He was a smoker, and the cabin reeked of it; the metallic, burned taste filled her mouth as completely as if she’d licked the ashes off the floor. She felt wetness on her cheeks. She was crying. Some part of her body, at least, was still operating outside of his control—not that it would help her in the least.

As the man started to shut her door, she heard a sound from outside. It wasn’t loud, but it was a crisp, metallic snap, followed by a solid, meaty thud.

Her door swung open again as the man stumbled, cried out, and turned.

Patrick McCallister stepped out of the shadows, face pale and very tight. He had always been so self-contained, but now, Bryn saw something blazing in him, something so full of rage that it scared her.

He had a riot baton in his hand. That had been the metallic snap she’d heard—the baton extending. The thud was pretty obvious, as the man who’d been abducting her yelled, “You fucker, you broke my ribs!”

McCallister didn’t bother to say anything to that. He stepped forward, swung the baton again, with precision, and put the man down on the pavement. There was some groaning and twitching, but the fight was over, and as the man slipped into unconsciousness and his blood trickled out onto the concrete, McCallister moved around him to crouch down next to Bryn, still in the car.

“Bryn, can you get out?”

She tried. Tried desperately. “No,” she whispered, and felt the tears overflow again. “I can’t.”

He didn’t seem surprised. “Cancel Sapphire,” he said, and she fell forward with a surprised cry, almost smacking herself into the dashboard. She’d been fighting so fiercely for control of her muscles that when she regained it, they tensed with crippling force. Bryn sucked in deep, whooping breaths, shuddering, gagging on the stale taste of cigarettes until McCallister reached in and helped her step out and over the fallen man. He was still holding the baton, and when she looked at it, he snapped it back to its original collapsed length.

“What the hell?” she managed to gasp out. Her whole body felt violated, even though she’d hardly been touched. She yanked free of McCallister’s hand and put a lot of empty space between them.

Then she reached to her shoulder holster and pulled the weapon that still nestled there. She hadn’t bothered to take it off for the club because they’d just been going for a quick drink; now the weight of it in her hand felt like salvation.

She aimed it first at the man unconscious on the street, but he wasn’t a threat, so she focused the muzzle squarely on McCallister’s chest. Her pulse was pounding so hard it was giving her a headache, and she still wanted to throw up, though her nausea was starting to subside with the clean taste of the outside air. “What the hell?” This time, beyond her control again, it came out in a raw scream.

McCallister slowly put his hands up. “Easy, Bryn. Easy.”

“Fuck easy, you son of a bitch. What just happened to me? What did you put in my drink?” She shot a burning glance at the unconscious guy between them. “Is he one of yours?”

“No,” McCallister said. “And I didn’t put anything into your drink. Neither did he.”

“Then what the hell just happened to me? What?”

McCallister glanced around. The bouncer at the club had walked out into the street and was staring their way, attracted by the raised voices. “We shouldn’t talk about it here,” he said, “and if you keep waving that gun around, we’ll have a lot more problems than we already do. Come on, Bryn; my car is across the street. We need to go before the police arrive. Please.”

“And if I don’t want to go with you?”

“Then you don’t have to,” he said. “You can choose to put the gun up and walk away. I understand how you feel, Bryn. I won’t tell you what to do.”

She realized, as he said it, that he hadn’t ordered her to do anything. Not like before. And she didn’t feel that her will had been taken away from her.

You can choose to put the gun up and walk away.

Or she could choose to go with him.

He didn’t try to convince her one way or the other, just waited as the seconds ticked by. A distant wail of sirens made him stir, just a little, but he still stayed quiet.

Bryn relaxed her stance and put the gun back in the holster under her shoulder. “I need to understand what just happened,” she said. “You need to tell me. Now.”

He nodded. “Then please, let me help you.”

He drove her—to her surprise—to a familiar house, glowing with lights. She recognized the kid’s bike up against the hedge, and the leaning, weathered mailbox.

“Why here?” she asked.

“Because I don’t think you feel safe with me,” McCallister said, as he put the car in park and killed the engine. “Joe and his family have a … calming effect.”

“You bring a lot of people here?”

“No,” he said, then hesitated for a second before getting out of the car. “Never, in fact.”

