Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [32]
“Oh yeah, he’s a ninja all right. But I don’t have any training like that,” I admitted, once again trying to stick to the truth in order to make better lies. “Look, why don’t you just tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll tell you if I think I can be of any service, eh?”
“Pushy little thing, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes, very. Now are we just wasting each other’s time here, or what?”
He was quiet so long that I thought maybe he’d hung up. Then he said, “You must understand, I can’t ask you to do anything, and I can’t publicly pay you to do anything. There would never be any transaction between us.”
Translation: Say anything to anyone, and I’ll deny the hell out of it. This whole operation is under the table.
“I can live with that,” I said. “If Trevor says it’s okay with him, then it’s okay with me.”
Someone interrupted him, and he put his hand over the receiver so I couldn’t hear the chatter. I did hear it, but it wasn’t very interesting—just somebody telling him that an appointment had canceled.
When he returned his attention to me, he said, “Do you have an email address?”
“Of course I do.”
“Give it to me, and I’ll send you some information. We can talk more later, maybe.”
I pretended to balk. “Not so fast, buddy. I want to know what I’m getting myself into. Can’t you just give me a hint?”
“Give me your address and I’ll give you a hint.”
“Fine,” I fussed, and then I gave him a Hotmail account I keep under a phony name. “Now, please. Hint.”
Before abruptly hanging up, he said one word: “Reconnaissance.”
I hated to admit that it chilled me. It was the worst possible word he could’ve uttered for the sake of a hint, because it told me just enough to get me good and worried. Someone was doing reconnaissance in my building? Why?
I tried to convince myself that it was just another stupid homeland security initiative, but I kept thinking about Ian, and what happened to him, and I couldn’t distract myself from the fact that I’d kept the factory for fifty years and really, I knew better. That was too long, and I was getting soft. The longer I held still, the better chance I had of being caught. That was old-school criminal wisdom, right there, and I hadn’t been taking my own advice.
I slammed my laptop shut and disconnected it in an irrational fit. I stuffed it down into my purse, which was easily big enough to function as a laptop bag, and it very often did. I often called it my “go-bag” or sometimes my Useful Things Bag, because it had everything I needed in order to go. And all of it’s useful. The computer knocked against the Glock. I’d forgotten I’d brought it with me, but I was glad to have it. I might need it.
I was working my way up to a panic attack, but I couldn’t figure out how to stop it. I frantically flailed for something else to think about, and I settled on Ian Stott. I could call him, couldn’t I? And I could talk to him, and it would make me feel better all around. It was business, yes, but he was personable.
Cal answered the phone, which surprised me more than it ought to have.
To his credit, he didn’t ask any questions when I asked for Stott; he just handed off the phone to his master like a good little ghoul. Ian must’ve been somewhere else in the house. It took a minute or two for the phone to find him.
“Hello?” he said, and ah, yes. I’d finally gotten my phone hello.
“Hello,” I said back, trying not to sound too relieved. “Listen, I’ve got some questions I want to run past you, is that all right?” Simply the act of speaking normally was deflating my fear, which only meant that I kept on speaking well past the point where I should’ve let Ian have a turn. “If you don’t want to chat on the phone—you said that before, didn’t you? That you didn’t like to talk on the phone?—then we could meet again someplace. I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”
He took a few seconds to answer me. I think he was making sure I’d finished babbling. “That would be fine. Is your preference still public but reserved? Or could I persuade you to join me at my suite?”