The Operator Read online

  “Yet you don’t approve of his acceleration,” she stated, and he began breathing again.

  “Not at this moment, no. If you could meet with him? He needs to be stroked, made to see what he’s in risk of losing. He’s exactly like Peri, obedient and willing. He just needs to see the benefits of playing within the rules.”

  Helen was silent. He was asking for a lot. She appreciated a discreet distance. But like every rich brat he’d met, she had an ego larger than her bank accounts, and to tell her that she could sway someone he couldn’t might be enough.

  “Ma’am, if you want to take him out of the program, I will do it myself this very afternoon, but I’d ask you to meet him first so you can see what I see. The boy has talent. He just needs someone he admires to look to. Someone he wants to please.”

  Bill held his breath, waiting. It hinged now on a woman’s pride.

  “Do you have an alternative way in place to get Peri her stopgap Evocane?” Helen asked, and Bill closed his eyes in relief.

  “Yes. Her past anchor is willing to feign wanting asylum to get it to her.”

  “Jack?” she asked, voice rising in surprise. “The one she tried to kill? Why would he risk helping her? She’d never believe that. I’d never believe that, and Peri is a smart girl.”

  “She loved him, ma’am, to the point where she still talks to him when she’s alone. If Jack shows up unexpectedly asking for sanctuary, she’ll listen. Especially if he brings her current anchor with him to sanction it.

  “Love,” Helen said with a laugh. “But I like the idea of Jack back in her life. It will bring her past directly into her present, reminding her of what she had been.”

  “That was my thought, too,” he said softly. Helen was going for it. He could smell the salt of the East Coast already.

  “Fine. I will see Michael. I have time this afternoon. You still fly out of Detroit, yes?”

  Breath fast, Bill turned to his desk, shocked to find there was no pencil, no paper. “Yes, ma’am.” She’d probably send her own jet, which meant he had a bare few hours.

  “We’ll get this sorted out. If they don’t accept Jack, he can at least keep tabs on her from a distance.”

  “That was my intent.”

  “Good,” Helen said. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, but she’d already hung up.

  Exhaling loudly, Bill set the phone gently in its cradle. Smiling, he held his hands up to gauge them. “Not a tremor, not a shake,” he whispered, then spun to his door.

  “Margo!” he shouted, startling the woman. “Where is Michael right now?”

  The wide-eyed woman touched her gray hair. “If he’s holding to your schedule, he’ll still be with his physical trainer, sir, working on his knee. But knowing him, he’ll be in the pool doing laps.”

  “Pool, eh?” Bill said, then darted back into his office. Motions fast, he yanked open the bottom drawer, pushing aside the bottle of scotch to find the dart pistol underneath. His smile widened as he checked the expiration on the Amneoset it was loaded with. He’d get a tech and a sedation dart from medical. Calculating the dosage was tricky, and if Michael was in the water, he’d want some help.

  First Peri, and now Michael. He hadn’t brought this many people down in a long time. Another pleasure regained in the pains of becoming small again.

  “Clear my schedule for today,” he said, dart pistol in his jacket pocket as he breezed through his outer office and down the empty hallway to the stairs, ignoring the older woman’s bemused but uncaring response.

  Michael was far more dangerous than he let Helen think, but killing him would be a tragedy and a waste. Peri was good—better than Michael would ever be—but Michael killed without remorse, and sometimes a throat that didn’t deserve it needed to be slit.

  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 cr
ashed 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.

  The plastic covering Michael’s suit rustled as Bill took it from the bathroom. His pace slow in thought, he stepped out into the cold again, grimacing at the bright light and the black line of clouds to the west. “Good God!” Bill heard faintly as he stomped down the stairs, gesturing for one of the drivers to open the trunk. “Why is it so cold?”

  “It’s January,” someone answered, and Bill carefully laid the suit in the back. It whined shut of its own accord, and Bill slid in beside Michael, appreciating the warm, running car. He didn’t have to say a word. The driver knew where they were going better than he did.

  Michael was still groggy, but his eyes were focusing again. Wanting to test his reflexes, Bill tossed a comb at him. Michael caught it, and the two men exchanged wary glances.

  “We’re going to see Helen Yeomon,” Bill said, noting there was only one attendant at the airport entrance as the white bar rose up to let them leave. “She’s the one making sure you have cookies in your jar and that Aston in your drive. Call her ma’am.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  It was breathy and disinterested, and Bill fought the urge to smack him again. “She likes you,” he said. “Don’t fuck this up.”

  Michael chuckled—probably because he’d gotten Bill to swear. “Then maybe you should tell me what I’m doing here.”

  Bill let his irritation show. It was the easiest way to manipulate Michael. “She’s worried about her investment,” he said, careful with his word choice since everything would end up in Helen’s ears.

  “She’s worried about me?” Michael was oblivious to the homes becoming more expensive the closer to the coast they went: marble and stone, Victorian, French, and Italian Renaissance—all with a view of the Atlantic. Newport had once been the summer playground of young-America’s rich, and one by one, the abandoned mansions were being reclaimed from the local preservation society as a new class of wealthy began to entertain once again on a large scale.