Bryn pondered that as she followed him up the walk, and as he rang the bell. Joe’s wife, Kylie, answered the door, drying her hands on a dish towel; she blinked in surprise, then smiled in genuine delight and opened her arms to McCallister for a hug. “Patrick, you’ve been avoiding us,” she said. He stepped into the embrace, briefly, and then pulled back to glance at Bryn. Kylie did, too, and if her smile faltered just a touch, it quickly warmed again. “Bryn. Nice to see you.”

McCallister said, “I’m sorry to drop in on you like this, but—”

“But you need to see Joe?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“He’s out back in the workshop. Follow me.”

Kylie led them through the warm, comfortable house, past the playing kids (who stopped to wave, or to stare, or, in the case of the baby, to gurgle), and out the back door. She pointed to a structure twenty feet away across the yard. “Out there,” she said. “Pat, you know how to get in?”

“I know,” he said. “Thanks, Kylie.”

“Visit us for dinner sometime.”

“I will.”

His smile disappeared as soon as she closed the back door, and in its place was a moment of unguarded emotion. Sorrow, Bryn thought. She didn’t need to be told that McCallister dreaded bringing danger here, as much as he enjoyed the company. It was written all over his face.

“It’s this way,” he said, and walked across the yard. He held out a hand to stop Bryn as they approached the closed door of the respectably large wooden shed, and a motion-activated light came on to bathe the area in a mercilessly bright glare. “Wait here.”

She couldn’t see why, but she nodded, and then, just to test that she could, disobeyed him and followed him as he climbed the three steps up to the door.

He shot her an irritated look and shielded a keypad from her as he punched in a series of numbers … a long series, longer than usual for these types of locks. She heard a musical tone sound, and a click as the lock disengaged.

Then McCallister knocked. “Joe? Coming in.”

“Come ahead,” said Joe’s voice from within, and McCallister opened up and entered, with Bryn at his heels.

Joe Fideli was sitting at a desk that was absolutely loaded down with monitors, computer equipment, storage drives—and it took Bryn a second or two to realize that he was putting away a gun. A serious weapon, too, not a pistol but a semiauto rifle, which he put back on a rack behind him.

The man had more guns in here than an armory. In fact, Bryn was fairly sure that she couldn’t even identify many of them, and that was a statement, after four years of supply duty in Iraq. That wasn’t even counting the shelves of other types of weapons—knives, Tasers, throwing stars, and brass knuckles in tidy order.

“Close the door,” Joe said to Bryn. She didn’t do it—another test, to see if she could. She did feel a weird impulse to move, though, and that worried her. Badly.

McCallister stepped back and shut it, and the magnetic lock snapped closed. Only then did Joe truly relax in his chair. “So,” he said, and laced his hands behind his head. “Nobody looks happy. Were the drinks watered? I hear that place ain’t much for quality.”

“Someone invoked protocol on her,” McCallister said, and sat down in one of the other two chairs on the opposite side of Joe’s desk.

Fideli immediately straightened up and got serious. “Deliberately?”

“Apparently.”

“Which one?”

“Sapphire.”

“Crap. That means whoever our friendly leaker is, they know way too much. And now so does our supplier.”

“Excuse me,” Bryn said sharply, “but could we please talk about what happened to me?”

The two men exchanged looks, and McCallister nodded to Joe. “Seriously,” Joe said, “this is my job?”

“It is tonight.”

Joe sighed and opened up a drawer in his desk. He took out a bottle and three glasses, and poured liberal shots all around. He handed one to Bryn as he said, “Tell me how it happened.”

“I was … finishing my drink,” she said. “And then a man sat down and came on to me. He said I was going to get up and go home with him.”

“Just like that.”

“Pretty much.”

Fideli cast a look over at McCallister. “Any leads from him?”

“He’s been taken in by my guys, but I doubt it’ll go anywhere. According to what they’ve learned, he was paid to grab her and drive her to a drop point; he was told the protocol information, but I don’t think he knows who paid him, or why, or what was going to happen. And he was paid at a dead drop, in cash, no surveillance available on that area. Dead end.”

Fideli nodded, and transferred his attention back to Bryn. “And then what happened?”

Bryn felt herself blushing, and hated herself for it. “I … I said okay, I’d go with him. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to.”

Joe nodded. “Drink up.” He passed a glass over to McCallister, and sipped his own. Bryn tentatively took a taste, and almost choked on the rich, smoky liquor. Scotch. Serious Scotch. But it warmed the chilly places inside. “Go on.”

