Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [112]
“Of course,” replied the hipster, gathering everything together and tapping it on the table to straighten the pages. Then he stuffed the lot of it into a satchel he’d left at his feet. “I can fax them to Dr. Keene in the morning.”
“And then tomorrow night, barring unforeseen catastrophe,” I said, tempting fate, “you and I can finally have that money talk.”
“You’d rather not do so now?” Ian asked.
“No. Not while there’s still work to be done.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
So I made him understand. I brought him up to speed on everything that had happened since I’d left Seattle, including details on the initial breach by Trevor and the subsequent full-scale official raid on my storehouse at Pioneer Square in Seattle. Then I told him about the Poppycock Review, and how I’d possibly been tracked by satellite.
“And you’re certain Bruner’s behind all this?” Ian asked, worried lines crinkling around the edges of his eyes, just beyond the frames of his glasses.
“More certain than I’d like to be. I’ll grant you, half of it’s hunch. But I haven’t lived this long by ignoring my hunches, and I think the coincidence is simply too much to ignore. What’s the old adage? I may be paranoid, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t after me. Anyway, moving right along, I’d like to bring another issue to the table of this little … meeting, or committee, or whatever we are. A little digging brought me to a couple of pieces of information that might be of use to us.”
Adrian already knew about them, so he kept his mouth shut, leaned back, and signaled the server for another beverage. But Ian hadn’t heard yet, so he took the bait. “What kind of information?”
“For starters, Ed Bruner’s not in the phone book, but I know where his office is located. It’s here in D.C., less than two miles from where we’re sitting right this second.”
Cal murmured, “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m serious. I guess he thinks he has nothing to hide, or maybe he’s just that arrogant. From what I know of him—which admittedly isn’t much, but none of it’s flattering—it could go either way. Regardless, he’s easy to find. At least his official offices are easy to find. How much time he spends there, I couldn’t say and haven’t the foggiest. But tomorrow night we’re going to go take a look around and see if there’s been any movement or revival of Project Bloodshot—under that name, or any other.”
“Wait. We?” Ian asked.
“We meaning me and Adrian. He’s got training and I’ve got moves. We’re just going to take a quick poke around the premises, bust open a safe or two, rifle through some filing cabinets, you know. Stuff like that. Depending on what we find, I might need to borrow your expertise.”
“My expertise on the project is rather regrettably limited,” Ian said wryly.
“Oh, don’t be so modest.” I waved at him without looking at him, because I was reaching for my bag and digging around in it for a piece of paper. “You’re a living witness to what went on there, and as you’ve demonstrated admirably, your ears and nose observed much.”
“What are you doing?” Cal asked curiously.
I said, “I’m looking for something. Ah. Here it is.”
I withdrew the computer printout of a website advertisement and slapped it down on the table. “I give you the District of Columbia’s premier organization for parkour enthusiasts of all ages and skill levels.”
Cal picked up the paper and read aloud, “Presidential Parkour?”
“Silly name, yes I agree.” I then said to Ian, “It’s not related to Northwest Parcours Addicts in Seattle, not in any concrete sister-organization way or anything. They don’t even spell parcours the same way—the D.C. group does away with that sissy French spelling and gives it a good old Anglo-Saxon k instead of a c. In fact, the two groups only have two things in common: one, they’re both chock-full of military wannabes who like to run around and climb on stuff; and two, they both have a surreptitious connection to the army.”
“Bruner’s affiliated with this group,