The Operator
Page 85
It hit her palm, and she spun the warm glass to read the label, a flicker of mistrust dying at the thought he might have put anything in it. If it wasn’t Evocane, she’d bring him down. “Thank you,” she said softly as she dropped it into the satchel and zipped it closed.
“Don’t thank me,” LB said, his expression empty. “Nothing is free.”
Silas stiffened, and she raised her hand, telling him she’d handle it. “Yeah? Be nice, or I’ll shove it down your throat,” she threatened.
“How do you know I haven’t sampled it already?” LB said slyly, and she relaxed.
“Because if you had, you’d die before giving it to me.” Satisfied it was Evocane, she settled back, thinking it was odd that she was safe in the back of a drug lord’s GTO. “You shouldn’t have let Jack run rabbit.” Damn it, she had been hoping LB would hold him for her, and the man just let him walk.
Thoughtful, LB followed the finger of the man riding shotgun to an upcoming exit. “Relax. The cops will get him. And if not, we will.”
“Yeah? Good luck with that,” she said, then went silent, feeling her fatigue all the way to her bones. Despite what LB had said, she knew Jack was gone until he wanted to show. Worse, she didn’t know how she felt about that. She didn’t remember her draft, but she’d seen his eyes afterward. He hadn’t touched her mind—and even with Silas there, it had been the perfect time to scrub her.
He was there for her, not Bill, and that changed everything . . . and nothing at all.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Packard’s main mall lacked the comfortable, familiar feel the repurposed automotive manufacturing plant usually did. It rankled Jack that it was probably because Peri wasn’t beside him, her slim, attractive figure drawing envious, appreciative glances, a reminder of how good they looked together. He got noticed on his own, but with Peri, the stares were envious. His attention drifted from the high support beams—repaired or replaced and acid etched to look old—down to his drink. The heavy paper straw he was using to stir his caramel banana smoothie had bent, and he grimaced. His hand ached, strained somewhere on Peri’s mad dash to Roosevelt Park, and he wished he’d gotten a frozen drink instead of the room-temperature fruit blend. Evading the local cops, and then LB’s gang after that, hadn’t been difficult. He’d been lucky that Peri had been knocked on the head and dazed; otherwise she’d never have let him drive off, the gang’s need for a rabbit or not. The only crime he regretted was having to dump the classic muscle car in the river.
The mall was busy, the cinema having just let out its largest theater and sending almost seven hundred pumped-up moviegoers back into the upscale shops that lined the three-block social sink Detroit had created for their new population to spend their money and time.
The Packard plant had been abandoned in the late fifties after having helped supply marine and aircraft engines for WWII. Almost vanishing from neglect, it was revitalized when it was realized that the distance between I-94 and Detroit’s rebuilt center was perfect. The derelict complex had been turned into a shopping experience like no other, where you could do everything from train your dog to publish your self-help video to enjoy a gourmet meal at one of the themed cafeterias or bars, before sleeping it off in one of the tiny hotel rooms affectionately named coffins. The complex was so large and sprawling that self-propelled vintage autos ran an assembly-line track right down the middle and through the more affluent shops: a loving nod to Detroit’s history.
But old cars on tracks were less than useless to Jack, and giving up on his smoothie, he squinted up to the second-story level, where Harmony was burning off some steam in one of the athletic centers. The front of the dojo was glass, and the mixed class sparred over oblivious shoppers, their thumps and shouts muffled but audible over the surrounding chatter and the young-man band from Australia, in town and mixing up their rhythms with old black men who’d never left Detroit and lived the beat their entire rich lives.
Even as he watched, the class ended. Jack didn’t move as Harmony chatted with a few of her friends before vanishing out of his line of sight and presumably downstairs. Uneasy, Jack resettled himself against the maple tree growing smack-dab in the middle of the walkway. According to urban legend, the tree had been growing out of the abandoned building when the developers had moved in. It had been allowed to remain, stretching to the distant glass ceiling as a reminder of how fragile man’s works were. It was Peri’s favorite spot in the mall—he had no clue why. An unexpected flash of angst lit through him at the reminder of her.
Perhaps Peri wasn’t the only one conditioned to never be alone, he thought, then threw his half-empty cup away in disgust, deciding to blame his unease on his lack of a weapon. Outwitting TSA was a hell of a lot easier than bypassing the mall’s subtly integrated but efficient weapons detectors. Fortunately not all the toys in his pockets went bang.
There was a soft chime and the receptacle beside him shifted from white to black. It was full, and with a slow movement, it began to move to the nearest reception niche for cleaning. Jack watched it go, his mood lifting when it stopped short, stymied by two boys messing with its obstacle recognition software until their mother jerked them out of its way.
The crowd at the end of the hall cheered at the rising, complex rhythms coming faster from the freestyle concert. The memory of his and Peri’s last vacation flitted through him, the way she had found common ground with people so far from her. He didn’t understand how she could do that and still not love him. He hadn’t lied to her about his feelings; she had just extrapolated far beyond what they actually were.
Eyes going to the dojo’s first-floor door, Jack straightened his newly purchased tie, glad he knew people here, people who would float him a suit without question, three years of healthy tips keeping their mouths shut about his ever having been in. A faint smile crossed Jack’s face. Detroit wasn’t his city, but he knew his way around her underskirts almost as well as Peri did. He chuckled when a memory intruded, of him and Peri at the big billiard hall over where the executive offices had once been. They’d capped the evening off with drinks and dancing in the members-only club. The view of Detroit always turned her soft and compliant—daring.
