Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [114]
Ian said, “I don’t like it,” but he didn’t sound like he was going to put up a fight.
Cal also said, “I don’t like it,” which surprised no one.
I turned to Cal, trying to stare him down and take him seriously—or possibly gauge how seriously I could expect to take him. He looked worried and a little nerdy in that contrived way, like he got bad haircuts on purpose and deliberately chose aggressively retro clothes that were only marginally flattering. But he didn’t look stupid, and he didn’t look particularly fragile. He wasn’t a big man, no. Nor a fat man, either. Underneath that slacker uniform he had slim arms and square shoulders that were thin but didn’t look like bird bones. The more and the harder I looked at him, the more I could’ve guessed him for a runner, or a cyclist maybe.
Now it was Cal’s turn to be on the receiving end of my best persuasive voice. “Buddy, I know this is weird and uncomfortable, but if you like working for this guy”—I jerked a thumb at Ian—“it might be in everyone’s best interest if you just pretend for an evening that you wouldn’t crawl backward away from me screaming, given half a chance.”
“I wouldn’t … I wouldn’t crawl,” he vowed weakly.
“Hyperbole, man. Hyperbole. But you don’t want to hang out with me and I don’t have any burning desire to hang out with you—not that there’s anything wrong with you or anything, just that you’re kind of an unknown quantity to me in this arrangement, and I’m not in a super-comfortable position here myself.”
“How’s that?” he asked, trying to copy Ian’s wry face.
“You think I always get this up close and personal with clients? I didn’t know how thoroughly your case would tie up my life in such an elaborate, choking fashion.” I wrapped up by asking, “But it did, and here we are. So Ian, Cal, what do you say?”
I honestly didn’t know what they’d say. Didn’t have a clue if they’d be down with my plan or if they’d tell me to go jump in a lake and blow bubbles. They glanced back and forth; or Cal glanced, and Ian went through the motions. Nobody said anything, so I picked up my flag again and waved it.
“It won’t be such a big deal, and it’ll be over in one night. At six thirty PM me and Cal will mosey into the parkour class, and when it’s over we’ll part company. Then Adrian and I will throw on some black clothes, don a little warpaint, and storm the major’s office, sabotaging everything we can get our hands on in our wake.”
“This is a terrible idea,” Cal said with sincerity, but no conviction.
“You may be right,” I conceded, putting on my best grave-and-sincere face. “But right now it’s the only plan we have, unless you’re offering something bigger, better, smarter, or safer. And don’t get me wrong—I’m willing to listen. But I’m not willing to wait a few days and see how this pans out. For just this moment, we have the closest thing to an advantage we’re likely to get. And if we don’t use it, we’re gonna lose it.” Look at me, busting out all the tired old metaphors. Like I’d been saving them all winter just waiting for an opportunity to trot them out.
After a pause, Ian said slowly, “How do we know they aren’t on to us? Raylene, you’ve been in contact with this man. You said he invited you to come to D.C. and told you where his office was.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t know he was talking to me.”
“So far as you know. They must know we’re coming, that’s all. They probably already know we’re here.”
“No way,” I said.
“How can you be so sure?” Cal asked.
“Because if they knew where we were, they would’ve come down on us by now. Like the fist of God, unless I’m mistaken.”
“No,” Ian argued, but the resistance was leaving him. I was winning him over or wearing him down. “They want us to come to them.”
It was then that Cal surprised me, in the wake of a long, drawn-out pause that hung over the table