The Drafter (44 page)

Peri nodded, her gaze on the black branches of the dead tree above them. “I can't believe he hasn't left the state, much less the city.”

“Maybe he's calling us out.” It had almost been a whisper, and Peri snorted. “I'm serious,” Allen grumbled. “The alliance may have started an assassination corps.”

Silas doesn't have the build
, she thought, hunching down. A car was coming, the headlights bouncing across the abandoned streets marking the empty lots. “Right on time,” Peri said. It was like an itch. If she could just do this one thing, the rest of her life would fall into place,
she knew it. “Why does he do this at night? It's not like he's got to punch a clock.”

“They only have one car, and the woman works at night,” Allen said. “The guy with the dreadlocks drops him off on the way to taking her to her mall job. He sits in the food court, soaking up the Internet until she's done, and then they pick Denier up on the way home. Until they come back, Denier is on his own.”

And vulnerable
. She jumped at the slamming of a car door as Silas got out. The darkness made Peri and Allen invisible. “See you later!” a woman called, and Silas half turned and waved at the car as it did a one-eighty and started back the way it had come.

“Let's give him a few minutes,” Allen said.

Jaw clenched, Peri watched Silas unlock the thick padlock to get through the razor-wire fence. He left it unchained and used a second key to unlock one of the barricaded twin doors and slipped inside. Almost immediately the faint thrum of a generator rose. New light leaked out of the high glass windows that still remained.

Slowly Peri's mood shifted. She was intentionally going to kill someone. But the need to do something was almost unbearable. “I want this done,” she whispered.

“Then let's go.”

She stood, feeling exposed under the dead tree. In the distance, traffic sped in two lines of colored light—so many lives, and none of them would know what she did tonight. Steady, she touched her belt pack and then the Opti-issued Glock. The thrum of the generator echoed, hiding the tiny sounds of their soft-soled shoes on the old concrete. Allen was first to the razor-wire gate, carefully manipulating the chain so it wouldn't clank. She slipped in past him, then hesitated at the main door.

“Ready?” Allen whispered.

Anticipation was a sudden, bright wire snaking through her. Breath held, she scanned the fallow lots, the city looking like mountains. There, at the far end of the street, was a man. At least, she thought it was a man. Or was it a shadow. . . . Her eyes narrowed, and doubt made her hesitate.

“What is it?” Allen whispered, lips inches from her ear, and she shook her head.

“Nothing.” Resolute, she shifted the door just enough to slip inside. Allen was right behind her as they entered the scarred lobby. Grit ground between her and the marble floor, the sound muffled by the drone of the nearby generator. Power cords snaked deeper into the building. Barren walls and gouged marble swept clean by hazmat teams had left a scoured beauty. She couldn't help but feel a kinship with the old building, a shell with only fragments and pieces left to rebuild itself, and her doubts pushed to the forefront. For the first time, she felt like a killer.

He has to die
.

Peri's heart clenched in ache when she looked past a dented, modern door and into the auditorium. There wasn't much left. The musty blue seats were gone, leaving only a massive, echoing space with barren walls, lorded over by the broken balcony. Most of the Neo-Renaissance carvings and relief had been chipped or were missing. Water had damaged the once polished wood, and the white marks where the rot had been cut out of the stage were stark in the bright lights hanging from scaffolding. But her skin tingled as she remembered the power of three thousand people crushed into space designed for half that, all of them living to the same sound for just that moment in perfect understanding.

A card table desk with a metal chair was dead center on the high stage. A laptop was open on it, looking like a prop in an apocalyptic play. The scent of rotted carpet mixed with the clean smell of cut wood. Her eyes rose, and she blinked fast. The dome was intact where the water from the leaking roof hadn't reached, the colors and gilt looking as bright as the day they'd been painted.
Eastown isn't gone yet, and neither am I
.

A scuff pulled her attention and the memory vanished.

It was Silas, oblivious to them as he strode from the backstage area. She hardly breathed as he scrambled up a short ladder with a flexi-glass to make an electronic rubbing from one of the engravings near the balcony. She didn't see a weapon, but that didn't mean there wasn't one.