“He said it again, and said something about sapphire—”

“He specifically triggered the protocol,” McCallister said. “He knew what he was doing.”

Joe said nothing. He just waited for Bryn to continue, and she swallowed hard and did. “He made me go outside with him and get into the car. It felt like …”

“Like you had no control,” Joe said, when she paused. “You couldn’t stop yourself.”

“Yes.” It had felt that way right until the moment McCallister had broken the spell. “Please tell me it was some kind of a drug.”

“Afraid not, Bryn.” Joe turned his glass in slow circles as he watched her. “There’s a side effect to the drug you take, Returné. It has some fail-safes built in, and one of them renders you extremely susceptible to following orders. We call these fail-safes protocols. This one is Condition Sapphire. It was developed for military purposes.”

“You mean it could happen again?”

“It can happen at any time,” he said. “And it’s real damn dangerous, because it means that if someone orders you to reveal things, you won’t have a choice. You’ll just talk.”

“You said military. What kind of military purpose?”

“You could be given a covert assignment—like, say, an assassination—and you would carry it out without question. You couldn’t talk if they ordered you not to do so. Not even to save yourself,” McCallister added. “It’s the most easily perverted use of the drug we can think of, and we’ve been trying to find a way to turn off the protocols.”

“Wait. Wait just a minute. Who is we? You two?” Bryn laughed a little desperately. “The three of us don’t make much of a mastermind conspiracy, guys. I’m just saying.”

The two of them exchanged a look, and McCallister said, “For security purposes, I can’t answer that.”

“Which means it’s not just the two of you?”

“Bryn—”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this? Warn me?”

“Wouldn’t have done any good,” Joe said in a neutral, calm voice. “Warning you doesn’t mean you could do anything to prevent it. Once a protocol gets invoked, you’ve got no choice. And no resistance. It would have just made you paranoid, not safer.”

She downed the rest of the Scotch in a fiery burst, blinked away tears, and said, “You’ve got no idea how this feels. First I’m dead. Then I’m hooked on your stupid drug, and now I’m some kind of mindless robot zombie freak. What if he’d ordered me to screw him? Would I have done that, too?”

They didn’t answer. McCallister looked down into his glass, but she saw how tight the muscles were in his jawline, and remembered the raw burst of fury she’d seen in him. So that answer was definitely a yes, then.

“There has to be something I can do about it. Anything!”

“We’re looking into it.”

“So until then, if some asshole comes up and talks about sapphires, I’m a slave? That’s all you can do for me?”

“There may be something else,” Joe said. “Give me a day to look into it.”

A day. The prospect made Bryn shudder, going out into the world again with that kind of astonishing vulnerability. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t wait that long. I need help now!”

“One of us will stay with you at all times,” McCallister said. “You’ll be safe, Bryn. And we will find a way to neutralize the protocol.”

Fideli nodded. “But, Pat, this changes things. It either means the leak ain’t the same guy as the one who knows about the protocol, and someone inside Pharmadene is trying to use her freelance, or—”

“Or the leaker knows about the protocols as well. That’s a very small pool of knowledge. And suspects. It may help us.” McCallister finished his Scotch and put the empty glass on Fideli’s desk. “How’s your security here?”

“Damn good. Blocking technology built right in for data and physical surveillance countermeasures. And as you can see, firepower’s up to the challenge.” Fideli shrugged. “As panic rooms go, it’s all right.”

“And you can get the family here in an emergency.”

“They know the drill. It’s as safe as anyplace we could go. We’ve got internal sources of food, water, sewer, medical supplies.”

“Airflow?”

“Three sources, one damn near impossible to block. Plus oxygen for emergencies.” Fideli’s usually cheerful expression went suddenly cold and blank. “You think they’re going to come after Kylie and the kids.”

“I think if this heats up, we’ve all got bull’s-eyes on our backs, from both sides. So watch out for trouble.”

Fideli inclined his head, just a little. “What about her?” Meaning, of course, Bryn. “Her apartment’s not exactly a hardened bunker.”

“I’ll do personal security tonight. Tomorrow, it’s your turn. And, Joe—check on the progress of our consulting friend. I think our time line’s been moved up.”

“Affirmative on that; I’ll see if I can get an update. You two crazy kids have fun.”

With McCallister?

Bryn was fairly certain that nowhere in the universe was that possible.