Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [40]
So screw it. I had that flash drive in my bag. I’d download it and scoot.
Inside the Mean Bean, a heavily tattooed forty-something worked behind the counter, wielding the barista wand like an orchestra conductor’s device. The line was short and moving none too fast, but that was okay because I didn’t want to look like I was in a hurry. Best-case scenario, I wouldn’t stand out in any way except for the “hey, hot redhead” kind of way, and that would be all right.
In the corner behind the cash register a camera was mounted near the ceiling and aiming my way. I’d anticipated as much, and I was prepared for it. I knew from the get-go that I was bound to pass at least one camera (and maybe more) on my way to get my goodies.
Thus my cunning disguise.
I waited patiently, using a recent edition of The Stranger as an excuse to duck my head at an inconspicuous angle, pretending to read the local free mag. They’d never get any good footage of me; I’d see to that.
When it was my turn I asked after a computer and got talked into a tall, sugary, chocolatey drink since they wouldn’t let me use anything without buying a beverage, which conflicted with my personal idea of “pay to play” with regards to the Internet, but whatever. I paid for the drink and an hour of Internet time, took my receipt, and sat down at a terminal that backed up to a wall. It had no near neighbors, and there was no one to look over my shoulder. Behind me and to the left was an emergency exit. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need it. But I liked knowing it was there.
I set the frosty iced drink down beside the keyboard, gave the room one more suspicious overview, and then logged into my email account.
It took forever. Whatever the Hatter had sent me, it was reassuringly big and fat. It turned out to be a PDF with the file name Holtzer, which was promising. I thought about opening it on the spot, but then I figured that it might only make my chances of getting busted better. Every moment I sat in that chair connected to the Internet was a moment that the feds could be tracking me, pinpointing my location and preparing to deploy violent, armed maniacs with badges.
I dug out my thumb drive and shoved it into the USB port, then ordered the system to shoot the document my way. I waited while the little task bar filled up (oh, so slowly). When it finally chimed “Done!” I whipped that drive out, snapped its little lid on top, and retrieved a small spray can of nonstick cooking spray from the depths of my purse. Making sure no one was looking, I lightly spritzed the keyboard. Generally speaking, I don’t leave fingerprints. My body doesn’t make much oil anymore, but I’d fed recently.
A fresh influx of blood always makes my body a little more human. I’m not sure what that says about me, or my undead condition, or the state of the universe, but there you go. Filling up with blood is a surefire way to make sure I start oozing and stinking again.
Once I was satisfied that I’d left no identifying trace, I bolted—or, well, I bolted as smoothly and nonchalantly as I could manage. I slipped my arm up under my purse strap, pushed my chair up under the table, and made my way to the door.
My car was right where I’d left it, and not boxed in by cops or feds, thank heaven. I crawled inside, dropped my purse on the passenger seat, and did my best not to peel out of the parking lot. It’s great, feeling like you’ve gotten away with something.
It’s less great being afraid that you haven’t.
A few blocks away I made a sharp turn and hid my car behind a strip mall. It was well after hours by this point, and there weren’t even any streetlights to illuminate the loading docks. It was perfect.
I changed back into my original clothes, then took the wig and the jacket and threw them in a dumpster marked RECYCLING. I debated the wisdom of starting a fire, but then figured that it’d draw more attention than it was worth, so I covered up the discarded finery with cardboard and hoped for the best.
I kept the skirt and the shoes. They’re nondescript enough, and they’re sexy. Back