His lips twitched. “How do we get off the island without arousing suspicion?”
“Easy enough. We leave.”
“Just like that?”
“Sure. Once we’re in the air, I’ll com back and tell whoever’s monitoring the channel that we’re following up on a lead.”
“And they’ll let you go?”
“The beauty of this plan is that we’ll already be gone.”
“I see.”
“Get dressed. I’ll meet you by the main doors in five minutes.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get us a backup plan.”
I wrote a brief email to Teresa, nutshelling the conversation with Landon, as well as our destination, then set the email to send in exactly two hours—enough time to arrive and talk to Landon without spooking him. Landon hadn’t said no weapons, so I also grabbed a loose jacket to hide my holstered Coltson.
Everyone was too busy looking for Ethan to object when I took one of the puddle-jumpers—blessing for me. Thatcher and I were in a Sport, on 95 and ten minutes south, before the first call from Teresa woke up my cell phone.
I ignored the call, as well as several others from different people. Thatcher watched me silently while I drove. We didn’t chat. I hated that I was doing this alone, without my friends backing me up. I wasn’t a leader, and I sure as hell didn’t make the game plan. I followed other folks’ plays as best I could and hoped it all worked.
Ethan was counting on me, and as our exit loomed, I sent a silent prayer that I didn’t royally fuck this up.
Eight
While 95 was still one of the major thoroughfares in New Jersey, it was far less traveled than it used to be. The devastation of the War in and around New York City bled over into New Jersey, ruining most of the once- popular shoreline and making travel north into NYC all but nonexistent. All of the rest areas along the interstate had closed down, leaving behind empty buildings and weedy parking lots—tiny little ghost towns still advertising gasoline and cheap fast food.
Our rest area was a mediumish tan building with faded trim the color of dying moss. Most of the glass surfaces had shattered, and someone had painted a spectacular mural of graffiti along one wall. The twisted shapes and symbols made no real sense to me, but the loops and bends felt familiar. Almost comforting—odd reflections of shapes my own body had once been able to re-create.
The grass between the road and the parking lot was hip-high and created a kind of wall between us and the rest of the world. I drove over the cracked pavement and stopped right in the middle of everything. I didn’t want surprises, didn’t want a blind spot for anyone to sneak up on us.
I looked across the seat at Thatcher, who was watching me intently. He didn’t reach for the door or make a move to get out. He was taking his cues from me, even though he was the one Landon wanted.
“How long do you think they’ll make us wait?” I asked.
“Long enough to be certain we’re alone, I’d guess,” Thatcher replied. “He’s smart, but he also seems impulsive. He won’t wait longer than he has to.”
I didn’t know Thatcher well, but I noted the tight lines around his mouth, the tic in his jaw, and the way his fingers dug into the legs of his pants. He was anxious about this meeting, about seeing his son alive after more than fifteen years. A son who was now a thief and a criminal and wanted in several states—and I’d never asked Thatcher how he felt about those things.
The fact that I wanted to know how he felt didn’t surprise me like it should have. It needed to surprise me, damn it.
Sitting in the Sport felt too claustrophobic, so I turned off the engine and climbed out. The warm, humid air reeked of motor oil and exhaust, with a lingering odor of waste. Everything in New Jersey seemed to smell the same lately. It made me miss Los Angeles.
I leaned against the driver’s-side door, anxious to get this over with. The anticipation of a confrontation always had me in knots (no pun intended), and I had to force myself to stay still and not pace. If Thatcher was taking his cues from me, I needed to keep the crazy in check.
Thatcher joined me, standing near a clump of grass that had sprouted from a crack in the unpatched parking lot. He scuffed at the grass with his sneaker, but his attention shifted from place to place, taking it all in. He was always attentive to his surroundings, always watching his flanks, observing.
The occasional car rumbled past on the interstate, and each new sound drew our attention. Nothing slowed down, though, until a new noise cut through—louder, more defined. A motorcycle of some kind, and it slowed down. The driver was slim, wore jeans, a gray T-shirt, and a black helmet, and he pulled to a stop a few feet from the Sport. Thatcher took a step to his left, putting himself between me and the motorcycle. My fingers twitched, wanting to feel the grip of my Coltson, needing that sense of security when facing an unknown enemy. I kept still.
The driver turned off his bike and swung one leg over to stand up straight. He faced us for a moment, then took off the helmet with a melodramatic flourish. Landon Cunningham placed the helmet on the seat of the motorcycle without ever turning his back on us. Thatcher’s entire body tensed, coiling up tight. I couldn’t see his face, but I imagined he was working hard to keep a neutral expression.
Landon gave me a dismissive glance before turning the whole of his attention onto Thatcher. He took a few steps forward, stopping with a good two-arm’s reach between them. Up close, I saw the resemblance between father and son as clear as glass—the dark hair and gray eyes, the long nose, the square jaw. Landon had his father’s height, but he hadn’t quite filled out yet so didn’t have Thatcher’s solid build.
“They told me you were dead,” Thatcher said.
Landon narrowed his eyes, his mouth thinning. “At least you’re both good at following directions,” he said, ignoring Thatcher’s comment. “Find the place okay?”
“Where’s Ethan?” I asked.
“In a safe place. Since you weren’t interested in a trade, I didn’t see the need to bring him along.”
I tamped down a flare of worry. “I want to speak with him.”
“No.”
“Look, we’re cooperating here, but I will only continue to do so if I have proof that Ethan is alive and unharmed.”
Landon scowled, then pulled out a cell phone. He circled Thatcher and moved closer to me while he dialed. “Put him on,” he said to whoever was on the other end of the line. Probably Bethany. He put the phone on speaker.
“What?” Ethan said, the tartness in his voice beautiful to hear.
“It’s Renee,” I said. “Are you all right?”
“So far. Their hospitality is a little lacking, though. How’s Aaron?”
“He’s fine. Pissed and worried.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I’d say it makes about forty of us.”
Landon cut off the call without so much as a warning. “That’s enough of that.” He put the phone away. “Satisfied?”
“For now.”
“Why are we here, Landon?” Thatcher asked.
“Whatever happened to a friendly chat among fellow Metas?” Landon replied. “Isn’t that the big party line
