Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [122]
“Then what do you want?” he asked, hands in the air in a shrug that might’ve been reaching for a weapon for all I could see. I had an image in mind of Bruce Willis in Die Hard, with the guns duct-taped to his back (see? A thousand and one uses). So rather than take any Hollywood-inspired chances I kicked him backward against the stairs, hard enough to take his breath away and keep it away for a few seconds.
I used this interlude to stand over him. “I want to know what it’ll take to close the program. For good this time.”
“You’re … out of … your mind,” he wheezed, clutching at his chest.
I jammed my foot down on top of his fingers, pressing harder against the place where I’d kicked, and where I suspected a rib or two had cracked, and must surely be jabbing against his lungs. He grimaced and grabbed at my calf, trying to force me off. If I gave him time, he’d do it. I’m crazy strong but I don’t weigh much, and he probably had me beat by eighty pounds.
I said, “His funding was pulled years ago, and he’s retired. So he’s gone civilian. Using mercenaries and someone else’s money.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Yeah, that’s what I think.” I jerked backward, clipping his jaw with the toe of my boot as I retreated. “And I’m not alone. Not like you are,” I said, trying to make it menacing and cruel.
“Oh yeah, that’s me. Lone gunman, grassy knoll. You already know it’s Bruner’s pet project. So go after him, for fuck’s sake!”
He was getting scared, and I liked it. I could also smell a little blood. Maybe he’d bitten his tongue? “But Bruner isn’t acting alone. Someone’s signing his checks.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” he said, and the words came out with a whistle. His right hand was sneaking toward his boot, so I kicked that, too—and a flash of metal flicked out of his hand to clatter on the stairs below.
“Pathetic,” I said. “Big man like you, trying to take a tiny vamp like me. Cheating, and still not getting anywhere. That ought to tell you something, dickwad. It ought to give you some idea of what we’re capable of—and if it scares you, well, it ought to. You know what?” I blathered on, oblivious to the events on the other side of the door, whatever they were. “I’m not even the oldest or strongest of my kind. Not by a long shot. I’m just the little lady who twigged to your schemes first. I’ve already pulled a few friends onto this … onto this case,” I called it the only thing that fit. “And we’re going to put a stop to it. All of it.”
“And how do you think you’re going to do that? You can’t just delete a few files, kill a few people, and it’ll all be over!”
I knew that already, so I asked: “Where’s the money coming from, then?” Because shutting off the money was the one surefire way to shut down the program—and that was the one big puzzle piece I was missing.
“Private backer. Nobody knows who he is.”
“Give me something I can work with,” I ordered, “and I might let you walk out of here in one piece.”
“All I do is … I just herd the volunteers, that’s all.”
“Kids like these, I get it. And just a few minutes ago you were telling me how they weren’t disposable.”
He shook his head. “Most of these kids never go near anything interesting. Only the A-grade gets recommended up the food chain. That’s all I do. Send them up the food chain.”
“Fine choice of words,” I said.
“You know what I mean!”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” And it didn’t make him a choirboy, even if I thought he was telling the whole truth, and I didn’t.
While I stood there deciding what else to ask, if anything, he wanted to know, “Then what about me?” He was wobbly, trying to sit up. I thought I heard something scrape and slide—definitely a rib.
“What about you? Oh, darling,” I said with a purr, having concluded that really, there was no way out for Mr. Bolton. Not now. Not unless I wanted him to go running to his boss and let the whole world know I was in town ahead of schedule. “You’re going to give Bruner a message for me. That’s what you’re going to do.”
“A