Two Weeks' Notice

Relief made her weak at the knees for an instant, and then she felt her cheeks burn a little. Maddening, because she hadn’t overreacted…not considering the circumstances.

“I watched the videos,” he said. That surprised her, and she realized with a shock that in the heat of dealing with Annie she hadn’t even thought about the videos. “Two theories come to mind. First, someone is conducting a cleanup, officially sanctioned or not.”

“Which would explain why Graydon was on the list of vendors for Pharmadene after the turnover in management.”

“Or someone is abducting the Revived to find out exactly how they’re still alive. Testing them.”

Bryn hadn’t actually considered that. She’d been so focused on the method of their death that it hadn’t dawned on her to think about what might have happened before…but it was possible. More than possible. Someone could have gotten wind of the existence, or possibility, of a drug-based immortality; someone could have taken the logical step to find a person who was living proof and start experiments.

Which meant that when she’d seen Jason on the gurney being shot in the head and loaded into the furnace… that hadn’t been the beginning of his suffering.

That might have been a merciful end.

Her brain raced ahead of her, imagining all the horrifying things that could be done to a body that wouldn’t, and couldn’t, die.…It made vivisection look sane and humane, and she tried to close the door on her imagination, shut it off.

She’d go crazy if she spent much time in that dark, dark place.

“It could be something else,” Patrick said. He’d read her expression; she could tell from the sudden softness of his voice. “Something we haven’t considered yet. Let’s keep from rushing to judgment, Bryn. This is going to take a little time.”

“Time to what?” she said. “Track down two anonymous men in ski masks who are trying to abduct me?”

“No,” he replied very calmly. “Trap two anonymous men in ski masks.”

Oh.

Chapter 11

Dinner seemed fine, although Bryn couldn’t have said what it was exactly that she ate.…Chicken, she thought, with vegetables, all perfectly normal. Annalie, although pale and still nervous, was making an effort; she was all tinsel-bright smiles and eyes that were just a bit too wide, gestures too fast. Bryn watched her, waiting for any strange lapses, but she saw nothing but her sister, amped up a little too high. Liam didn’t seem to be paying attention, but she knew he was; he was well within striking distance of Annie’s fork, should she choose to go completely wrong, but her sister’s Protocol order hadn’t included the butler, just Patrick. And, of course, Bryn.

They were just finishing the dessert—a silky butterscotch pudding that was the first thing that actually made an impact on Bryn’s senses—when a tone sounded from the kitchen. That, she recognized, was the security alert. Liam excused himself, then came back and said, “Patrick, I believe you have guests. Again.”

“Wasn’t expecting any.”

“These seem to be in a large vehicle, and they’re wearing police-issue bulletproof vests. I’d guess that your FBI friends may be a bit unhappy.”

Bryn got up and went to the kitchen, where the surveillance monitors showed—just as described—a large tactical van, black and nondescript, with four men in helmets and flak vests standing around it.

Liam had forgotten to mention the semiauto rifles they carried. Bryn tried the little joystick on the keyboard, and zoomed in.

FBI. It said so very clearly on their vests. And walking up in the center of them, also wearing a vest but no helmet, was Special Agent Riley Block.

She didn’t look at all happy. That was extremely clear in the high-definition look she shot directly at the camera.

“Open the gates,” she said through the speaker, “or I’m driving in over them. That would be awkward for you to explain to the neighbors.”

Not that explaining the presence of an armed tactical team was going to be any piece of cake, if said neighbors were taking a jog around the block, but Bryn shot a look at Patrick, who was standing behind her. He shrugged.

“Might as well,” he said. “Knowing her, she’ll start using the bullhorn in the next minute.”

What he didn’t say was that this was an extremely vulnerable moment for them; if either or both of them disappeared into FBI custody, it might well be the last time they saw daylight, depending on what Riley knew, and how angry she was about it. But the alternatives were worse—shooting it out with the feds had never been much of an option.

Bryn pressed the gate release and disarmed the security system.

“What’s going on?” Annalie asked from the doorway. She sounded scared. “Is it—is it them?” She meant Jonathan Mercer and Fast Freddy, her captors.

“No, it’s not,” Patrick said without turning. “Mercer’s not stupid enough to come here. It takes a federal employee for that.”

“Hey, play nice,” Bryn said. Patrick smiled grimly. “Riley’s probably angry over the fact I lied to her about Graydon. She’ll have heard something else by now. What are we going to tell her?”

“The truth.”

“And the video?”

“We’ll play it for her,” he said. “Because I want to see her face when she gets a good look at what’s going on. If she knows anything about those disappearances, it’s going to be hard for her to hide it. If she doesn’t know… that’s instructive, too.”

The tactical van was rolling up the drive now, with the five agents riding the running boards. It was, Bryn thought, effective theater straight out of the Prohibition-era playbook. Riley knew perfectly well they weren’t going to walk into a guns-blazing firefight, but she was making a point.

Loudly.

Liam headed for the front door, but Bryn cut him off. “No,” she said. “It’s for me.”

“You want backup?” Patrick asked. She shook her head.

“Stay with Annie. I’ll see if I can’t make this go away without too much trouble.”

Patrick took Annie’s arm and led her to the kitchen table, and as Bryn was leaving, he asked, “Do you like hot chocolate?”

Bryn was sorry to have to go, if it meant missing out on the hot cocoa. But she firmly shut the kitchen door on the other three, and—Mr. French tagging faithfully at her heels—went to the front door and swung it open just before Riley was about to deliver a wood-damaging knock with the blunt end of a very large flashlight.

Riley glared at her for a few seconds, then turned to her tactical team, waiting just behind her with weapons still hot. “Stand down,” she ordered, and arched an eyebrow at Bryn. “Unless you want to do it the hard way?”

Bryn silently stood aside to let her in. The team commander followed her inside and gestured for his other men to remain where they were. Well, Bryn thought, at least we don’t have to worry about my friends in the ski masks sneaking up on us just now.

What she did have to worry about was the boiling fury kept barely under the surface in the FBI agent’s body language.

“I suppose offering you coffee would be out of the question,” Bryn said, and got nothing, just a flat stare as she closed the door. “Okay. Shoot. Metaphorically.”

“You lied to me,” Riley said, and every word was individually sharpened and polished to a high sheen, and flung at high speed. “Do you really think your situation is that safe, Ms. Davis? Do you think that because you’re living here, you’re no longer subject to the terms of the agreement you signed? Because lying to me is a very, very bad idea and will have serious, painful consequences, not just for you, but for Mr.