Panic (24 page)

“Sit,” Abelli commands.

I sit, because I might as well play a little, pass the time, right? I’m in no hurry to get back to my cell, that’s for sure.

“We know where your girlfriend is. Would you like to know?”

“OK, sure,” I answer. “Tell me.”

“Well, see, we were hoping you’d do a little information exchange with us if we give you that info.”

And this, little grasshoppers, is what I like to call the no-lose situation. Pay close attention, because here’s how it goes down.

“OK, you go first, tell me what you know. Where’s Rook?”

“Bahahaha, Mr. Flynn, not so fast. We deserve an answer to one of our questions first, don’t you think? Since we’re the ones with the information you need?”

Just agree at this point. The correct answer would be, ‘uh, fuck no,’ but you want to keep them rolling. “Sure. Shoot, how can I help you folks?”

“What do you know about the contents of the security box in Las Vegas?”

Ah, Vegas box again. So this
is
about Rook. See, grasshoppers, this is all I needed. I am free to move about the cabin because I already got what I want from Abelli. He’s got nothing on Rook’s whereabouts because obviously she would know more about said Vegas box than I would. So, Clare’s right. Rook left. Which means Rook’s
doing
something. Which means this guy wants to know
what
she’s doing. As do I, but I’m not gonna get that info from Abelli.

In addition, I also found out this is not about my illustrious obstruction of justice career, but about this guy and his obsession with this stupid box in Vegas. And this, in combination with the slip-up during my polygraph, means this is personal for him.

His ass is on the line. Somehow, some way, Abelli is in deep.

“I’m done here.”

He eyes me cautiously. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, but you just answered
all
of mine. So I’m done here.” I fold my hands over my chest and wait him out.

He talks, he screams into my face, flinging his spit all over my cheek, he stomps around like a baby, he sends in the good-cop partner and that guys flips out when I start humming a pretty dead-on balls accurate rendition of
Bohemian Rhapsody
—the
Wayne’s World
version complete with head bang and air drums—and then finally, some fat higher-up comes in and says they need the room back.

I am escorted to my cell to wait it out alone, ready to put all the rules back into practice.

Chapter Thirty-Five - ROOK

Spencer drifts off some time after two AM. I know because I wake up around midnight, hoping they’ll be asleep already, but no such luck. Ford, on the other hand, lasts until almost four. And say what you will about Ford, but he takes his sentry duty very seriously. He sits in a chair in the pitch dark, no lights on in the house, no lights on outside the house, staring out the window for hours.

When he finally does drift off I creep downstairs, grab my backpack, and slip out the bedroom window. I only own one mode of transportation, my Shrike Rook. So I push it down the road so I can start it up without being heard and take off.

Because this whole thing is bullshit. And I’m tired of it.

Once I get back into FoCo I head east on the highway until I hit Sterling, then catch the 76 up to Julesburg and get on I-80.

And this road will take me straight to Illinois where I will stop running for good.

I’m so tired of waiting for things to go bad, for things to fall apart, for that stupid fucking rug to be pulled out from under me. I mean, they’re doing a pretty good job right now, right? Ronin’s in jail, the FBI has Wade tracking me down, and I just learned that my best friends are killers and maybe even traitors. I’m not sure what that remark was from Ford—I’m hoping a generic
I hack into secret databases
type of treason—because one needs to draw the line somewhere and betraying my country is pretty much where the Crayola comes out.

And a motorcycle is definitely not the best way to travel a thousand miles, but I’ve got no choice. I have the money to charter a jet—wouldn’t that’ve been awesome? But there’s the whole TSA thing and I can’t risk them knowing where I’m going until I get what I need.

Lincoln, Nebraska is about halfway to Chicago, so I pull into a Holiday Inn Express. I know from commercials that they have a free breakfast in the morning with one of those do-it-yourself waffle makers. Why this makes a difference to me when I have twenty thousand dollars in my backpack, I have no idea. It just does. I park the bike in the check-in carport, then duck into the restroom so I can shuffle out a few hundred-dollar bills. My gaze catches my reflection in the mirror and I wince.

