Working Stiff

That was the end of it. Bryn retrieved Mr. French from where he’d been snoozing in the corner of a very empty plastic-walled room, and five minutes later they’d negotiated the spy-quality security and were driving out into the sunlight. Mr. French wiggled into the front seat, onto Bryn’s lap, and gave a pointed whine as he put a paw on the door.

“Oh—ah, we need to stop somewhere,” she said. “Time for a walk.”

McCallister was frowning, very inside himself, but that startled him into an even deeper frown. He said, “Do you trust me?”

“I hate it when you ask me that, because it means you’re about to do something I won’t like.”

“Bryn.”

“It depends.”

“That’s … not what I was hoping for.”

“Look, could you please just stop the car?”

“Not yet. We have an alibi to establish.”

“Which is …?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

It took fifteen minutes for him to finish his drive and arrive at the destination, and he was entirely right: she didn’t like it.

“Seriously,” she said, as he parked.

“Take Mr. French for a walk. I’ll check us in.”

Bryn opened the door, and Mr. French hopped down and ran, loose skin flapping, for the small, straggly strip of brush and grass at the rear of the parking lot. “Wait!” she called, and hurried after him as McCallister headed in the opposite direction. “Stupid dog.”

Well, it wasn’t exactly his fault; he clearly had needs. So did she, as a matter of fact, and standing out here fidgeting from one foot to the other reminded her of it. Not that she was looking forward to exploring the bathroom facilities of the Hallmark Motor Court Inn, which looked like it had last seen any kind of upgrade in the 1970s. It was faded pink stucco, flat roofed, built in an L shape around a parking lot and a fenced-off, trash-filled dry pool that insurance issues had probably long ago rendered useless. There were six cars in the parking lot, mostly beaters, and it didn’t look like a place anyone stayed for more than a couple of hours unless they were seriously down on their luck.

She was starting to get a sense of what McCallister’s alibi would be, and no, she didn’t like it at all.

When she blinked, she had an image of utter darkness, of being trapped in a coffin, like Manny Glickman; of gasping for each trembling breath, knowing that each one was one closer to the end. That would happen to her, too, when she missed a shot. How long would it take for the invisible little machines that kept her breathing to slow, drift, shut down? How long would it take for the toxins to build up and poison her? God, how long would she be able to feel it?

Mr. French watered a few dry spots on the ragged lawn, then wandered over to the edge of the building. The wilderness was thicker there, mostly knee-high grass and some very wild-looking shrubs, everything shrouded in shadow by the angle of the sun. Bryn patted her thigh. “Come on, boy. Let’s go.” He ignored her to sniff the concrete, intensely interested in some ghost of a prior dog or cat. “Oh, come on! Seriously?”

He waddled farther into the shadows, nosing out scents, peeing where he felt it might be necessary, and then squatting down at a modest distance.

Bryn was peripherally aware of a man coming out of a room a couple of doors down, but her attention was on the dog and her near-bursting bladder; when a shadow came into her peripheral vision she was sure it was McCallister, returning for her.

But it wasn’t.

The shove caught her unprepared, sending her stumbling after Mr. French, and as she twisted to get a look at the man who’d pushed her she realized that she was in deep and immediate trouble. He was big, and his eyes were dead in an immobile, expressionless face. “Cash,” he said. “Give it up, bitch.”

She didn’t have a purse, or anything in her pockets. “I don’t have—”

He hit her, hard, in the face, and the pain exploded into black waves and red stars. Mr. French came charging out of the grass. He latched on to the man’s pant leg, but was kicked away.

Bryn immediately went for her gun.

Too slow. Her attacker grabbed her by the shirt and punched her again, even harder, twice in the face, once with shattering force in the gut. She only managed to jerk her sidearm partway from the holster before he’d slammed her down on the ground, and then twisted, trying to throw him off to get leverage to draw it the rest of the way. No good. He grabbed the gun butt and pulled it free. She struggled with him for it, but the knee in her stomach was making her giddy and weak.

With a final wrench, he got control of the weapon.

She didn’t hesitate; she slammed her fist into his balls as hard as she could, and he flinched, off balance. That let her throw him off, but he held on to the gun.

She could hear Mr. French’s snarls, then a yelp, then more vicious snarling as he went back at her attacker.

The man aimed her own gun at her, and she knew in that second he intended to kill her, and the dog … and then he looked around, backed up, kicked Mr. French out of the way, and ran.

Bryn rolled over slowly to her side. Blood dripped onto the grass in vivid red globes, and when she coughed it sprayed out in a mist. It was all weirdly pretty, and seemed very remote. So did the pain. She was aware it was there, but a chemical firewall had gone up between her and her nerves, and that was a good thing. Very good.

Mr. French suddenly appeared in her field of vision, whining in concern, and licked her face anxiously. She tried to shove him away, but there was no strength in her arms.

“Bryn.” That wasn’t her voice; that was someone else‘s. Oh, it was McCallister, kneeling next to her dog, staring down at her. He didn’t look remote anymore, or cold, or guarded. He seemed worried. “Can you get up?”

“Sure,” she said, and tried. She couldn’t. He pulled her up, and when her legs folded, he lifted her and carried her with Mr. French growling and whining around his feet as he walked. “Shut up, dog. ’M fine.”

“No, you’re not,” McCallister said. “You’ve got a broken cheekbone, your nose is smashed, and that’s just what I can see. Bryn, I left you alone for one minute.”

“Not my fault,” she whispered. “Mugged.”

“Why didn’t you use the gun?”

“Tried.” She swallowed a mouthful of blood, which tasted awful. “He took it.”

“He won’t have it for long.” McCallister sounded grim and very sure. “I’m going to have to let you stand for a second. I’ll hold you up.”

“I’m fine,” she said again, as if saying it could make it so. He let her legs swing down, and she concentrated on keeping her knees firm. And holding on, because the first plan wasn’t working so well. McCallister slotted a key attached to a big plastic tag into the door that was facing them, opened it, and carried her inside over the threshold, which struck her as weirdly funny.

When she laughed and coughed, he looked down at her with a frown. “What?”

“Just married.”

“Did he kick you in the head?”

“A little?”

McCallister slammed the door shut and put her on the bed. He probably did it as gently as he could, but all of a sudden, the firewall came crashing down in Bryn’s brain, and the full force of her screaming nerves hit her in a wave. She couldn’t bite back the cry of pain, and McCallister put a soothing, warm hand on her forehead. “Easy,” he said. “Be calm. I’m going to give you a booster shot, but I have to wait. The shots have to be a couple of hours apart. You’ve got enough damage that the last one will burn off quickly”. His fingers stroked her brow, smoothing back her hair, then withdrew. She felt Mr. French’s warm weight drape itself across her legs, and heard him whining in concern. “How bad is the pain?”

She swallowed and lied, like a good soldier. “It’s fine.”

“You really need to look up the definition of that word. Hang on.”