"So, if you were always assigned to bring me to Pugli, then why were those guys after me?"
"Pugli likes to double his coverage. Any job he needs done, he hires more than one crew or person to do it, but he don't tell them there's others. If they brought you in, they'd get the payday. If they killed me on the way, so what? No skin off anyone's back." He glances at me. "You sound like you know who he is."
"My father is Nicholas Harris." I figure it's all I really need to say.
"Operator royalty, he is. Him and his men. They're all famous. Duke, Thresh, Puck, Lear, Anselm. Fuckin' the best of the best. And you grew up with 'em?"
I nod. "Those are the uncles I mentioned.”
He scrubs his forehead. "Jesus. And they trained you some, didn’t they?"
I nod. "They won't let me on the teams, though. Pisses me off." I make a snooty, disgusted face. "I'm not ready, they say."
Rush sighs. "You're their daughter, Bryn. The teams, military or otherwise, are deadly work. Even if you're the best in the world, bad shit happens. Did to me."
"I froze. That was my fucking moment, and I froze. I guess they're right, huh?"
“Not for that, nah. Promise you, every one of them uncles will tell you how they froze at some point. And when it really counted, when your skin was on the line, you did what you had to do. Like a fuckin' pro, love. They'd be proud."
“Proud? I don’t think so, Rush.” I shake my head, eyes blurring. "I ran away like a spoiled brat. I didn't tell anyone where I was going. After all my parents have been through, I pull that fucking childish stunt?" I bury my face in my hands, unable to stop myself from crying. "God, I'm the worst."
His cell phone appears in my eyeline. "Call 'em."
"What?" I lift my head, blinking away tears.
"Past time for playing about, Bryn. They're way past angry and into into full-on panicking by now, I'll bet. They're involved. Call and ask for help."
Goddammit.
I hold the phone, but don't dial. I stare at him. "Why did you change your mind? What changed?"
He sighs, leaning against the window, driving with his right wrist draped over the steering wheel. "Call 'em. Set something up to get that chip out your fuckin' neck or wherever the dozy pillocks put it. Then I'll tell you everything."
"Everything?"
He nods. "Every last sordid, cocked-up, bastard detail, Bryn."
10
10: A STUDY IN PAIN, STUPIDITY, AND DEATH
She dials an extraordinarily long series of numbers. Puts the phone on speaker, holds it near her face, parallel to the floor. It rings three times.
"Acme Concierge Service, how may I help you?" The voice that answers is a smooth, accent-less female voice, a professional phone operator.
I stifle an involuntary snicker at the name Acme, though. What is this, Bugs fucking Bunny?
"Hi, my name is Jane Smith,” Bryn says. “I need to get in touch with a travel agent." Bryn's voice is even, expressionless.
"I see. Do you have a particular agent in mind?"
"Yes, actually. I was hoping you could connect me to Doc Smith."
There's a pause. "I see. And this is Jane Smith, you said?"
"Yes."
"Do you have an ACS identification number?"
