Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [39]
It wasn’t far back to my place, but Seattle traffic is not to be believed sometimes—and oh, fantastic. One of the electric buses had blown a fuse, or busted a wire, or stopped in the middle of the road for some other equally aggravating reason.
The detours were killing me, but they were giving me time to think.
Flagged information had been sent to me. I hadn’t opened it. How could anyone possibly know where the Hatter had kicked it off to? In my wholly uneducated estimation, it wasn’t possible to pinpoint the info while it was in transit. Until I downloaded and moved the content, there’d be nowhere to trace it to. Right?
The thought didn’t calm me much, and the traffic was only fueling my horror. I’d been doing so much so wrong lately. Keeping that awful factory for storage, staying in my pretty little condo for too long, meeting up with vampires when I damn well ought to know better … I must’ve been getting sloppy in my old age, and if there’s one thing I couldn’t afford to be, it was sloppy.
What I needed to do was think.
So I sat at a red light for its third cycle (what were those people doing up there, knitting a sweater?) and I forced myself to breathe.
Okay. Duncan had said I shouldn’t go home, and he was the expert—so maybe I shouldn’t go home.
He’d also said I could print the information out somewhere and have it mailed to myself. But I didn’t know anyone I could trust with the task. Conversely, I didn’t know anyone I disliked enough to foist a federal smackdown upon him. Or her. And surely that’s what would follow.
The light turned green. Behind me, a car honked and I realized that I was sitting there, learning to knit or whatever, and on this occasion I was the asshole. I hit the gas and dragged my car up the hill, and then took it in circles around the block while I plotted my next move.
I passed an Internet café on my left.
I’d been there before. They had printers. I could download the files and print them on someone else’s public location—or better yet, I had a thumb drive in my purse, and it might be big enough to simply download the files and abscond with them to a computer without an Internet connection. But this one was within a few blocks of my own abode, and that wouldn’t do.
I racked my brain for somewhere farther away. I couldn’t think of anyplace, but hell, if there’s one thing other than traffic in Seattle, it’s coffee. You can’t swing a dead squirrel without hitting a Starbucks, or failing that particular evil empire, an indie establishment.
Upon completing my loop of the neighborhood, I got back onto the interstate with a very good idea—or it seemed like a very good idea at the time: I’d go out to the airport. It’s fifteen miles outside of town, and it’s a huge international hub. For all the feds might know, I could be someone who flew into town and then flew out again—poof! Just like that.
Once I made it to the interstate, the drive took less than half an hour.
I pulled over at a gas station and hauled an overnight case out of my trunk. In the filthy, dimly lit ladies’ room of the Chevron I donned a shaggy red wig (not too flashy, not too trashy) and changed into a bright red jacket and a black pencil skirt with fuck-me kitten pumps. Not how I usually dress, but that’s the point.
I didn’t have time to gussy up as a boy, though I’ve done it once or twice before. I don’t think I make a very convincing dude. I think I look more like a lumberjack lesbian with an eating disorder than a kick-ass drag king.
I emerged from the restroom and slipped straight into my car. I didn’t notice anyone noticing, which was good.
Down the street and around the block was a spot called Mean Bean. It advertised gourmet coffee drinks and pay-to-play WiFi, plus printing services at a quarter a page. A quarter a page? Jesus. For that kind of money I could buy my own printer and throw it away when I was finished.
Well, I didn’t know that yet—not for sure. But if Duncan had sent me sensitive government property of the variety likely to get me exposed or killed if caught, I damn well expected that property