“Yeah, I got your number,” Matt said sullenly, then sucked down another gulp of caffeine and sugar as he eyed Silas’s coat, carefully folded over the back of his chair.
Silas pulled the duffel closer and threw the coiled wire up into the driver’s seat. Pushing past the military gray sweats, he took out the tasteless, no-name running shoes. Like I’m going to run anywhere? The clink of medical vials drew his attention, and anger simmered as he recognized the heavy drugs. My God, they were butchers.
“You can keep these, too,” he said, dropping the vials on the counter in disgust.
Matt shifted his rolling chair back and forth in agitation. “How will you know she’s got the information if you don’t do a defrag?”
He didn’t want to get into her brain, afraid he might find himself there. “Maybe I can just ask her?” he said, ready to walk away. If they didn’t give him the freedom to do this right, it wasn’t going to work. “I can use this, though,” he said, leaning to take the slick touchpad hidden under a coffee-stained cup. It wasn’t glass, but he was betting it had this year’s operating system.
“Hey! That’s mine!” Matt protested, and Silas flipped it open, his eyebrows rising in pleasure. All the right apps in all the right places.
“So it’s not going to be bugged, then, is it?” Silas tucked it behind his coat. It was scratched enough to be real, and if it belonged to Matt, it would have everything he’d need.
“Give it back,” Matt demanded, afraid to force the issue.
“Soon as I’m done with it.” From outside, a car door slammed, then another. The flickering vid screen at the front showed a long black car and a tall woman in formal cocktail dress striding forward, flanked by her driver. Beyond the car was the river and one of Detroit’s casinos, looking dead in the low sun. “Someone’s at the door,” he said, and Matt spun at the sudden hammering.
“Dragon lady,” the tech whispered. Face reddening, Matt shoved off the counter to send his rolling chair to the front of the van.
The driver hammered again, and Matt punched in the code to unlock the door. 31415. Pi, Silas thought, moving Matt’s pad to the duffel bag and hiding it under the sweats. How original.
The door swung open, and Silas breathed in the cold fresh air coming off the river in relief. Diamond-and ruby-strewn, Fran stepped up and in, her six-inch heels making her more formidable than usual. A white fur shawl was draped over her shoulders and she reeked of perfume. “Stay,” she said, pushing her driver back onto the pavement with a white-gloved hand before shutting the door behind her. “I have five minutes. Impress me.”
“Mrs. Jacquard, come in!” Matt said, already standing and shoving his rolling chair out of the way. “Welcome to Reed recovery central. Completely mobile, and ready to go.”
And as conspicuous as a dog in a cat show, Silas mused. Wrapping the surveillance van in a furniture logo only worked during business hours. Even here at the docks, the homeless had been avoiding them.
Fran’s nose wrinkled. “Why are we still using these? Couldn’t we have gotten you a real trailer?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Matt lurched backward as she came deeper into the van. Silas got to his feet, impelled by ingrained manners, not respect. “But I know where everything is,” Matt added. “All the information feeds into here, and from here, I can direct everyone’s movement.”
Eyebrows high, Fran looked at Silas, chuckling at his obvious annoyance. “Right.”
“A small ship turns fast,” Matt tried again, starting to sweat.
And it sinks faster, too, Silas thought, sitting down before Fran could take the chair.
“It has an air conditioner, doesn’t it?” she said, looking around. “Turn it on. And straighten your tie. We pay you enough to look better than a university reprobate.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Matt fumbled his way to the front and Silas pushed his cuticles back, ignoring Fran. He didn’t like her. He didn’t like Detroit. There was too much steel, in the people as well as the streets. The new layer of green wasn’t fooling him. Detroit was a hard, unforgiving mistress.
“So how is our man?” Fran asked, her voice dry as she realized that the only other place to sit was Matt’s rolling chair, sticky with electrical tape.
“Ahh …” Flustered, Matt finished tightening his tie and reached for a printout. “He’s fair with a gun, okay with hand-to-hand simply due to his size.” He chuckled in dismay and shook his head. “Good with electronics, though. Mrs. Jacquard, I’ve got better—”
Matt jumped when Fran snatched the printout, then gasped when she dropped it into the shredder.
“I meant,” she said as it roared into silence, “does he have his equipment? Is he ready to go? Reed is meeting Bill at that drafter bar in less than six hours.”
Silas loosened his tie and slouched in his chair—daring her to say anything.
“Ah, no,” Matt said, eyes flicking between them. “He keeps taking my equipment out of his duffel.”