Dev grimaced and rubbed his hand over his eyes, and the old calluses on his fingers scraped the bridge of his nose. “If we’re not ready for the trial in the summer, we’ll have to scrabble to make our case for the environmental gains.Again.”
“Well, if you’ve lost control of the project to a competitor, that won’t be a problem.”
That got him a dirty look and, after a second, a resigned nod. “Do it,” he said. “But only until the end of the month. That will give me a chance to finish the current projection before I have to commission new environmental studies for our off-site research stations.”
Simon nodded. “Well, if I’m not resigning, I should get back to work.”
“And we,” Nora said, catching Dev’s eye, “have some business to talk about.”
“If it’s about working for the DOD, I’m not interested. I don’t care what the board wants,” he said. “Syntech is supposed to be making the world better, not about finding better ways to kill people. I won’t sell Icarus to people who want to use it as a weapon.”
“Want isn’t the same as will,” Nora said. “It would be years before Icarus could be weaponized and deployed, and in that time, we’d have all the resources of the DoD at our disposal to develop the world-saving aspects of it. I don’t know if Icarus would even be a viable weapon.”
“Then you suffer a failure of imagination,” Dev said. “The Icarus nanotech works like a virus, colonizing other molecules. It could be used to steal a country’s oil. Or water. We’re experimenting with using it as an alternative to chemotherapy, but it could also be used as chemical warfare by essentially wiping out an enemy’s immune system so a cold sore could kill them. Or—”
Nora shook her head and held up her hand to signal an early surrender. It wasn’t the first time they had argued. “I get it,” she said. She sat back, crossed her legs, and rubbed the back of her neck. Her mouth quirked. “The DoD isn’t a good fit for Syntech. Besides, that wasn’t what I wanted to talk about. That ship has sailed. Laramie will have already allocated the money elsewhere. What we need to discuss is expanding our portfolio of corporate projects….”
Leaving them to it, Simon headed out of the office. He closed the door behind him and got on the elevator. Half the board left when he did. Last time he’d been stuck in a confined space with them, they’d thanked him for his service and played armchair general over how they’d run the wars better. He’d been their trophy veteran, and not just any veteran—a Marine.
They stood in stiff silence and pretended he wasn’t there. He stood easily, defiantly not at attention, and watched the floors drop away on the glass display. It probably didn’t matter, but he wondered if they were more annoyed that he’d been fucking a thief or that he’d be been fucking a male thief.
Jacob would probably have asked them. Not that he was an example to follow. Simon just got off at his floor and left them to talk about him the rest of the way down.
IT HADbeen nearly a week since the last time Simon made it home from the office, and it wasn’t the first week either. The apartment was starting to smell disused—not dirty, just empty. Simon stripped his jacket off, hung it up, and unbuttoned his shirtsleeves. His fingers grazed the ugly mess of old, blotched, and stitched scar tissue on his left forearm as he shoved the fabric back.
Coffee. A couple of hours sleep. A shower. More coffee. Then back to the hunt.
He poured fresh water into the reservoir and hunted through the fridge for a bag of coffee. The dregs of three different bags ended up in the filter. He flicked it on and leaned back against the counter with his arms braced behind him as he listened to it perk.
So far the hunt for Jacob had been fruitless. The syrups that Simon had tossed had been the only footprint he left behind. Archer wasn’t his real name, he’d been renting his shithole loft with cash, and his fingerprints weren’t on any database that Simon had access to—officially or unofficially.
Simon twisted his lips back from his teeth in a humorless smile. He supposed that if he were going to be taken for a mug, it was some comfort to be taken by someone who was good at it.
The harsh buzz of a call jolted him out of his coffee haze. He shoved himself off the counter and crossed the room in long strides to grab his jacket and fumble through the pockets until he found the phone.
He glanced quickly at the screen. Not a number he recognized, and only people he recognized should have his contact. He swiped to answer.
“Hello,” he said, his voice flat and unencouraging.
On the other end, someone swallowed audibly. “Hey, Si.”
For just a second, all Simon felt was pleasure at hearing Jacob’s voice. Then the anger crawled back up from where he’d shoved it and scraped at his throat.
“You lying, thieving bastard,” he snarled. “When I find you, and I will—”
“Yeah, ’bout that,” Jacob said. He sounded ragged, and his voice shook as though he were cold—or afraid. “I need your help.”
“Are youfuckingkidding me?”
Jacob laughed—a short blurt of noise. “I suppose I deserve that, but—fuck me—Si, it’s gotten out of hand. I don’t know what to do.”
Part of Simon wanted to tell Jacob to fuck off, but he still had a job to do. Swallowing the anger, he found a cool, steady tone for his voice. “Do you still have the information you stole?”
“Sorta. For now.”
“I need to know who hired you.”
He heard Jacob swallow, and his mouth sounded dry. When he spoke again, his voice was steady as he started to bargain. “I can tell you that. Once I’m out of here. Much good it’ll do you.”
