my throat. All I could think of was my daughter, her eyes closed while she slept in bliss. I’d never see her again.
A shot rang out.
The co-org on me stiffened, his claws nicking the skin on my neck.
Black smoke poured from a bullet hole on its side.
Brynner shoved it with his foot, rolling it off me. “First two out of every three rounds are stoppers. We use them in the legs to keep the meat-skin from going after someone else.” He put the gun carefully to the co-org’s chest and pulled the trigger three more times. “Every third one is pine, silver, holy water, and iron ore.”
I knew that. Somewhere, I remember hearing it repeated during firearms training, when I shot at monster-shaped paper targets with red paint bullets. That’s what the driver had tried to tell me as well.
The co-org stopped writhing and fell limp.
Brynner looked at the gun with disgust, and then back to me. “You almost killed me. Always look downrange of your target.” He removed the magazine from the Deliverator and hurled it at my feet. “You had no business coming in here. There’s a reason we say, ‘Don’t get dead.’”
“I was trying to help you.” My voice sounded distant, scratchy and high through the haze of adrenaline and fear.
“Do I look like I need your help?” Brynner sat down on a booth seat. Every breath he drew came with labored effort. Blood soaked through the front of his shirt, and his skin turned pale blue as he sagged over.
I snapped open my cell phone, calling BSI emergency services.
“State the nature of your emergency,” said the operator.
“This is Grace Roberts, employee ID 44902. We have a field operative down.”
I floated on a cloud of pain killers through the night, and a haze of guilt and anger the next day. At noon, the doctors released me, content I had no concussion. They let me go with a handful of aspirin and a wrap on my foot that made squeezing into my comfortable tennis shoes near impossible.
I had nowhere to go.
Home was a two-hour drive, and my car was back at BSI headquarters. So when I limped out the door of the hospital and saw Dr. Thomas waiting, I could only feel relief. He didn’t ask questions. Just opened the door, let me get in, and drove me back to BSI headquarters.
In the parking garage, he cut the engine and looked over at me. “You could have been killed.”
“I know. I almost shot Brynner by accident.”
“I doubt you were trained for those situations, Grace. You have a powerful mind, and determination, but those are only part of dealing with field operations. I’m sure next time you’ll be less likely to shoot him. Right now, the director would like to speak with you.” He opened his door, and we got out. “Just remember that field teams always stick together.”
I rode the elevator to the director’s office on my own, limped to her receptionist, who to my dismay, opened the door for me without delay.
She leaned into her phone. “Grace Roberts is out of the hospital.” She looked back at me with a look of pity. “The director will see you immediately.”
I dragged my foot on the way into Director Bismuth’s office, making each step slow and careful.
She sat behind her desk, reading a report. She didn’t look up to meet me. “You weren’t walking like that when you exited the elevator.” With one hand, she pointed to a bank of camera monitors. “Tell me again what it is you do for the BSI?”
I faced her head-on. “I’m a first-rank translator for ideoglyphic languages. Minor in Egyptian culture.”
“Did your courses include training in heavy arms?” “No.”
“What is the outfit you are wearing?” The director stopped to rake her gaze over my bloody clothes.
I stuttered, starting to name brands.
She cut me off, her jaw set, her eyes narrow. “Is it laced with Kevlar? Fitted to your body? Designed to withstand two hundred pounds per square inch? Because if it is not, I have to ask what you were thinking.”
“The driver said—”
“Our drivers have a license, a GED, and get paid minimum wage.” The director stood. “Answer the question.”
I grasped at Dr. Thomas’s suggestion like a lifeline. “Field teams back each other up. Always.”
Without answer, she walked past me, slamming the office door shut. Director Bismuth began to pace around the room, watching me the whole time. After several laps she stopped. “Ms. Roberts, how did you wind up at the restaurant?”