“Class tonight?”
“No.” I blink a few times. “Apparently tomorrow is my day off.” I flop back into the couch and let out a long sigh.
He slips his arm around me and kisses me.
“I have something I have to take care of,” he says, and kisses me on the cheek. “I could come back and help with dinner…”
“Please,” I moan. “I’d love that. God, I just want to sleep.”
He runs his hand between my legs over my clothes then sweeps up and cups my breast.
“You need to learn to beg soon,” he purrs in my ear. “See you later, Rosey.”
“Stop calling me that,” I say, but there’s no heat in it.
9
Quentin
When I sit down at the computer, there it is, staring at me. I have a message.
Decrypting it is a long and arduous process. There’s only one person in the world I would trust to contact me like this, and even then it’s only because the message is unreadable to anyone but me, and the reverse is true of one that I send. Decrypting it requires a public and private key, essentially two keys for one lock. It’s more complicated than that, but I only need to understand it that far and make sure I’m using it correctly.
The message is short, clipped, and to the point.
Quent, it’s Dale. Sensitive info, drop 23.
Drop 23 is a dead drop. Sighing, I check my watch. I have enough time to make it back and…
I sort of mentally trail off. Make it back and what? Cook dinner for Rose and her kids?
“Jesus Christ, Quentin. What are you doing?”
I get up and pace a bit before I head to the car. I don’t know how long I’m going to be staying here, and I can’t get so involved with these people. Sooner or later somebody is going to try to finish what that lunatic woman in the hotel room started, and I’ll either end up bleeding out in the dark or have to move on and completely sever any ties to this place.
This must be something important. Dale doesn’t even trust it to the encryption. He’s using an old school dead drop—a covert mailbox, essentially.
I slip into the Impala and fire her up.
I drive, eyeing the clock the whole way. I’m not on a schedule here, as long as I get back at a reasonable time we can have dinner.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
There’s no answer, of course.
The drop is on the outskirts of Philly. I wouldn’t risk driving back into town and Dale knows that. I should be in fucking Venezuela by now, but the more I move, the more likely I am to be spotted. The closer I am to danger, the further I am from harm. Or something.
I park and watch the drop for a long, long time before I approach. It’s around the back of an empty pharmacy. It used to be a Walgreen’s. Now it’s nothing and the building is empty. Around the back there’s a drive-through. The drop is in the metal drawer that slides in and out so people could take prescriptions from it.
I don’t like it. It’s too open. Lots of places for a sniper’s nest, for someone to hide and observe, but if this wasn’t important, Dale wouldn’t go to the trouble. I resign myself to the risk and jog across the parking lot.
Too open, too open.
It takes some elbow grease to get the damned drawer open. It shrieks like I’m ripping out its guts as it slides out and hangs on its track. I retrieve the manila envelope from inside slowly, making sure there are no tripwires or other sneaky surprises waiting to ruin my day. It’s light enough, with a slight bulge in the middle.
That doesn’t mean it’s safe. There are explosives now that could kill me at this range, but are wafer-thin enough to feel like a piece of paper in the envelope. I sniff the edges, checking for an oily or chemical smell, but find nothing. Feeling it tightly in my fingers doesn’t bring up the telltale ridges of wiring and the only bulge is in the very middle. From poking around it, I can feel it’s a thumb drive.
The car door slaps shut and I sit back, watching. I’ve taken it. Now it’s time to see if I’ve taken bait. Nothing. Check the clock. It’s four thirty, too early for dinner. If I leave right this moment I’ll be there at just after five, if I hurry.
Just do it, Quentin.
I flick open my pocketknife, slit the flap, and gently nudge the envelope open with the tip of the blade. There’s a slip of paper inside. Again using the tip of the knife, I ease it out slowly, feeling for anything odd, like unusual resistance or a chemical smell.
It’s a handwritten note.
Quent— They’ve put out an open contract on you. Whoever gets you first gets the payment. They’re offering double to take you alive. There have been multiple bids so far, but I wouldn’t worry about them.
Santiago de la Rosa has put in a bid.
I lower the envelope to the seat next to me.