The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [155]
As my thumb pounds out a brand-new number and my foot pounds the gas, I tell myself it’s the only way. And it is. However Boyle pulled it off, even if he was using me as bait for The Three, by nabbing O’Shea and finding out Micah’s dead, he finally gave us a chance. So instead of just showing up at seven tonight—instead of just rushing in blind—I need to make the most of it. Even if it means taking some risks.
As I finish dialing the last digit, all I have to do is hit Send. Still, I stop myself. Not because I don’t trust her. But because I do. Rogo would tell me I shouldn’t. But he didn’t hear her apology. He didn’t hear the pain in her voice. She knew she’d hurt me. And that hurt her.
I hit Send, praying I won’t regret it. I listen as the phone rings. And rings again. She’s got caller ID. She knows who it is.
The phone rings for a third time as I zip through the parking lot toward the front of the building. I don’t blame her for not picking up. If I’m calling, it only means trou—
“Wes?” Lisbeth finally answers, her voice softer than I expected. “That you?”
“Yeah.”
It’s not tough to read my tone. “Everything okay?” she asks.
“I-I don’t think so,” I say, gripping the steering wheel.
She doesn’t even hesitate.
“How can I help?” she asks.
92
Driving up the curving brick driveway in front of Wes’s building, Nico rechecked Edmund’s wool blanket and nudged the brakes, reminding himself to take it slow. From the army to the speedway to this, his first goal was never to get noticed. Still, just being this close . . . Nico took his foot off the brake and gave a tap to the gas. The wooden rosary beads seemed to burn against his chest.
Almost there, son. Don’t get riled.
Nico nodded, throwing a wave to one of the tenants running out the front door for a jog. As the Pontiac followed the road to the parking lot in back, its headlights stabbed through the dusk like twin glowing lances.
Know where you’re going?
“Five twenty-seven,” Nico replied, pointing with his chin at the black apartment numbers painted on the concrete stops at the front of each parking spot.
Within a minute, he’d weaved up and down the first two aisles.
525 . . . 526 . . . and . . .
Nico hit the brakes, bucking the car to a halt. 527. Wes’s apartment number. But the parking spot was empty.
He could still be upstairs.
Nico shook his head. “He’s not upstairs.”
Then we should go up there and wait for him.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Nico said, still studying the lot. Refusing to give up, he took another pass down the next aisle. His eyes narrowed, and he lowered the windows for a better look. To his ears, the rain on the nearby cars sounded like a ten-year-old letting loose on a drum set.
Weaving up and down each aisle, the Pontiac eventually looped back around to the far side of the lot where they first came in.
D’you even know what kind of car he drives?
Slowing down, Nico shook his head and opened the driver’s-side door. “I’m not looking for his car.”
What’re you—?
The Pontiac was barely in park as Nico hopped outside, crossed in front of his own headlights, and squatted down toward the ground. On the asphalt, a matching set of curved tire marks formed identical, partially overlapping Vs just outside a parking spot. Like someone left in a hurry.
Standing up straight, Nico looked over his shoulder, rescanning the full length of the lot. Lamppost by lamppost, aisle by aisle, he took in every piece, including the twenty-foot shrubs that completely circled the whole— No. Not the whole lot. Cocking his head, Nico blinked twice to make sure he was seeing it right.
It was easy to overlook—tucked back between the cars and filled with even more shrubbery, the narrow opening in the shrubs practically disappeared in its own natural camouflage. Fortunately for Nico, he had plenty of training with camouflage.
Nico, you got something?
Nico pulled his gun from his pants, tapping the barrel against