Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [38]
“Yeah, I do,” I said, and the panic was coming back, right up into my throat. I chewed it back down and said, “Thanks for the warning.”
“You understand though, don’t you? This wasn’t deliberate. I wasn’t trying to junk you.” And now we were at the crux of the matter. His call wasn’t just a guilty heads-up; it was a double check that I wasn’t planning to rat him out as a traitor to the industry, via network gossip.
“I get it,” I said. I tried to make it cool, but I was shaking inside. “Duncan, what do I do?”
“Anyplace where you access those files from the Internet is a potential ground zero. If you think you can get them fast enough from some remote location, have them printed out and mailed to you, that’s your best bet. Carry them far away and as fast as you can. And destroy your phone. Don’t throw it away, destroy it. I had your number listed in some of the stuff those assholes seized.”
“Uh, okay. Okay. And I guess we’d both better run.”
“Damn right. I’ve got some more phone calls to make.”
“More warnings to hand out?”
“You got it,” he responded and the connection went dead.
I shoved the doors open. Ian was still sitting in the overstuffed brocade chair, looking confused. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes. I’ve got to run.”
“Is this anything to do with—”
“You? Yes. Quite a lot to do with you, actually.” I grabbed my purse. “I think someone is still looking for you. Someone’s keeping an eye out for your files, anyway. I have to run, and I might not be back.”
“But we haven’t even talked about—”
“I know. And we will one day, I promise. And the price is rising by the nanosecond, because I’m probably going to have to move away from here when all is said and done.”
“I don’t understand …”
“Me either. Get rid of your phone, get Cal, and get out of here. We need to treat this like an outbreak of a disease. Everything that’s had any contact with me, or with that PDF, has to go.”
He was standing, and then in the blink of an eye he was between me and the door—wearing an expression that was half earnest, half frustrated. “I don’t understand.”
I took him by the shoulders, gently—lest he think I was trying to play rough. I said, “I have some info about your situation, but I can’t get to it yet—and the man who sent it to me has been outed. Whoever else tries to get those files will be likewise chased, harried, and hounded, and the time frame for this event is absolutely unknown. I might have five minutes or I might have weeks, but if you want to know what I’ve got, you need to let me run, and run like hell. I need to get home, print your shit, and get out of Dodge before they descend on my place, and it might already be too late.”
I hoped to God that I was overstating the urgency, but my internal Panic O’Matic assured me that heavily armed commandos were already rifling through my underwear drawer.
I let go of him and he got out of my way. “You shouldn’t stay here,” I added as I reached for the door. “You could go, you could … I know. Go out to Ballard and get a boat. Stay out at the marina and I’ll find you when I can.”
He was on the verge of saying something but I was already out the door, and it was already shutting behind me.
4
I fled the hotel and ran down to the parking garage, because—did I forget to mention this?—I’d driven down to see Ian. It was faster, and I knew that a temporary squatting place like a hotel would have some kind of parking available. Hallelujah for valet service.
As I got my car and got out of the covered garage area, my mind was doing a hamster-wheel of the damned trying to figure out exactly what the trouble was and exactly what I was going to do about it. So Duncan had sent me an email with some juicy gossip. I wished he’d been more specific about … well … about any of it.
Note to self: Cultivate more demanding interview persona. I need to learn how to get more details before letting people get away from