Damn, I look tore up. There are dark circles under my eyes from riding the last eight hours, my hair is a rat’s nest even though I braided it before I left, and my face is pale white. I splash some cold water on my cheeks and then rub them with a scratchy paper towel to force some color back.

It almost works.

I get my money out and then go to the front desk.

“Can ah help ya?” the girl behind the desk says in a friendly Midwest accent.

“I just need a single room, no reservation.”

“OK, I can do tha-at.” Her drawl makes her words slower than normal and it’s almost comforting. “But check-in isn’t until three, so I’ll set it up and you can come back in then, will that be okaaaay?”

“Sure,” I mumble. Like I have a choice. “Is there an electronics store around here?”

“Ye-as, just down on Superior. Would you like me to print you out directions?”

“Yes, please. That’d be great.” And ten minutes later I’ve got my room reserved, a key card that will activate at three PM, and I’m on my way to the Super Wal-Mart. When I get there I wait around for a near front parking space because I suddenly have a bout of paranoia that someone will steal my bike. It is a custom Shrike, and those can’t be common around here.

I head right to the electronics section and pick up a pre-paid iPhone and some minutes, pay cash at the counter, then go get some cheap clothes and snacks to hold me over until I get back home.

Home. I shake my head at that internal slip. That place is not my home anymore and it repulses me to think of it like that.

I pay up front for the rest of my stuff, then sit in the attached Subway drinking a soda while I deal with my phone activation and by the time that’s taken care of, it’s almost three. I shove my purchases into my backpack and head over to the hotel and find my room.

It’s a room. King-sized bed, ugly-ass comforter that I remove immediately, a nightstand, a desk, microwave, and a table. I take a shower and watch TV from bed.

How long has it been since I was really alone somewhere? When I got to Denver I was pretty lost, but I found the homeless shelter. God, I don’t know how I did all that by myself. I was such a mess. I’d never been in a homeless shelter before so I had no idea that you had to get in line for a bed. I spent the first night at the bus station because there were no beds available. And that was so fucking scary and cold. It was late March and it snowed that night and even though the bus station had heat, the doors were constantly opening and closing, so it was never warm.

I learned my lesson. I got to the shelter early the next day, got a number for a bed, and was once again on the streets that night because I didn’t know you had to get there right at six PM to line up with your number or they’d give your bed away to someone else.

I think I cried the whole night. And one night in the bus station is forgiven by the Denver PD, but not two.

Two is a habit
, the cop told me. But he let me stay because I was so upset. In fact, he almost called social services thinking I was a runaway. But I showed him my ID and told him a little bit of my story, so he never ran my name. He even bought me a cup of coffee from the vending machine.

By day three I had learned the ropes. I got my bed number, I got in line early, and I finally got the pleasure of sleeping on a cot in a smelly room filled with drunks, addicts, and criminals. And a couple weeks later I was still there, being robbed of all my clothes and trying my best not to get raped.

Just after I got robbed of my clothes, I met Ronin wearing my thrift store equivalent replacements and my whole life changed.

What if I had never met him? What if I hadn’t spent that last ten dollars on a ridiculous coffee at Starbucks? What if those models hadn’t sat next to me and what if I hadn’t been so upset and desperate that taking a chance on a test shoot with Antoine Chaput seemed reasonable?

It makes me so sick to think about that. How horrible my life would be if Ronin wasn’t in it. And not because of the money and the jobs, but because of
him
. I’ve never known love until him. He’s everything to me now. Everything. I do not care what he did in the past, and I know that’s probably wrong in all kinds of ways, but I can’t even muster up some righteous indignation to feel bad about it. Because life is not some cakewalk through the land of the straight and narrow. Life is a crazy, crooked, fucked-up road that sometimes requires a bit of cheating.

Sure, you gotta do your best to prepare for your luck to arrive, and you have to be ready for the opportunities, but in the end it always takes more than luck. And sometimes, skill isn’t enough either.

