Greg Rucka - Critical Space

"This isn't about Lady Ainsley-Hunter at all," Bridgett said softly. "She's just bait. It's about you."

I put a hand on her head, ran my fingers through her hair.

"No comment?"

"If she wants to kill me, she could have done it in the elevator. She could have done it a year ago, she's had plenty of opportunity. Why would she wait until now?"

Bridgett adjusted slightly, keeping her chin on my chest, curling her legs up against mine. With an index finger, she began playing with the hoops in my ear. "Maybe she doesn't want to kill you. Maybe she wants to beat you. You beat her."

I thought about protesting that, about saying that I hadn't beaten her, and in fact had never had any interest in doing so. When I had protected Pugh, it had been Elliot Trent and Sentinel Guards who had gone after Drama, who had wanted that feather in their cap. They had wanted the capture, and Trent had gone to dangerous lengths in an attempt to accomplish his goal. But all it had ever been about for me was keeping the principal alive, and it seemed to me then, as it did now, that it was all it ever should have been about.

"You think she's trying to humiliate us?" I asked.

"I think she's trying to humiliate you, specifically, and KTMH, generally. Lady Ainsley-Hunter is the principal who made you guys famous. Add to that a bestselling book and lots of publicity… If Drama takes Lady Ainsley-Hunter out on your watch, your career is finished."

The way she was flicking my earrings reminded me of her treatment of the Altoid tin, and it was annoying. I moved my head away from her hand. "Seems awfully petty."

"She murders people for a living, how come petty is so hard to accept? And don't tell me it's because 'she's a professional,' because that's a bullshit response. She's a professional killer, Atticus, and that means that something in her is broken, something in her head is wrong, and whatever that thing is, it allows her to do what she does." She squinted at the side of my head. "You should get another piercing."

"I'm almost thirty-one, Bridgett. The last thing I need is another piercing."

" Ageist."

"Suppose you're right, she still has to make it work for her, she still needs to call it a job. She needs that excuse."

"She does or you do?"

"What?"

"I'm wondering why you're justifying what she does," Bridgett said.

"I'm not. I'm trying to understand it."

She made a face and turned away from me, onto her back, so that we were lying side by side. The streetlight glinted off the hoop in her nostril, gave it an emerald shine like a star seen in a clear night sky. From the kitchen, I heard a chair scrape on the floor, a heavier foot moving away, down the hall. Dale.

"Okay," Bridgett said softly, and it sounded a little angry. "So what's that about?"

"What's what about?"

"This fascination with her. You talk about her like you actually like her, it's all admiration and shit."

I turned onto an elbow, but she wasn't looking at me. I gave it some thought, wanting to be honest, before I said, "She's very skilled. I respect her abilities. That doesn't mean that I approve of what she does."

"There's nothing about this woman that is deserving of your respect, Atticus."

"What she did to us today, it's not something many people could do even if they set their mind to it. The way she used Keith, if you're right about that – and I think you are – that was practically brilliance."

"No. It was sick."

I tried again. "I respect great white sharks for what they do, for how well they do it. This is like that."

It was the wrong thing to say, because she bolted upright and glared down at me. "It's their fucking nature, Atticus, they don't know anything else! We're talking about a woman who murders people for money! How you can even look at her and not be disgusted…"

"This from a woman who is pro-IRA."

"I've never been pro-IRA, I've been anti-occupation. I want the British out of Northern Ireland."

"You've justified, if not advocated, terrorist violence."

"There's a huge difference between trying to liberate an occupied nation and taking money to put a bullet in someone's head."

"Right, and bombing a high street and killing twenty innocent pedestrians, that's a blow for freedom? Terrorism is terrorism, Bridgett. At least what Drama does, she's honest about. She's not a monster, and it's a mistake to try and reduce her to that."

"What she does is monstrous," Bridgett argued. "By definition, she is a monster. And murder is murder, no matter if you're paid to do it or not."

"I'm not saying I approve of what she does. I simply respect her ability to do it."

"Well, I can't separate the two as easily as you can. It's sick. It's evil. It's seriously fucked-up."

"I think you're being a hypocrite. You'll allow for killing for a cause. Well, being paid to kill someone is a cause. May not be a good one, but it is a cause."

"I'm a hypocrite? You're the bodyguard who's defending the assassin, but I'm the hypocrite?" She got out of bed and began tugging on her jeans. "Fuck you."

"Bridgett…"

"No, seriously, fuck you." She finished buttoning her fly and pulled her belt tight, yanking it angrily. "You don't say that and then get to take it back. That you would even defend her behavior is reprehensible."

"I'm not defending her," I said softly.

"Liar."

I didn't say anything and she stuffed the tail of her T-shirt back into her pants, then went out the door. She didn't slam it. I heard Dale in the kitchen ask if there was a problem, and I didn't hear Bridgett's reply. I stared at the ceiling, tense and growing all the more angry.

It didn't bother me that she couldn't see what I saw. Few people could or would admit that they could. Moore, certainly, and Natalie, but even Corry and Dale would most likely balk at admitting to respect for Drama. But that wasn't the problem.

The problem was that Bridgett was so willing to equate that respect with approval. That she would so quickly take the moral high road and accuse me of taking the low.

That pissed me off, and when the anger finally ebbed, I was left with the feeling I'd had when I'd called her in Philadelphia six nights ago, the same sense of dull but rising disaster. I had tried everything I could, had tried for a long time now, and nonetheless I could see the new gap opening between us, as steep and dark and treacherous as the old.

Natalie woke me at a quarter of five.

The phone rang at three minutes past six.

"Starbucks on Third Avenue, two blocks from your apartment," Drama said. "Southernmost bathroom, seat-cover dispenser, instructions inside. It is now oh-six-oh-four hours. You have until oh-six-oh-nine."

She hung up.

"It's a run," I said, and started to relay the instructions. As I spoke, I removed my T-shirt, holding it while Corry began snapping one of the freshly charged radios onto my belt, running the leads to my ear and palm. Natalie was holding my Kevlar vest as if dressing me for a date, and Moore was rolling up my right pants leg, strapping the ankle holster with my Smith Wesson in place.

"She's putting you on foot?" Bridgett asked.

"To start, yes. More instructions to follow."

"We'll get the vehicles. Three cars. You're wearing the tracer?"

"I've got a bug up my ass," I confirmed.

"He finally admits it," Natalie said, and helped me into the vest. While she fastened the Velcro on my left side, Corry pulled it tight on the right. When they were finished, I put my shirt back on and Bridgett handed me my coat. As soon as I had it on, Dale handed me my HK. I chambered the round, settled it in the holster on my waist, then checked my watch.

"Three minutes. I'll keep you posted."