The Operator
Page 74
Flat on the floor, Michael grimaced, panting as he pointed the rifle at Bill. One hand clutched at his knee, the other shook on the trigger. “You lied . . . to me,” he gasped.
It was falling apart, and that pissed Bill off. “I said, stay out!” he shouted at the team clustered around the door. “If Michael wanted to kill me, he would have already!”
At least that’s what he told himself as he shoved the fear down and strode brusquely to Michael. Kneeling, he yanked the rifle from Michael’s grasp, tossing it to the blood-splattered couch. He wrapped a kitchen towel around Michael’s knee and sat him up. “I never lied to you,” he muttered as he tried to be as gentle as he could, thinking it was odd—tending to Michael as if he were a baby when the man had just pointed a rifle at him. “I told you she would try to kill you if you threatened her. This is her way of doing it.”
“Accelerate me,” Michael said, panting as he listed sideways. “Now.”
Blood coated his hands, and Bill levered himself up and back to sit on the edge of the cushy chair. A weary chuckle slipped from him, and he waved the guards away with a red-stained hand. “You’re not going to draft to fix this, are you?” he said, thinking it had to be getting close to Michael’s ninety-second ceiling. “It’s your lack of trust that holds you back. And now you’re going to let fear keep you out of the game of bringing her down. Michael, this is why I wanted to accelerate her first, not you.”
“I wouldn’t be weak if you accelerated me!” he shouted, so pale Bill wondered how he wasn’t passing out.
“No, you’d be dead,” he said, reaching out to push Michael upright again.
Michael lurched forward, falling into Bill and sending them both to the floor. Bill took a breath to laugh at Michael’s obstinate temper tantrum, but it exploded from him in a wash of pain. White-hot agony ran down his side, and he hit the floor, staring at the ceiling as his hands clutching his neck were suddenly slippery and warm.
The bastard slit my throat! he thought, not even having felt it happen.
Flat on his back, Bill stared at the ceiling. Panic, new and unreal, washed through him in time with his pulse as his blood ran out and his brain began to falter.
Michael stood grim and bloody above him, blotting out the light as the rifle exploded again and again. The scent of gunpowder threatened to make him cough, and the cries of his men filled his ears. And through it all, Michael fired with an ease that belied his pale face.
Goddamn it, he’s shooting up my entire house.
And then it was silent except for Bill’s pained gasps. He jerked when a heavy hand gripped his throat, stopping the outflow. His sight grayed when Michael leaned over him, his eyes hard. “Now, old man,” Michael breathed heavily, “tell me the truth.”
The fucking cretin was insane. But he’d known that. “I-I did,” he rasped, sucking in air as if he were drowning.
“Are you sure?”
Bill spasmed as Michael eased his grip and a soft warmth flooded over their hands pressed to his neck. “Draft!” he choked out.
An ugly smile crossed Michael’s face, and he pressed down, ending the flow. “The truth.”
He wouldn’t remember anything when the draft ended, but if Michael wasn’t satisfied, he wouldn’t draft at all. “I have,” Bill said. “She’s trying to kill you!”
Michael leaned back and the light struck him. “I think she’s trying to kill you,” he said. With a sideways smirk, he let go.
Bill shuddered, gasping for air as his body thought he was drowning. He killed me. The son of a bitch killed me, he thought, and then the pain vanished with a sideways twist of déjà vu.
Michael had drafted, and Bill’s oxygen-starved brain floundered as it tried to cope until, with the sensation of breaking ice, everything flooded back with a crystalline certainty.
Bill groaned as time reset. He staggered, finding himself again behind the counter. His pistol was before him. His hand flashed to his neck, not the weapon, and his attention jerked to the door. “Don’t shoot!” he bellowed before his men could come in, his arms raised. “Goddamn it, the first person who shoots Michael is going to get my foot up their ass! Get out. Get out!” he shouted, and Michael, who would remember both timelines until they meshed, smiled.
Still resonating with the fear from his narrow miss, Bill held a hand over his neck. Michael had drafted over his ninety-second ceiling. Twice as far as Peri had ever managed. “How long have you been able to do this?” he whispered, still shaking.
Michael smiled like the devil himself. “Ask them to leave.”
Bill left the handgun where it was. “You heard him. Get out!”
The door was busted, but they backed off. Michael sat on the pristine couch, cradling his rifle, and Bill came closer, anger pushing out the fear. The little prick had tried to kill him.
“So what are we doing, Michael?” he said, feeling vulnerable in his boxers.
Michael took a pen from the coffee table and wrote on his palm. Leaning back, he took his rifle in his hands. His smile said he thought he was in charge. “There’s a way to keep you from scrubbing me when I snap out of this.”
Bill sat across from him. The absolute whiteness of his hands after the bloody gore of them was riveting. “Yeah?” he said, tired.
“Yeah.”
Bill looked up at Michael’s swift motion, not even getting a cry out before the butt of the rifle hit him square on the temple.
He woke up flat on the floor, his face pressed up against the thick pile carpet. It was silent except for a soft, feminine whimper, and he levered himself up, wiping the drool from himself.
Dead men ringed his living room, blood radiating from each one like broken flower petals. Michael was sitting pretty in the middle of it, the scent of gunpowder choking. Susanne was tied to a dining room chair, her eyes red but looking unharmed. It had to be very like what a drafter experienced after a jump, and he wondered how long he’d been unconscious. He’d be damned if he’d ask. Judging by the tears on Susanne’s face, at least ten minutes. By the dead men, not much more than that. And my house is shot to hell again.
“You had to kill them all?” Bill complained, and Michael shifted his posture.
“They didn’t trust me.”
