Greg Rucka - Critical Space

He searched my face a second longer, then looked up the side of the building, as if he might be able to see into my apartment windows. "And you're using your place instead of the Edmonton because it's easier to slip in and out unnoticed?"

"There's a fear that some of the staff at the Edmonton could be bought. She's worried about photographs."

He accepted that with a nod, but I couldn't tell if he was believing me. "So how long is this going to last?"

"No idea. She had Chester cancel her appointments for today and tomorrow. Food poisoning."

"That'll work for a while."

"For a while. I'm hoping this won't last more than the night."

He smiled slowly. "What, you don't like listening?"

"What kind of guy do you take me for?"

"The kind who likes listening."

I laughed and he laughed, and then I said, "I need to head back up. I'll call you as soon as she's mobile again, all right?"

"Do that. And you can tell her that her secret's safe with me."

Bridgett arrived thirty-nine minutes after Scott left, just in time to help Natalie, Corry, and Dale unload the gear. Dale had driven over in the hardened Benz, but he came back driving his van, with Natalie following in her Audi. With the addition of Bridgett's Porsche, that gave us three cars in case we had to go mobile. Moore, Chester, and I sorted the equipment as it arrived, putting the weapons in the living room, the electronics in the office, and the radio gear in the kitchen.

Once everyone was in the apartment, Corry set immediately to work getting the electronics in order, beginning by taking all our radios and swapping their batteries with fresh ones. Natalie, Dale, and Bridgett went back downstairs, this time to put tracking gear in all of the cars. The Porsche, the Audi, and my motorcycle would all be outfitted with tracers. Dale's van would be excluded, because he'd have one of the receivers, and that meant that the other receiver would be hooked up in the apartment. The nature of tracking – unless one has access to, say, a spy satellite – is that two units have to be used, otherwise it's impossible to triangulate the signal. Assuming that we would, indeed, be mobile at some point, the tracers would be vital.

Nonetheless I was surprised when I found Corry in the bedroom, going through my underwear drawer.

"Having fun?"

"I didn't know you wore boxers. Well, not boxers, these are those mutant things, those boxer-briefs." He held up a pair and in all seriousness asked, "Are these comfortable?"

"They're one of my favorites."

"Good. I'm going to sew a tracker into the elastic."

"That will make them less comfortable."

"I want to be able to find you if you get lost." He pulled a spool of thread from his back pocket, and a small plastic box of sewing needles. "I'll let you know when I'm done, then you can model them."

"Sure. Fine."

He nodded and began threading the needle. "Like the silk ones, by the way."

"They were a gift."

"Sure they were."

The last person who had commented on my silk boxer shorts had been Drama, and maybe because of that, I decided to let the matter drop.

Dale, Bridgett, and I pгеррed the weapons, cleaning all of the guns, then loading them one by one, making certain the safeties were set and that everything was working properly. Chester watched from the sofa, her legs drawn up beneath her as if she was afraid to set her feet on the floor.

"Are you planning to go to war?"

"You don't know Drama," Dale said. "This won't be enough."

"God save us," she muttered, and then got up and headed into the kitchen.

Bridgett was loading the Benelli when she stopped suddenly and grabbed my arm. I was chambering rounds into the Mossberg pump when she did it, and I nearly dropped the damn thing. As it was, I lost the box of twelve-gauge cartridges, sending them rolling around the floor and under my misbegotten couch.

"Honey, could you please not do that when I'm loading a shotgun," I said.

She ignored me, putting her hand to the back of my forehead like she had earlier in the day. Then she scowled and told me to stick out my tongue. I did, and the scowl stayed put, so I put my tongue back in place.

"How are you feeling?" she demanded.

"You mean aside from having been kicked in the face and taken a lungful of pepper gas?"

"Yeah."

"A lot better," I said, and then I realized why she was asking.

Bridgett set the Benelli against the wall and got out of her chair, storming down the hall like she was intent on doing someone harm. I went after her, found that she was in the mess of our kitchen, standing in front of the open refrigerator, with both Chester and Corry looking on.

"Show me what you ate last night," Bridgett demanded.

"I made oatmeal," I said.

"Anything I should know about?" Corry asked.

"What did you drink?" Bridgett asked. "Did you make coffee? Tea? Did you have a beer? Any juice?"

My stomach suddenly felt as it had that morning. "Orange juice. I finished off the pitcher last night, made more this morning."

Without comment, Bridgett took the pitcher and dumped the remaining juice out in the sink. Then she took the open half-gallon of milk and dumped that out, too.

"I didn't have the milk," I pointed out, too late.

"Yeah, but there was no way she could know you wouldn't, was there?" Bridgett snapped the faucet on so hard I thought she might break the fixture from the wall, running the water until no drop of milk or juice remained.

"It's okay," I said.

"It is not okay, all right?" She swung around and looked at me, and for a moment there was naked hurt on her face. "For fuck's sake, Atticus, that bitch broke in here and poisoned your fucking food."

A quick survey confirmed that no one had taken food or drink in the apartment since their arrival, simply because that had been the last thing on their minds. Bridgett noisily cleaned out the refrigerator and then announced she was going to do some shopping. Chester, who had stayed in the kitchen, watching Corry work, volunteered to go with her.

"No way," Moore told her. "You're not leaving this apartment."

I thought she'd get shrill again; instead, she got quiet, and that made her frustration all the more evident. "I'm not in any danger, and I'm not doing any good here. I'm just being bloody useless and getting in the way."

"You're Lady Antonia's friend, and that makes you a target, Fi. You're staying put."

"You are not my employer, Mr. Moore."

"What Her Ladyship hired me to do extends to you. You're staying here."

"For how long?"

"For as long as it takes."

The two stared at one another for a couple seconds longer, and then Chester turned and slammed out of the kitchen.

"Maybe you should let her…" Corry started to say.

"I'm not going to lose both of them!" Moore snapped.

"You know what, I'll go alone," Bridgett decided. "I should be back in twenty minutes."

I locked the door after her, then stuck my head into the bedroom, where Dale and Natalie were working with the sweep equipment. "Almost done?"

"Almost," Dale said.

"Soon as you're finished, we need to talk about Chester."

On the monitor in Natalie's hand I could see the LCD readout cycling through frequencies in search of a signal that would indicate we were being bugged. She looked up from the screen to me, and her expression told me she knew not only what it was about Chester I wanted to say, but what conclusion I'd reached. Which meant she'd reached it, too, and therefore it wasn't just the bruising on her face making her appear so pissed off.

"When we're done," she said.

"Take your time," I said, and went back to the living room to load more guns.