Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [41]
Back into the driver’s seat I went, and then I drove back toward town.
On the way, I passed the Mean Bean and my stomach sank to see three very shiny black cars with government plates now gracing the parking lot. I tried not to kick the gas and make a scene, but I couldn’t get away from there fast enough.
Look, for all I know, even the feebs need their coffee every now and again, at oh, say, ten o’clock at night. Out near the airport. About twenty minutes after I’d used the coffeehouse to download and effectively steal sensitive government documents.
But I wasn’t willing to bet my life and freedom on it.
I turned my cell phone over while I was driving, ripped the battery out of its back, and threw the battery out the window. I smashed the phone itself against the dashboard, and once it was in a satisfactory pile of inert pieces, I threw them out the window, too.
My heart was throbbing a magnificent Thrill Kill Kult tune by the time I was back on the interstate, and no amount of mental down-talking could cool me back to mellow sanity. I thought—and I assured myself—that I’d thrown them off the trail. Hadn’t I? Now they’d go combing SeaTac and they wouldn’t be camping out at my own homestead.
I wanted to go home—I wanted badly to go home—but I was too damn scared. And let’s be serious for a minute: There was nothing in that condo that I couldn’t afford to lose. I’d made it that way by design. All my safe houses were similarly equipped with all the comforts of a long-term residence, but all the personal effects of a Motel 6.
I thanked God—or anyone else who might be listening—that I’d grabbed my laptop on the way out the door. I keep it pretty well locked, but that’s no guarantee against anything and we all know it.
It was the only thing I owned that I truly feared losing.
It wasn’t particularly valuable; I could buy another one at the drop of a hat. But I hadn’t wiped my email logs or erased my contacts lists—and now I didn’t really want to. They were all I had. Well, that … and a little thumb drive with something very important on it.
I needed to find out more. I needed to get a look at whatever I was risking life and limb for.
Ian and Cal wouldn’t be the best people to contact. If they knew what was good for them they were already in transit. A boat in Ballard. Was I a genius, or what? It was perfect, and mobile, and tougher to track than a stationary listing.
I hoped.
So where could I go to take a moment and look at the files?
There was always the factory.
Hmm. Was that a good idea or not? I couldn’t make up my mind. The factory had power, but it also had a recent break-in and a couple of nosy kids trunked up in there.
Reconnaissance, Major Bruner had said.
The word clicked back in my brain and stung me. But if I were to examine that word, it didn’t imply anything but curiosity, did it? Reconnaissance meant that they didn’t know anything and they were just taking a look. And with Trevor stashed in the basement, there hadn’t been anyone to make any reports … though his absence in and of itself might be construed as suspicious.
Then again, I’d called Bruner and talked about Trevor as if he were alive. So there probably wasn’t too much suspicion. Not yet.
I was making myself crazy, thinking myself in circles, trying to justify a course of action that was likely not the wisest or safest one to pursue, but in times of crisis I’m pathetically human. I didn’t want to go hop a flight for a distant locale and set up someplace new. I wanted to go somewhere familiar and feel safe.
I was still talking to myself in those same pretty pirouettes when I pulled up to the block beside the factory.
Since the factory wasn’t owned in my name—or any name that could be traced back to me—I told myself that I was doing something smart after all, and if nothing else, I was warning the young ’uns inside that trouble might be coming. Did I owe them that? No, I didn’t. But I’d feel like a douche if I didn’t pass them a heads-up, and it was extra fodder for my resolve to visit.
I let myself inside through