The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [77]
Wheeling around, I spot a black man in a skycap uniform. He looks me dead in the eye and slowly hands me a folded-up sheet of paper. His voice is dry and cold. “This is for you…” he says.
I take the paper and unfold it in a frenzy. Inside are three words written in black pen: “Wait for me.” No signature at the bottom.
The block print handwriting reminds me of Charlie’s, but it’s a little off. Like someone was trying to copy it.
I look over my shoulder. The man with the sunglasses is gone.
“Who gave you this?” I ask the skycap.
“Can’t say,” he tells me. “They said it’d ruin the surprise.”
“They?”I ask anxiously. “Who’s they?”
The skycap turns and walks away. “Merry Christmas…”
A loud buzzer rips through the room. An alarm. A second later, the conveyor belt starts to whir. Our luggage is finally here.
Catching my breath, I stare at the skycap, who rolls his luggage cart right up to the belt. All around him, fellow passengers angle into place. A college kid with a “Capitalism Rocks” T-shirt. A lawyer with a pen stain on the pocket of his suit. An angry-looking mom with a New York City fake-tan. I swear, everyone glances up and studies me.
I look down at the note, which is shaking in my hand. What the hell is going on? We had a plan—in and out together. There’s no way he’d go off on his own… not unless someone made him…
My whole chest caves. I rush to the closest door, angling my way through the crowd—but the moment I step outside, I’m pummeled by a wave of Florida heat that reaches straight into my lungs. As a puddle of sweat soaks the small of my back, I realize for the first time I’m still wearing my overcoat. Throwing my arms back, I fight furiously to get it off. All I want to do is find Charlie.
Behind me, someone else grabs my shoulder. I tighten my fist, ready to swing. Then I hear the voice.
“Y’okay there, Ahab?” Charlie asks.
I spin around, checking for myself. There he is—dimples and his goofy grin. I don’t know whether to kill him or hug him, so I settle on a hard shove in the shoulder. “What the h—” A woman by the taxi stand glances our way, and I drop it down to a whisper. “What the hell is wrong with you? Where were you?”
“Didn’t you get my note?” he whispers back.
“So you…” I steer him aside, down the taxi line and out of earshot. “Were you even listening to what Oz said? No contact with anyone! That includes skycaps!” I hiss.
“Well, no offense, but this was an emergency.”
“What kind of emergency?”
He looks up, but won’t answer.
“What?” I ask. “What’d you do?”
Again, no answer.
“Oh, jeez, Charlie, you didn’t…”
“I don’t wanna get into it, Oliver.”
“You called her, didn’t you?”
His voice is so low, it almost disappears. “Don’t worry about it—I got it under control.”
“We said we weren’t going to call her!” I insist.
“She’s our mother, Ollie—and more important, one of us still lives with her. If I didn’t check in, she would’ve been grabbing her chest in a heart attack.”
“Yeah, well what do you think’ll upset her more—missing us for a few nights, or setting up our funerals after the Service hunts us down and buries us? They’ll be tracing every call.”
“Really? I didn’t even think about that—even though it’s in, like, every single man-on-the-run movie that’s ever been done.” Losing the sarcasm, he adds, “Can you please trust me for once? Believe me, I did it smart. Whoever’s listening… they’re not gonna hear a word.”
32
How we doin’?” Gallo asked.
“Just gimme a sec,” DeSanctis said from the passenger seat. In his lap, his fingers pounded the keyboard of what looked like a standard laptop. A closer examination, however, revealed that the only working keys were the numbers along the top, which DeSanctis used to adjust the receiver that was perfectly hidden inside. It was just like tuning a radio: Find the right frequency and you’ll hear your favorite song. Hunting and pecking across the row, he typed in the numbers the Technical Security Division guys gave him: 3.8 gigahertz… 4.3 gigahertz… The closer they got