Working Stiff

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