This is the man who tried to kill Allen?
she mused, recognizing his
dark hair and muscular, body-building form, but having a hard time reconciling the calm, relaxed pleasure he was taking in restoring the old building with the savage, raging lunatic in her thoughts.

The click of Allen's safety jerked through her. “I'll do it,” she said as she touched his arm, and Allen's brow furrowed. “Keep my exit open.”

For a moment, she thought he was going to argue, but then he nodded.

The snap of her holster was more feel than sound, and Peri pulled her weapon, gut tightening as she strode down the bare cement steps to the front, then levered herself up onto the stage. She slowly stood, and it was there she hesitated as Silas turned, eyes widening.

“Peri,” he breathed, and confusion stayed her—confusion at the relief and welcome in his voice. “You're all right,” he said, flexi-glass in one hand, wide-faced stylus in the other.

“Don't move,” she said coldly, and they both froze at the sound of the distant front door crashing into a wall.

“Silas?” a young woman's voice called, and Peri's mind fastened on it as familiar. “I've
told
you to lock the main door. We found tire tracks near the on-ramp, so Howie's going to stay with you tonight. Silas?”

Silas opened his mouth, but stayed silent as he tracked Allen bolting back to the lobby.

“Silas?” the woman called again, and then, “Holy crap! Howard!”

Silas jerked, and Peri motioned him to stay still. “Don't. Move,” she said as the sound of a fight rose over the droning of the generator. She'd killed people before—some who deserved it less than this man. But it felt personal this time, and . . . wrong?

“They're lying to you.” Silas edged off the ladder, hands raised. “Let me explain.”

“Shut up,” she demanded, her confusion growing even as her aim tightened. She wanted it to be over. She wanted the nagging noise in her head to go away. But as she stood on that stage amid the barren emptiness, she
couldn't pull the trigger
.

“Peri, wait,” a new voice pleaded, and her eyes flicked to a blond man coming up the stage's stairs. Tense, she retreated so she could see
both of them. It was the man from Overdraft, the one who had sat at the bar and observed, the one she'd thought might be with Opti's psych unit.
Shit. This is a test?

“I can explain!” she exclaimed, her aim never shifting from Silas.

Distracted, she was too slow when Silas lunged for her. The flexi-glass hit her chest, and he had her, twisting her wrist until the Glock went off to blow a hole in the wall. Silas slammed her up against the marble wall. Crap. It had been a test. And she had failed it.

“Taf!” someone shouted, but Peri was seeing stars, her ears numb from the gun's shot.

“I'm sorry, Peri,” Silas said, his fingers trying to pry the gun away as he pinned her to the wall. “I don't want to hurt you. If you would just listen.”

“Get . . . off . . . ,” she wheezed, twisting a foot behind Silas's and giving a yank.

They both went down. Silas yelped as they crashed into the hard wood, her on top of him.

“Will you hold still!” Silas said, and then suddenly she was facedown on the stage, her arms yanked behind her. “I'm trying to tell you something! Why do you never. Listen. To.
Me!
”

“You stole my life!” she shouted, hand still gripping the Glock but pinned to the floor. “Everything!” He was sitting on her. Allen wasn't here, and she desperately didn't want to draft. Teeth clenched, she struggled, never letting go of the gun even when her grip went numb.

“Remember your rule,” Silas said, sounding more irate than afraid. “You never kill anyone unless they kill you first. I didn't kill you. I'm trying to help!”

How does he know my rule?
“You tried to kill my anchor, you bastard!”

“Jack?” he said, and she gasped when the image of a smiling face, white from the light of a monitor, flashed through her. “I didn't kill Jack. You did.”

Who the hell is Jack?
Cheek pressed to the gritty wood, she puffed the hair from her eyes. “Not Jack. Allen.”

“Allen wasn't your anchor.” Silas's voice was full of doubt. “Jack was.”

Again, she saw a smiling face in her thoughts, and the blond man from Overdraft inched into her peripheral vision, bending at the waist to wiggle his fingers at her as if to say hi.

