The Planck Factor

“Thanks, Billy.”

Cotter managed to sweet talk the owner of the used bookstore into letting him use the phone. He called the agent from Homeland Security, drumming his fingers on the counter as the phone rang. Voice mail? What the hell?

“Listen, this is Joe Cotter, A-Team Security. My partner, Billy . . . well . . . .”

After leaving the message, Cotter limped through the bookstore, skimming the titles while waiting for a return call. The bookstore owner was tolerant but watchful.

Cotter halted his pacing. He had a duty to his client, still unfulfilled. And she had a car.

Turning to the bookstore owner, he said, “I’m sorry. Could I use your phone again?”

The storeowner set his mouth in a grim line. “If it’ll get you out of here, sure.”

After making the call, Cotter bought a book—a well-worn copy of a John le Carre novel—and stationed himself near the nonfunctional phone booth. He must have checked for Liz’s car fifty or sixty times before her red Porsche jolted to a halt at the curb.

“What are you waiting for? Get in.” Her voice was harsh with anger and hysteria.

The minute Cotter eased into the car, Liz took off like an Indy driver leaving the pits.

“So,” she said. “Your man Billy didn’t turn out to be the neophyte you thought. What the hell kind of security firm do you work for, anyway?”

Liz continued to rant and Cotter endured the verbal abuse, knowing she was right. A-Team Security wasn’t living up to its name when it came to checking out its own employees. Billy was a relatively new hire. He’d only just been assigned to Cotter.

But Billy had fooled them all.

Liz finally stopped her rant long enough to take a breath. Cotter fiddled with his watch and muttered, “Hell, his name probably isn’t even Billy.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Jessica

I unbuckled the belt, slid it out slowly and held it at arm’s length, between finger and thumb.

“Drop it!” Billy said.

I released the belt. It coiled to a heap on the ground.

Where the hell are they? Anyone?

He grabbed my arm and pushed me toward the car.

The last thing I intended to do was get in that car. “Billy, why are you doing this?” I asked, stalling for time.

His face loomed close, his eyes ablaze. “Because some people will pay more for secrets.”

My whole body trembled. “Billy, I don’t have any secrets.”

He lowered his gaze, his lips curled down with disappointment, then raised his eyes to me, fiery with renewed anger.

He aimed the gun and I grabbed his arm, out of instinct, throwing my weight into it and fighting to keep it pointed away.

We kept up a crazy dance for a while, me moving in to try kneeing him in the balls and him stepping back. My laptop and shoulder bag dangled from crisscrossed straps, making it awkward to move.

Finally, I slammed my foot down on his instep. He stopped, wincing. Like a field goal kicker, I swung my foot straight into his groin. As he gasped and doubled over, I thrust my knee up under his chin, snapping his head back. The gun fell from his grasp.

I scrambled for the weapon, as Billy cringed and gulped for air, sprawled on the ground.

Aiming at Billy with quivering hands, I yelled, “I don’t know anything! I’m just a student who writes fiction. Do . . . you . . . understand?”