Jack’s smile faltered. He had to get Peri back. He had no intention of retiring, and he’d become too accustomed to being bulletproof.
“Don’t thank me,” LB said, his expression empty. “Nothing is free.”
Silas stiffened, and she raised her hand, telling him she’d handle it. “Yeah? Be nice, or I’ll shove it down your throat,” she threatened.
“How do you know I haven’t sampled it already?” LB said slyly, and she relaxed.
“Because if you had, you’d die before giving it to me.” Satisfied it was Evocane, she settled back, thinking it was odd that she was safe in the back of a drug lord’s GTO. “You shouldn’t have let Jack run rabbit.” Damn it, she had been hoping LB would hold him for her, and the man just let him walk.
Thoughtful, LB followed the finger of the man riding shotgun to an upcoming exit. “Relax. The cops will get him. And if not, we will.”
“Yeah? Good luck with that,” she said, then went silent, feeling her fatigue all the way to her bones. Despite what LB had said, she knew Jack was gone until he wanted to show. Worse, she didn’t know how she felt about that. She didn’t remember her draft, but she’d seen his eyes afterward. He hadn’t touched her mind—and even with Silas there, it had been the perfect time to scrub her.
He was there for her, not Bill, and that changed everything . . . and nothing at all.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Packard’s main mall lacked the comfortable, familiar feel the repurposed automotive manufacturing plant usually did. It rankled Jack that it was probably because Peri wasn’t beside him, her slim, attractive figure drawing envious, appreciative glances, a reminder of how good they looked together. He got noticed on his own, but with Peri, the stares were envious. His attention drifted from the high support beams—repaired or replaced and acid etched to look old—down to his drink. The heavy paper straw he was using to stir his caramel banana smoothie had bent, and he grimaced. His hand ached, strained somewhere on Peri’s mad dash to Roosevelt Park, and he wished he’d gotten a frozen drink instead of the room-temperature fruit blend. Evading the local cops, and then LB’s gang after that, hadn’t been difficult. He’d been lucky that Peri had been knocked on the head and dazed; otherwise she’d never have let him drive off, the gang’s need for a rabbit or not. The only crime he regretted was having to dump the classic muscle car in the river.
The mall was busy, the cinema having just let out its largest theater and sending almost seven hundred pumped-up moviegoers back into the upscale shops that lined the three-block social sink Detroit had created for their new population to spend their money and time.
The Packard plant had been abandoned in the late fifties after having helped supply marine and aircraft engines for WWII. Almost vanishing from neglect, it was revitalized when it was realized that the distance between I-94 and Detroit’s rebuilt center was perfect. The derelict complex had been turned into a shopping experience like no other, where you could do everything from train your dog to publish your self-help video to enjoy a gourmet meal at one of the themed cafeterias or bars, before sleeping it off in one of the tiny hotel rooms affectionately named coffins. The complex was so large and sprawling that self-propelled vintage autos ran an assembly-line track right down the middle and through the more affluent shops: a loving nod to Detroit’s history.
But old cars on tracks were less than useless to Jack, and giving up on his smoothie, he squinted up to the second-story level, where Harmony was burning off some steam in one of the athletic centers. The front of the dojo was glass, and the mixed class sparred over oblivious shoppers, their thumps and shouts muffled but audible over the surrounding chatter and the young-man band from Australia, in town and mixing up their rhythms with old black men who’d never left Detroit and lived the beat their entire rich lives.
Even as he watched, the class ended. Jack didn’t move as Harmony chatted with a few of her friends before vanishing out of his line of sight and presumably downstairs. Uneasy, Jack resettled himself against the maple tree growing smack-dab in the middle of the walkway. According to urban legend, the tree had been growing out of the abandoned building when the developers had moved in. It had been allowed to remain, stretching to the distant glass ceiling as a reminder of how fragile man’s works were. It was Peri’s favorite spot in the mall—he had no clue why. An unexpected flash of angst lit through him at the reminder of her.
Perhaps Peri wasn’t the only one conditioned to never be alone, he thought, then threw his half-empty cup away in disgust, deciding to blame his unease on his lack of a weapon. Outwitting TSA was a hell of a lot easier than bypassing the mall’s subtly integrated but efficient weapons detectors. Fortunately not all the toys in his pockets went bang.
There was a soft chime and the receptacle beside him shifted from white to black. It was full, and with a slow movement, it began to move to the nearest reception niche for cleaning. Jack watched it go, his mood lifting when it stopped short, stymied by two boys messing with its obstacle recognition software until their mother jerked them out of its way.
The crowd at the end of the hall cheered at the rising, complex rhythms coming faster from the freestyle concert. The memory of his and Peri’s last vacation flitted through him, the way she had found common ground with people so far from her. He didn’t understand how she could do that and still not love him. He hadn’t lied to her about his feelings; she had just extrapolated far beyond what they actually were.
Eyes going to the dojo’s first-floor door, Jack straightened his newly purchased tie, glad he knew people here, people who would float him a suit without question, three years of healthy tips keeping their mouths shut about his ever having been in. A faint smile crossed Jack’s face. Detroit wasn’t his city, but he knew his way around her underskirts almost as well as Peri did. He chuckled when a memory intruded, of him and Peri at the big billiard hall over where the executive offices had once been. They’d capped the evening off with drinks and dancing in the members-only club. The view of Detroit always turned her soft and compliant—daring.
Jack’s smile faltered. He had to get Peri back. He had no intention of retiring, and he’d become too accustomed to being bulletproof.