So if something is important—I’m not talking pre-algebra important, OK? I’m talking real life-or-death important shit—well, then you do what you gotta do.

When you want to win no matter what, you just get the job done and say fuck the straight-and-narrow. Karma can kiss my ass for this one, I earned it.

Life is not always fair, but it does present you with choices. I could’ve taken my ten bucks and bought food. I could’ve ignored that card and called myself delusional for even thinking I could be worthy of that kind of job. I could’ve walked out when I heard what the TRAGIC contract really was and I could’ve told Spencer Shrike no when he asked to paint my body.

Fate is fragile. Deviate from it just a tiny fraction and you end up somewhere else. And as scary as that sounds, what it really means is that I’m the one in control. I’ve always been the one in control, I just never saw it clearly before.
I
control my reactions to the things life throws at me, so
I
control my fate.

Ronin might not be perfect, but he’s close enough for me.

I want him, I love him, and he’s mine.

That’s why I’m on the road right now. I know Ford and Spencer are probably going crazy—and if I turned my phone on I’d have dozens of messages telling me how pissed off they are—but I do not care.

Ronin might be required to take the fall for them, but he will
not
take a fall for me.

No way.

I’d rather go down fighting than give up and slink away like a coward. I can fix this, I know what that FBI guy wants, and I’m gonna go chase it down and get Ronin out of that jail cell if it’s the last thing I do.

Chapter Thirty-Six - ROOK

The drive to the village where my life with Jon made my dark childhood look like a bright Easter morning sunrise is long, filled with dread, and scary as fuck. I have all that time to just replay all the terrible things that happened inside that house.

Wayne, Illinois is not the kind of place where horrors happen. Wayne is the type of place where little girls join the Pony Club, boys get Porsches for their eighteenth birthdays, and parents stay together because there’s too much money at stake to split up. At least that’s how it is now. But a hundred years ago it was just another farm town known for breeding draft horses.

Our property butts up against a pretty forest preserve and I pull into a parking lot about half a mile from the house. The park is deserted this time of year unless there’s a classroom of little kids on a field trip, and today there isn’t. So no one notices when I ride the bike into the woods, weaving my way between trees, until I get far enough away from the lot to hide it behind a thicket of shrubbery. This way I can walk up to the house from the back and make sure no one’s waiting for me. It also gives me a nice hidden getaway route and all that fucking running with Ford is gonna pay off big if I have to make a break for it.

The house Jon and I lived in is at least a hundred years old and when it comes into view through the heavily wooded trees, I get the same creepy feeling I did that first day we came to look at it after his uncle died.

Picture the house in
Night of the Living Dead
. Not that pussy remake where the house is some beautiful, sprawling Victorian-ish thing. But the original
Night of the Living Dead
, the black and white one from the Sixties that has that two-story farmhouse sitting off in the distance in a large field, white siding, half-ass porch, and those tall, skinny windows that just scream horror movie.

That’s my house in Wayne, Illinois.

The first time Jon and I came to look at it I refused to get out of the car. I was so creeped out he didn’t even push the issue, simply left me there in the passenger seat while he went inside and looked around. He only stayed about fifteen minutes and when he came back all he said was,
I’ll clean it up and remodel the kitchen
. I just stared at him. Because it was so out of character for him to give a shit about what I thought that I couldn’t even process it. I have no idea what he saw that day but I can take a good guess. Because his uncle was psycho. Psycho as in
I keep my quadruple amputee mother under the bed on wheels, X-Files style.

I’m not exaggerating. Uncle Pete was caught with body parts in his basement and died while on trial.

I almost forget to breathe as little by little the house comes into view. It looks small on the outside but inside it’s one of those old places with huge rooms. It’s dumpy because the outside never got any attention. The siding is still a dingy grayish white, the tall hedges that line the far side of the property are all overgrown and bushy, the unattached garage roof is slightly sagging, and the yard grass is knee-high. But if you include the third-floor attic and the basement, it’s almost three thousand square feet of dump.