Working Stiff (Revivalist #1)

Working Stiff (Revivalist #1) Page 25

Fideli nodded. “But, Pat, this changes things. It either means the leak ain’t the same guy as the one who knows about the protocol, and someone inside Pharmadene is trying to use her freelance, or—”

“Or the leaker knows about the protocols as well. That’s a very small pool of knowledge. And suspects. It may help us.” McCallister finished his Scotch and put the empty glass on Fideli’s desk. “How’s your security here?”

“Damn good. Blocking technology built right in for data and physical surveillance countermeasures. And as you can see, firepower’s up to the challenge.” Fideli shrugged. “As panic rooms go, it’s all right.”

“And you can get the family here in an emergency.”

“They know the drill. It’s as safe as anyplace we could go. We’ve got internal sources of food, water, sewer, medical supplies.”

“Airflow?”

“Three sources, one damn near impossible to block. Plus oxygen for emergencies.” Fideli’s usually cheerful expression went suddenly cold and blank. “You think they’re going to come after Kylie and the kids.”

“I think if this heats up, we’ve all got bull’s-eyes on our backs, from both sides. So watch out for trouble.”

Fideli inclined his head, just a little. “What about her?” Meaning, of course, Bryn. “Her apartment’s not exactly a hardened bunker.”

“I’ll do personal security tonight. Tomorrow, it’s your turn. And, Joe—check on the progress of our consulting friend. I think our time line’s been moved up.”

“Affirmative on that; I’ll see if I can get an update. You two crazy kids have fun.”

With McCallister?

Bryn was fairly certain that nowhere in the universe was that possible.

Chapter 6

McCallister drove her home, and they didn’t talk. Not at all. He cast her glances occasionally, but he seemed to understand that Bryn wanted silence more than comfort. She did like that about him; he wasn’t afraid to just let her think, and having him there soothed the constant roil of terror inside her.

Except that he can make me do anything he wants, she thought, and shivered, even in the blast of the car’s heater. Anytime he wants it.

McCallister glanced her way and turned up the heater.

“It’s not that,” she said.

He nodded slowly. “You’re realizing how vulnerable you are,” he said. “I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you there was something I could do, but for now, we have to wait and see.”

“I thought having a gun would make me feel better, but if you order me to put it away, I have to do that, don’t I?” Her voice sounded soft, but bitter. “I have to do anything you want. Boss.”

“I’m not going to take advantage of that.”

“But you could.” She turned her face toward the passing dark streets. “Some would.”

He was silent for a moment, and then said quietly, “Yes. Some would.” That was it. He didn’t race to reassure her again, or to argue that he wasn’t like that. He just let it go.

And strangely, that made her trust him, just a little bit. If he didn’t need to defend his character, there was a lot better chance he actually had one. “Why did you bring me back?” She’d asked it before, but somehow, she didn’t feel he’d really answered.

“Would you rather we hadn’t?”

“Yes. I think I’d be better off dead. Don’t you?”

“No,” he said. “And if you want a real answer to that question …” He stopped, as if he were weighing his answer carefully. “You must have fallen next to the far wall, and a table tipped over and covered you. We had no idea you were suffocating until Joe realized you weren’t where he thought you were, and started looking for you. We were right there, and we let you die while we screwed around securing the scene. I was the one who moved the table and found you. I was too late. You were gone. When it came down to a choice, I really didn’t have one.”

There was so much going on in his voice, although he was trying to keep it bland and even. She could imagine how that had felt, to find someone like that—someone you might have been in time to save. Someone whose chance had slipped away while you were only feet away.

“So it’s guilt,” she said. “You did it out of guilt.”

He looked at her and said, “Would it make you feel better if I said yes?”

Obscurely, it did. A little. “Would you do it again?”

“Yes,” he said. “And I wouldn’t even think about it. Not now that I know you. And it wouldn’t be guilt if I made the choice now.”

“No?” She smiled a little, intrigued despite her weariness. “What would it be?”

He avoided that question neatly. “We’re here,” he said. “Home.”

The apartment complex looked shabbier than ever; the wind had blown some trash out of the overflowing bins, and it lay heaped against parked cars like dirty snow. McCallister found a parking space, and Bryn led the way up to her door.