Bill levered himself up onto a chair, ignoring Susanne’s muffled but increasingly loud demands for help. “Why should I?” he asked, rubbing a tired hand over his head.
It was falling apart, and that pissed Bill off. “I said, stay out!” he shouted at the team clustered around the door. “If Michael wanted to kill me, he would have already!”
At least that’s what he told himself as he shoved the fear down and strode brusquely to Michael. Kneeling, he yanked the rifle from Michael’s grasp, tossing it to the blood-splattered couch. He wrapped a kitchen towel around Michael’s knee and sat him up. “I never lied to you,” he muttered as he tried to be as gentle as he could, thinking it was odd—tending to Michael as if he were a baby when the man had just pointed a rifle at him. “I told you she would try to kill you if you threatened her. This is her way of doing it.”
“Accelerate me,” Michael said, panting as he listed sideways. “Now.”
Blood coated his hands, and Bill levered himself up and back to sit on the edge of the cushy chair. A weary chuckle slipped from him, and he waved the guards away with a red-stained hand. “You’re not going to draft to fix this, are you?” he said, thinking it had to be getting close to Michael’s ninety-second ceiling. “It’s your lack of trust that holds you back. And now you’re going to let fear keep you out of the game of bringing her down. Michael, this is why I wanted to accelerate her first, not you.”
“I wouldn’t be weak if you accelerated me!” he shouted, so pale Bill wondered how he wasn’t passing out.
“No, you’d be dead,” he said, reaching out to push Michael upright again.
Michael lurched forward, falling into Bill and sending them both to the floor. Bill took a breath to laugh at Michael’s obstinate temper tantrum, but it exploded from him in a wash of pain. White-hot agony ran down his side, and he hit the floor, staring at the ceiling as his hands clutching his neck were suddenly slippery and warm.
The bastard slit my throat! he thought, not even having felt it happen.
Flat on his back, Bill stared at the ceiling. Panic, new and unreal, washed through him in time with his pulse as his blood ran out and his brain began to falter.
Michael stood grim and bloody above him, blotting out the light as the rifle exploded again and again. The scent of gunpowder threatened to make him cough, and the cries of his men filled his ears. And through it all, Michael fired with an ease that belied his pale face.
Goddamn it, he’s shooting up my entire house.
And then it was silent except for Bill’s pained gasps. He jerked when a heavy hand gripped his throat, stopping the outflow. His sight grayed when Michael leaned over him, his eyes hard. “Now, old man,” Michael breathed heavily, “tell me the truth.”
The fucking cretin was insane. But he’d known that. “I-I did,” he rasped, sucking in air as if he were drowning.
“Are you sure?”
Bill spasmed as Michael eased his grip and a soft warmth flooded over their hands pressed to his neck. “Draft!” he choked out.
An ugly smile crossed Michael’s face, and he pressed down, ending the flow. “The truth.”
He wouldn’t remember anything when the draft ended, but if Michael wasn’t satisfied, he wouldn’t draft at all. “I have,” Bill said. “She’s trying to kill you!”
Michael leaned back and the light struck him. “I think she’s trying to kill you,” he said. With a sideways smirk, he let go.
Bill shuddered, gasping for air as his body thought he was drowning. He killed me. The son of a bitch killed me, he thought, and then the pain vanished with a sideways twist of déjà vu.
Michael had drafted, and Bill’s oxygen-starved brain floundered as it tried to cope until, with the sensation of breaking ice, everything flooded back with a crystalline certainty.
Bill groaned as time reset. He staggered, finding himself again behind the counter. His pistol was before him. His hand flashed to his neck, not the weapon, and his attention jerked to the door. “Don’t shoot!” he bellowed before his men could come in, his arms raised. “Goddamn it, the first person who shoots Michael is going to get my foot up their ass! Get out. Get out!” he shouted, and Michael, who would remember both timelines until they meshed, smiled.
Still resonating with the fear from his narrow miss, Bill held a hand over his neck. Michael had drafted over his ninety-second ceiling. Twice as far as Peri had ever managed. “How long have you been able to do this?” he whispered, still shaking.
Michael smiled like the devil himself. “Ask them to leave.”
Bill left the handgun where it was. “You heard him. Get out!”
The door was busted, but they backed off. Michael sat on the pristine couch, cradling his rifle, and Bill came closer, anger pushing out the fear. The little prick had tried to kill him.
“So what are we doing, Michael?” he said, feeling vulnerable in his boxers.
Michael took a pen from the coffee table and wrote on his palm. Leaning back, he took his rifle in his hands. His smile said he thought he was in charge. “There’s a way to keep you from scrubbing me when I snap out of this.”
Bill sat across from him. The absolute whiteness of his hands after the bloody gore of them was riveting. “Yeah?” he said, tired.
“Yeah.”
Bill looked up at Michael’s swift motion, not even getting a cry out before the butt of the rifle hit him square on the temple.
He woke up flat on the floor, his face pressed up against the thick pile carpet. It was silent except for a soft, feminine whimper, and he levered himself up, wiping the drool from himself.
Dead men ringed his living room, blood radiating from each one like broken flower petals. Michael was sitting pretty in the middle of it, the scent of gunpowder choking. Susanne was tied to a dining room chair, her eyes red but looking unharmed. It had to be very like what a drafter experienced after a jump, and he wondered how long he’d been unconscious. He’d be damned if he’d ask. Judging by the tears on Susanne’s face, at least ten minutes. By the dead men, not much more than that. And my house is shot to hell again.
“You had to kill them all?” Bill complained, and Michael shifted his posture.
“They didn’t trust me.”
Bill levered himself up onto a chair, ignoring Susanne’s muffled but increasingly loud demands for help. “Why should I?” he asked, rubbing a tired hand over his head.
