I reach into my pocket, withdraw the golden flash drive. Walter, looking relieved, reaches for it. I pull it back.
“What’s on it?”
“Holly …”
“What’s so important on this thing they would let your children die?”
Walter opens his mouth. Shuts it. Goes back to staring at whatever’s over my shoulder.
“You don’t even know, do you?”
He says nothing.
“You’re a puppet, Walter. You just follow orders, never ask any questions. You don’t know why one person needs to die, or why another person needs to live. Shit, I can’t blame you for that, because I’m the same way. Or, at least, I was.”
His eyes shift again to meet mine.
“I’m starting to see why Zane and my dad walked away from this shit. Not that that’s an excuse, but … fuck, Walter, your own children?”
Now glaring at me, he extends his hand, the palm open. “Give it to me.”
I shake my head.
“Holly, I need it back.”
“Why? What’s on it?”
Again Walter doesn’t answer, just keeps glaring at me, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Does anybody even know what’s on this thing?”
Still no answer.
I say, “Fine, you want it back, here you go,” and I drop the flash drive on the ground, step on it with the heel of my boot, and grind it back and forth until there’s nothing left.
Sixty-Seven
“You probably shouldn’t have done that.”
“He was pissing me off.”
“That still isn’t a good enough reason.”
“Wait a minute. Are you actually defending him?”
“No. But remember, not too long ago, I was once in his position.”
I’m headed back home in the stolen car, talking to Atticus via the transmission piece still in my ear. Now that my body is no longer active it has become sore, and I think when I get home I’ll just drop in bed and not wake up for a couple days.
“So now what’s the plan?”
“The plan? There is no plan, per se. All I know is that James and I need to relocate, like I told you.”
“Where will you go?”
“We won’t know until we get there. As for you, I suggest you go to the hospital so they can take care of your wounds.”
“I’m okay.”
“Holly.”
“If I go to a hospital, there will be a lot of questions. I’d prefer not to deal with that right now. Besides, I think the worst of it is just a broken rib. I can take care of that on my own.”
I pull into the gas station on the corner, park in one of the spaces off to the side. I look around but don’t see the trio of poser nitwits anywhere.
Shutting off the car, I lean over and open the glove box. I pull out the registration card and read Atticus the name and the address. I feel bad about stealing the car—not to mention the Taurus—but sometimes you have to do what you have to do.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll make sure he’s contacted. Now get yourself home.”
I take the transmitter out of my ear, turn it off. I lock the car and start walking the three long blocks home. My apartment complex doesn’t look any different. Not even at this time of morning, where the tall buildings block out the sun and swallow my apartment in shadows.
As I walk, my hand brushes the slight bulge in my pocket. Besides Delano’s flash drive, it’s the one thing I pulled off Zane before we left the alleyway: a cell phone. And saved inside on the recent calls list are only three numbers: my apartment, the cell phone Zane had waiting for me in my car, and another number. This last has a 011 + 33 in front of it, meaning a foreign exchange, and it’s been taking everything I have not to dial the number and see who’s on the other end.
Despite what Atticus says, I do have self-control.
For some reason I’m expecting the elevator to be out of service again. It’s not. I think this is a good thing, a nice reward, and even though the thing is so slow it would be faster to take the stairs, I ride it up to the third floor, my body wearing down now the closer I am to my bed, becoming heavier, weaker.
I reach for my keys but realize I don’t have them on me, that in fact when I left I didn’t even lock the door.
I step inside, shut the door, turn around and place my forehead against the wood.
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath.
And feel the soft cold kiss of a gun barrel as it’s placed against the back of my neck.
Sixty-Eight
“Hands flat against the door.”
The voice is male, heavily accented with Spanish. Should have figured.
I open my eyes, take another breath, and place my hands against the door. Footsteps sound, a different pair, and then hands run all over my body, searching for a weapon. All they find is the cell phone, which is pulled out and tossed on the table in the hallway.
“Now,” says the voice, “walk,” and I’m yanked back, turned around, and yes, there are two of them, both whom I recognize from yesterday, and I’m pushed forward to walk down the hall toward the living room, knowing before I even get there who will be waiting for me.
“Miss Lin, buenos dias!” Javier Diaz sits on my sofa. He’s wearing another freshly pressed suit, one leg crossed over the other, and he smiles at me like we’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in decades. “Please, please”—moving aside, patting the cushion beside him—“have a seat.”
The barrel of the gun has been making love to the back of my neck this entire time. Now it’s lifted, and I turn my head, slowly, to the left, to the right, noting the two men standing aside with weapons in their hands.
I walk to the sofa, sit down beside Javier. This close I can smell his aftershave, something that smells cheap but which is probably very expensive.
“You,” he
