Part Six: Grains of sand is all we are.
David Cutter didn't look happy, but there were at least two good reasons for that, one of which Bernie recognised as soon as he entered Cutter's office. It was four minutes to ten.
"Sasha Marx," he said, taking in the gun, the designer-military gear, and her new hair colour, but choosing - for the moment - to focus on the latter detail. "You look good blonde, it really suits you."
"You know this bitch?" asked Cutter. Hans whacked him on the cheek with his Glock G22, making Cutter yelp.
"Yeah," said Bernie Taylor, "But only socially. And, by the way, I've no idea what's going on here." He looked up at Sasha. "Are you and Mick back together?"
Sasha shook her head.
"No, Bernie. Well, only geographically. He's in the van downstairs."
"And fucking fired!" shouted Cutter.
"Unconscious," added Hans, staring at Cutter and clearly debating whether or not to hit him again. "You're being unnecessarily harsh, Mister Cutter. Mister Routledge has been anything but a willing participant in this endeavour." He glanced at Bernie, inclining his head slightly. "Hans Ollen. Pleased to meet you, Mister Taylor."
"Er, likewise. Look, I'm only here to do my job, yeah? If Mick's got himself into some kind of nonsense with you lot, then that's really nothing to do with me."
Sasha laughed, slipping her gun back into its holster and jumping down off Cutter's desk.
"Opportunity should be the watchword of the vigilant, Bernie! And I doubt your definition of nonsense would truly apply here. Right now, you - and your job - represent a means to an end, for all of us. You're no slouch when it comes to specificity, that much I remember about you." She stared at him. "We need everything you can dig up on Sara Ryland. Forget the trivial, we've already checked her home address and come up with an empty flat. Lots of books, and an appalling amount of unwashed underwear, but zip in terms of either the here and now, or her connections."
Cutter frowned.
"Look," he said, "We get twenty or thirty applications for the paid internship every year and sure, I was impressed with hers, but what the fuck is your interest in all of this?"
Bernie frowned. How pseudo-clever was his boss being here?
"David, normally in circumstances like these, not that we've ever really been in circumstances quite like these, I admit, I'd give you the look, and request a quick word in your office. But we're in your office and, sorry for being boring, but I'm only here because you texted me to come in and do a data-scramble on Sara Ryland. Oh, and by the way, that thousand pound bonus will be greatly appreciated."
David Cutter shook his head.
"No. You must be out of your fucking mind, Bernie. I most certainly did not send you a text, and you can fucking well forget any kind of bonus for this fucking nightmare." He glanced at Hans and his Glock G22. "Look at this fucking stormtrooper. You think I want an audience for this shit?"
"Oh, that's interesting," said Sasha. She glanced at Bernie. "Still got that text?"
"Yeah, sure," said Bernie, handing over his 'phone. "It's the most recent one there."
Sasha did some scrolling, laughed at the reference in the text to Mick Routledge being AWOL, and then tossed the 'phone to Hans. "The rabbit hole just got a lot deeper. By design."
"Agreed," said Hans, copying the text and trans-locating the source on his own 'phone. "And, if Cade's truly running the show, then we're all players now whether we like it or not."
Bernie almost involuntarily raised his hand.
"Can I suggest getting Mick out of the van now?"
To be continued...
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