Bronson froze. His teeth chattered and his lips trembled. The woman was beating him at his own game and was now calling him out while holding a gun to his face. Just shoot her, dammit. Pull the fucking trigger and end this already.
But he couldn’t. She was right, he didn’t have the balls. Ordering others to perform his dirty work was one thing, but actually doing it was something else entirely. Doug had never been fond of getting his hands dirty. Like it or not, and despite all of Beatrice’s misgivings, he needed her—but was it now too late for that? He queried her in a shaky tenor. “Where did you get that gun?”
“It’s a loaner. Got it from the boys in the armory.”
“The armory doesn’t loan guns out anymore.”
“It would appear an exception was made. Times are a-changin’, Doug.”
“I suppose they are.” Doug paused to buy some time. “W-what do you want from me?”
Beatrice’s lips curled into a sneer. Her aim held true and her stance stiffened. She didn’t falter. “Absolute authority to go about as I please, no restrictions whatsoever, full staff support from this point forward. And zero interference from you.”
The Walther PP32 in Doug’s hand felt as though it weighed twenty pounds. His forearm muscles screamed from the tension of the grip he had on it. “Or?”
“Or your day takes a nosedive into a very unpleasant place. And I take what I want devoid of your sanction.”
Doug nodded, mulling over her offer. “I see. What…assurances do I have should I agree to this?”
“After this kick in the teeth? Not a one. Instead, I’ll offer you a stocking stuffer, a little something you’ve always wanted but have never quite been able to achieve on your own.” Beatrice’s sneer drifted away, her lips drawing a flat line. “Glory.”
Bronson began lowering his weapon, doing so as involuntarily as breathing. She wasn’t catering to his ego anymore or even saying the right words at the right time; she was stomping his guts out and handing them to him. Was glory really all he had ever wanted? Surely it felt better than this. He’d always wanted to feel honored, exalted, like a king or a ruler perched high on his throne, servants at his every beck and call. His current position was close, but nowhere close enough. “Intriguing. And how do you intend to bring this about?”
Beatrice furrowed her brow. “You’re smarter than that, Doug. In the amount of time we have known each other, there is one thing about yours truly that you should have realized by now: I achieve results. We both want the same things, but we differ greatly in the way we choose to reach our goals. You have your way and I have mine. Yours has imagination and shows promise, but it’s idealistic at best. My way is far more…direct.”
“Direct?” Doug probed. “Is that how you wish to term your methods? Beatrice, you have single-handedly brought egregious turmoil into this organization, what was once a finely tuned, well-oiled machine.”
“Don’t kid yourself. This organization was in dire need of a tune-up,” Beatrice began with a snigger. “And I wasn’t trying to purposefully undermine your authority here, though I realize that is what I’ve done, I’ll admit that.” She lowered her weapon and leaned in, locking eyes with him. “But you started this, Doug. You moved on me first…you tried to emasculate me…and that was both your first and final mistake. Mark my words, there will not be another.”
Exhausted both mentally and physically, Doug fell into his chair. He looked away and folded his arms.
“There is no instance of a nation benefiting from prolonged warfare,” Beatrice said, quoting Sun Tzu. “To move forward, an endgame must be achieved.” She straightened and backed away from his desk. “I can do that for us, Doug. And I will do that. We can leave this place someday, you and me, together. I don’t want to be here any more than you do, and there are better places to go. It might seem like this whole world has plum gone to shit, but it hasn’t—not for people like us. We can escape this place and live like royalty in better places, but we must first relieve ourselves of all obligations.”
Doug brought his hands together and tapped his index fingertips. “You talk a big game.”
“Maybe, but I only play hardball,” Beatrice hissed. “And I play to win.”
Doug sighed exhaustedly. “Fine. So be it. If absolute power is what you want, I’ll grant it. I’ll make it happen today—mind you, doing so would be a hell of a lot easier with Tori still around, but since she’s not…”
Beatrice puckered her lips, looked away, and slid the Sig into her waistband. “Yes, I know, tsk-tsk, such a shame.” She rotated and headed for the door, kicking the fallen men’s arms and legs from her path. “Irrespective of this recent little tiff of ours, I still hold a great deal of faith in you, Doug.”
“Good to know,” Bronson muttered. “And where does this leave us?”
The blonde halted at the door. “Us?”
“Yes, us. There is still an us, right?”
“I never dwell on the petty, Doug. Neither should you.” Beatrice beamed at him with sparkling eyes as if nothing off-center had transpired. “Those wretched little bastards can mean the death of a relationship.”
Chapter 20
FEMA Resettlement Camp Bravo
Tuesday, March 8th
Mellow crevices denoting her crow’s feet, Sasha smiled in her sleep, a look of satisfaction adorning her middle-aged visage. As she dreamt of a world far and away from the one within which she presently abided, clattering and commotion rang out through the halls of her newly assigned dormitory.
Immersed in her subconscious, Sasha was happy. She felt vibrant and a third of her age. She pranced with exuberance on bare feet through a field of tall grass, arms outstretched to her sides, palms gliding along and