  “I’m not the one being dragged back to your stable kicking and screaming,” Michael complained, not impressed by the million-dollar palaces slumbering under the snow, waiting for the summer’s party season. “You’re the one she should be worried about, continuing to withhold an advancement that will widen my abilities.” He glanced warily at Bill. “I’m not working with any more anchors. I saw what you did to Peri, and I won’t let you wipe me.”

  Bill cleared his throat, not wanting to tell him that the investment Helen was worried about was Peri. “You need to trust a little, Michael. No one is going to wipe you. As you say, you’re a team player. Peri . . . not so much. Think of this as your chance to impress the hell out of her so we can change the schedule.”

  Michael snorted, his motions more steady as he took a swig of his water and set it carefully in the cup holder. But Bill watched him the entirety of the short drive through Newport and back into the outskirts. As he had expected, Michael’s expression evened out at the hint this might be the way to get what he wanted, and he stifled a smile when Michael pulled down the vanity mirror to check his hair.

  Muttering something about the scratch under his eye, Michael smacked the mirror back up, his attention going to the manicured surroundings as they pulled into a gated double-lane drive. Security waved them through without hesitation, but Bill’s eyes narrowed when a golf cart with two men followed them up the plowed and brushed road to a half-hidden white edifice at the edge of a dropoff. The extra security was new.

  The house was sprawling, all of it one story and strikingly modern in comparison to the surrounding elegant three-story mansions they had passed on the way in. The snow looked as if it had been carefully removed from the private drive, not randomly piled out of the way, and Bill decided it had simply been melted by low-voltage heating units right in the pavement. The pristine evenness of the snow in the yard caught and scattered the sun even as the clouds threatened to overtake it.

  “You sure you don’t want the suit?” Bill asked, hiding a smile when Michael silently pushed the door open before the driver could get to it.

  The flush of cold air pulled Bill out, and he sighed when Michael gave security a hard time when they searched him. Bill simply let them do their job, having known better than to bring anything that might be construed as a weapon.

  “You didn’t think they’d just let you walk in, did you?” Bill said when they got the okay to head up the shallow steps to the front door, where another man in security black waited. “Helen is the third-wealthiest woman after Oprah and Niks Sangdow.”

  “Sangdow?” Michael asked as he readjusted his shirt.

  “Drug and flesh dealer in Asia,” he said, nodding his thanks when the door security opened it and gestured them in. The air was markedly warmer and moist, and he coughed to clear his lungs, surprised when the expected echo was absent. Though appearing one story from the drive, the house was really three, the entrance on the uppermost floor and the rest dropping with the fall of the cliff it was built into. Most of the newly wealthy went for the safe bet of marble and cold spaces. Helen was no exception, her up-and-coming architect creating an environment perched on the edge of the Atlantic that somehow captured the power it looked out upon. Wide three-story windows faced them, twin staircases leading down to either side. Icy and dark, heaving water crashed on a rocky shore with no beach not a hundred feet away. Bill couldn’t help feeling a slight foreboding. There was no dock. The ocean was too unforgiving here.

  “This way,” their escort prompted, and both he and Michael brought their gazes back from the icy, angry Atlantic and followed the slim man down the wide stairway and across the great hall to an
opulent office overlooking the ocean. The cold harshness made an odd contrast with the girl kneeling at the coffee table, glue, crayons, and glitter strewn across the expensive wood and thick, warm rug. She was maybe six, and she never looked up as they were announced.

  “Bill!” a mild voice exclaimed, spinning them both around. “Thank you for coming.”

  “It is always a pleasure, Helen,” Bill said as Michael tugged his casual shirt to cover his worn belt. Helen set her pen down and stood from behind a small desk. There was a larger one on the other side of the room in the shadows, just as neat and precise as the woman herself. Her hair was short, the gray highlights lost among the original blond. Faint wrinkles about the corners of her eyes hinted at too much sun, but Bill was confident they were there because she wanted them. The rest of her face was tight enough to imply a youthful presence. Slim and well dressed in low heels and nylons, she came forward with a warm smile, dismissing the security with a small gesture.

  Bill took her offered hand, erring on the side of too gentle as he shook it. Immediately he tried to make up for it with a professional almost-kiss on her cheek. Security wasn’t really gone, settling in at the outskirts: not too far, not too close, just right.

  Helen dropped back and looked appraisingly at Michael. “Nice flight?” she asked, eyes traveling over his mussed appearance. “Did they make you circle around the incoming storm?”

  “I don’t know,” Michael said dryly. “I was drugged the entire way.”

  “Helen,” Bill interrupted smoothly. “This is Michael Kord.”

  “Michael.” She extended her hand, and Bill tensed as Michael took it. “It’s good to meet you. I feel as if I know you already, seeing as I’ve been following your progress since you entered Opti. Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice.”