The feeling was coming back into her hand, and her grip on the gun tightened. All she needed was an inch and it would be over. “You pushed Allen through a window,” she seethed. “You threw him over the balcony. I
saw
you do it. I would've drafted but we were already in one, since you
shot him
!” She couldn't breathe, and she'd had it. “You over there by the table. Stop playing cute with me and get him off me! It's over. You won, you bastards.”

“Oh-h-h-h-h. . . . Shit,” Silas breathed.

Peri grunted in pain when Silas lifted her wrist and slammed it into the stage. Her grip opened and the gun spun away. Silas lunged for it, and she scrambled to her feet, skidding to a halt when he aimed the Glock at her. She could make a run for it, but at this range, he wouldn't miss. She'd probably end up drafting, and she backed up, rubbing her bruised wrist.

“Allen?” she called, and the silence was thick with the unknown. Lifting her chin, she glared at the blond man. “You guys are all dicks. Just let me kill him, and I'll be fine.”

Breathing hard, Silas felt behind him and put the gun on the ladder. She watched, hungry for the feel of it in her grip. “Jack is here?” Silas said, his voice thick with wonder.

“You mean the Opti psych guy? Are you blind!” Peri exclaimed, pointing at the man.

“Oh, babe, this is so bad for your asthma. I don't think you should kill Silas anymore,” the man said, and Peri's breath came in a heave. She knew his voice. She knew it!

“I'm so sorry, Peri,” Silas said as if he'd never tried to kill her, never laid a hand on her. “Opti messed with your mind. That's not a real person. It's a hallucination I stabilized to keep you from going insane when you overdrafted while remembering Jack's death.”

“Excuse me?”

Jack looked down, his fingers splayed over his Armani shirt. “Seriously? I'm not real?”

This is not happening
. “Allen?” she called, and the woman who had dropped Silas off rushed into the auditorium.

“Is everyone okay?” the blond young woman called as she ran forward, ponytail swinging. A thin man with dreadlocks bolted after her, clearly trying to catch her before she made it to the stage. “Thank God you're here!” she called, a faint southern accent coming through.

“Stay back!” Silas warned, and the woman slid to a frightened halt. “She doesn't remember you, Taf. You're scaring her.”

Scaring me?
Peri thought, but the woman's expression had gone sad, and Silas's hand slowly dropped when the man chasing her pulled Taf back a few steps.

“Where's Allen?” Silas asked, looking nervous.

Immediately Taf brightened. “Out cold,” she said, sounding as if she liked the fact. “The car is running. Are we taking her with us?”

Jack swung his head up, alarmed. “You touch me, and it will be the last thing you do,” Peri threatened, and the thin man pushed Taf behind him. Allen's gun was tucked dangerously in his front pocket, and Peri eyed it, wanting it badly.

Silas glanced at his watch. “No. Opti tagged her.”

“Opti doesn't chip their personnel like
dogs
,” Peri said indignantly, and the guy in dreadlocks chuckled. “What's so funny, Sherlock?”

“That's exactly what you said the first time.”

“Peri, just listen,” Silas said, his broad shoulders hunched. “Opti used my research to give you false memories, but if you can see Jack, then that means they're starting to break apart.”

Jack slowly sat back against the table. “That's me,” he said, but no one looked at him. “At least, I'm pretty sure that's me.”

Peri held her breath, trying not to hyperventilate. “I'm going crazy.”

“No, you're becoming sane,” Silas said. “We're going to leave in a minute, and you can tell Allen whatever you want.”

“Oh, there's a good idea,” the blonde said bitterly, and Peri couldn't help but admire her. “Give her right back to the people who brainwashed her.”

“I never said she had to tell him the truth,” Silas said. “It's up to Peri. And Jack, I guess.”

Uneasy, Peri looked at the man in the suit, deciding she'd known him before she'd lost three years. “You're not an Opti psychologist? How come you were at the bar this morning?”

But Silas was moving, and she fell back to keep space between them. “Howard, will you and Taf wait in the car?” Silas said. “I need to talk to Peri alone.”

“Sure,” Howard said reluctantly, and the woman waved her fingers at her as they left.

Peri could hear their voices discussing her even before they got out the door. “You've got them well trained,” Peri said, and Silas looked startled.