Page 77 of Agent Zero
Caldwell shrugged.His grin faded, but the smugness didn’t.“Control wanted all assets in place to be turned toward solving the problem.And it’s better than you were doing.Sir.”
For a moment Bronson wasn’t sure he’d heard the man right.Maybe it was sleepfog, maybe it was Bronson’s phone buzzing again in his pocket—this time it didn’t feel like a tiny animal, it felt like a set of razor claws digging into the top left of his chest.
Maybe it was Three, behind Caldwell, studying Bronson as if he was some kind of rare bug.She was in a parka with a fur-lined hood and fatigue pants instead of a skirt and blazer; they looked good on her, covering up the skinniness.The bags under her eyes were gone; Caldwell had probably ordered her to eat and change clothes.
Caldwell had probably made sure she had clothes to changeinto.The major was muscling in.Control was already looking to cut deadweight, and the big man would be a fool if he hadn’t given the little boy a set of orders concerning his immediate superior.
This doesn’t look good.Especially not for Ma Bronson boy’s Ritchie.“You took a valuable asset off without—” he began.
The major actuallyshrugged.Athim.At Rich Bronson, who had been here from the beginning.“Three, why don’t you rack that and get cleaned up?There’s fresh kit prepared for you.We’ll debrief over breakfast.”
The woman didn’t even look at Bronson.She simply said, “Yes, sir,” in her usual colorless tone, turned on her heel—even the boots were new—and glided away.
Oh, no, you don’t, you pipsqueak.“So, you’re the big man now?You’re thinking you can?—”
“Shut up, Dick.”He even said it kindly.“You were making a huge mess of things—I’m going to report as much to Control.Time for you to go out to pasture, old man.”
Sonofa...Rich Bronson stepped forward, his fist flashing out.He was old and fat, true, but he’d been a boxer long ago, and he still moved with some lumbering grace.There was a satisfyingcrunch—the major’s profile was never going to be Grecian again, and that was just fine.Caldwell’s head snapped back.A gusher, bright blood pattering down; he’d definitely broken the little snot’s nose.
“Now you listen to me,” Bronson snarled, shaking his hand free of echoes.“I’m still in charge here, until Control arrives.I don’t take orders from you, and God help me, after I finish talking to Control you’ll be busted down to scrubbing toilets in Leavenworth.Get out of my sight.”
He shouldered past the major, stalking for the conn rooms.Time to do some real damage control, but first, he was going to tie up a few loose ends.
Maybe Caldwell would be one of them.
Had Bronson turned around, he might have seen the major staring at him, hate sparkling-bright in those already-puffing blue eyes, blood dripping on his uniform from a broken nose and a wide, unsettling smile on his thin lips.
FORTY-NINE
They puta black hood over her head, but she could still hear—and smell—just fine.Washed-out scents unlike Reese and Cal’s, but male all the same.Metal, pepper, waxy sweat.
Soldiers, she thought, and a chain of memory detonated inside her head.Her father’s uniform, spray starch, nylon webbing, the odor of guns hanging on him when he came back from the range.His aftershave, always with the faint tang of sweat.Engine oil and grease on his callused fingers.
Her father on the hospice bed, and the thin line of the EEG.Brain death.He’d fought the cancer hard, but in the end, it hadn’t been enough.
Nothing in her father’s life had ever been enough.Not even his daughter.
Oh, Daddy.
There were at least a dozen of them.She stayed limp, not giving them any reason to manhandle her.They weren’t brutal, simply businesslike, and her arms ached from when she’d struggled, trying to avoid the handcuffs.
At least she wasn’t cuffed behind her back—that would have been worse.
It had taken more than three of them to overpower her.Even if she wasn’t as strong as Reese, there was something to be said for pure desperation.
Metal grating echoed against their boots; she was being carried like a sack of potatoes.They were all nervous, a high rasping edge scraping against her own tenuous calm.
Stairs.Her head lolled, slung between two of them.Maybe nobody wanted to fireman-carry her.
Think, Holly.Come on.
The helicopter, hearing military jargon yelled back and forth over the thrum of rotors.Thin copper thread of blood—she’d scratched and kicked, so one of them had hit her with something that felt suspiciously like a rifle butt.
It could have broken her neck, she supposed.She was lucky.
Turns, as they moved along a corridor that now echoed like bare cement.Left, right, two rights, a left.She counted them, wishing her head wasn’t spinning so badly.Lost track, restarted.If she got a chance...
What would Dad do?Her father didn’t talk about active duty, so she had to guess.He would have known some trick for when you were captured by the enemy.Be smart, Holl, he would always say.There’s my smart girl.