He took her keys and edged her out of the way. “Let me check it first,” he said.

“It’s fine. Mr. French is on guard inside.”

He gave her a slightly baffled look, but eased the door open and hit the light switch. The bulldog inside stood up on the couch, growling, staring at McCallister with murderous beady eyes.

“Mr. French, I presume,” McCallister said. He sounded amused. “Call him off, please.”

Bryn whistled, and Mr. French’s ears perked. He stopped growling and sat down, but he still looked concerned until Bryn pushed past McCallister and came over to pet him. “Good boy,” she said, and scratched him behind the ears. “You just stay on guard against all the bad men.”

“Me included?” McCallister shut the door and locked the dead bolt.

“I have to walk him, you know.”

“Not until I check the other rooms.”

“There’s no need. Mr. French—”

“I’m not doubting his abilities. I’m just double-checking.”

It didn’t take long, really—the kitchen was tiny, the bedroom disorderly and almost as small. Closets held no surprises, and neither did corners or the dust bunnies beneath the bed. McCallister was methodical; she had to give him that: he not only checked every conceivable hiding place, including the bathtub, but made sure every window was firmly secured. She was vaguely worried about what he thought of her housekeeping.

“All clear,” he said. “I’ll take the dog out.”

“He’s my dog.”

“And I don’t want you outside alone,” he said.

“Fine. Come with.” Bryn clipped the leash onto Mr. French’s collar. “It’s a nice night for a walk, right?”

McCallister clearly didn’t like the idea, but he didn’t argue the point. Together, they walked the dog down the stairs and out to the grassy area on the other side of the parking lot. It was the common pet-walking area, and Bryn had brought her poop bags; Mr. French did his business; she cleaned it up. It was all very normal except that she had a solid male shadow who kept watching the shadows as if waiting for an army of ninja assassins to appear.

The only thing that happened was that a rat scrabbled out of the trash container and raced across the parking lot, making Mr. French bark and lunge to the end of his leash. Bryn struggled to hold on to him; he had a lot of muscle packed into his small body.

“Let’s get back in,” McCallister said. His body language was almost as tense as the dog’s, and Bryn finally surrendered and let Mr. French drag her back partway on the rat’s trail before she tugged him toward the apartment stairs. He went willingly enough, confident he’d driven off the invader, and by the time they were back inside, locked in, he stretched out and looked supremely self-satisfied.

McCallister checked the apartment again.

“We should eat something,” he said, coming back to find her still on the couch with the dog.

“I could call out for pizza.”

“No deliveries. It’s not safe.”

“Oh, come on, it’s pizza.”

“And if someone wanted to get to you, and me, it’s easy enough to doctor a pizza. No. We make something here.”

Bryn scratched the bulldog’s ears. “Okay, well, I hope you’re one of those amazing cooks who can make a feast out of two dried cranberries and a lemon, because that’s about all I have.”

McCallister looked at her in complete bafflement, as if she were making some kind of an obscure joke, and then checked the fridge. He stared a moment, then let the door swing closed. He repeated the exercise in the pantry, and pulled out a moldy half loaf of bread, which he threw out, and finally an open package of crackers and a peanut-butter jar.

“You don’t cook,” he said.

“Are you sure you’re not Sherlock Holmes? Because the way you notice subtle clues …”

“I thought everyone was capable of cooking at least a can of soup. How do you survive? Not on pizza.”

“They also deliver spaghetti, and sub sandwiches. And Chinese food.”

McCallister shook his head and sat down across from her with the crackers and peanut butter and a butter knife. He handed her a paper plate, which was the only kind she owned. Mr. French stood up, curiously examining the peanut-butter jar until Bryn shooed him off the couch. He obediently sat down, staring at the two of them, and the peanut-butter jar, from a different angle, and doing his best to convey that he was, in fact, starving.

Bryn ate in silence, casting glances at McCallister from time to time; chewing crackers and sticky peanut butter didn’t make for much conversation. By the end, though, the silence had begun to feel oppressive, and as Bryn swallowed the last of what was clearly a highly inadequate meal, she thought she ought to at least try to be social. “Thanks,” she said. “For, ah, making this.”