Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
“They were just coming to pick you up.” The aspirin Bronson had taken just before entering this glare-lit, linoleum-floored room wasn’t kicking in nearly soon enough.
His head was pounding, and being in a room with one of the damn subjects was always nerve-racking.
Eight was zipped to the metal chair, the chair was bolted to the floor, and the new head of the medical staff swore the massive dose of tranquilizer was still working its way through the subject’s system.
The blond guy, reeking of smoke and covered with soot, dirt, and probably dried blood from the capture team, stared at Bronson, nostrils flaring a little. He said nothing.
“You escalated, Eight. This is bad. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me something. Anything.” Make him think you’re on his side. His own shirt was none too fresh; he couldn’t even send Three to get him a new one. Christ alone knew what would happen if they lost her.
Besides, he didn’t want that computer brain poking around inside his apartment.
Eight sighed. It was a deep, heavy sound, and Bronson braced himself.
“What. Do you. Want.” Each word as flat and uninflected as if Three was speaking instead.
Three was in the safe room, watching through the video feed. She hadn’t corrected Bronson in a whole twelve hours or so, which had to be some kind of record. Which reminded him, he should probably send her to residence soon. She was looking a little wilted.
Not that it mattered. She’d never win any goddamn prizes.
His head would simply not quit throbbing.
That bottle of Chivas in the filing cabinet was sounding better and better the longer this went on.
Plus, the lights in here hurt his eyes. The cinder-block walls weren’t comforting at all, either.
“Another agent’s gone off the reservation.
” It was Bronson’s turn to sigh, not dramatically but certainly with feeling.
“I’ve talked to the higher-ups. Told them you could track him, especially since it’s domestic.
I think I’ve got them ready to give you another chance.
” He kept his hands loose and dangling-empty, wishing he could fiddle with a file. A pencil, a paper clip, anything.
The autopsy had confirmed the civilian girl Eight had been banging didn’t have any hint of the original virus or Gemini.
Eight’s bloodwork from two days ago was solid, but the eggheads were muttering something about core load and stress factors.
Control had checked in—some of the other agents had been brought back in fat, dumb and happy, and those were slated for the induction process even though there was a near-zero survival rating for that.
If they did make it through, they’d be like Three. No trouble at all.
Eight’s head tilted slightly, his eyes bright blue and direct as ever.
He was in rags of civilian dress—jeans, a sweatshirt, filthy socks since they would have taken his boots as a matter of course—but he didn’t look nearly as battered as a man who had just been through house fire, gunfight, and rendition should.
Even secured to the chair with zip ties and handcuffs, it was best not to underestimate the subjects. Which was why Bronson stayed near the door, why Caldwell was right outside and teams stationed at either end of the hallway.
“Did you change your cologne?” Eight asked.
“What? I don’t wear—come on, soldier. Don’t be a smartass. I just got chewed out for sticking up for you. Are you going to be reasonable or not?” Because if you don’t play ball, you’re liquidated. You bastards can’t survive a shot to the head, no sirree.
Ten minutes later, Bronson stepped out into the hall. Caldwell, sweat drying and flaking on his forehead, snapped to attention. He had blue eyes too, not so piercing as Eight’s, bloodshot and blinking now. “Sir?”
“He’ll play ball. Take a six-man team in, untie him, give him something to eat. Get him some kit. I’ll pull the target file together.”
Caldwell nodded, but didn’t move. “You think he’ll—”
“He doesn’t have a lot of options.” Bronson massaged his temples, hard, with slick sweating fingertips. “In any case we’ve got him chipped, and we’ve got grids and cores from here to Florida.”
“Yessir. You’re doing a good job, sir.”
Like you can tell. But Bronson nodded. “I’m going to go home and get some clean clothes. Call me if anything happens, and for God’s sake, don’t let Three offbase.”
“Wasn’t planning on it, sir.” The major blinked like a surprised raccoon. “Um, should we... I mean, should I feed her?”
“Feed her, water her, whatever. Just keep her on the damn base, and be careful with Eight.” Bronson glanced at the door he’d just exited, glad to be finished with at least one disagreeable task. “By the book, nice and slow, don’t cut any corners.”
“Yessir.”
By the time Bronson reached the end of the hall, his headache was thankfully starting to fade. He decided not to ask Three what she thought of Eight’s calm, steady agreement. He had a handle on this himself, and all of a sudden his entire body itched.
He couldn’t wait to get into fresh clothes.