“And where did you plan to go?” This from Eliza. “With your own agency hot on your heels, not to mention Orpheus hunting you, how will you start investigating Morgan and his contacts?”
In truth, Grace hadn’t gotten that far. Her first step had simply been to slip through the assassin’s clutches. “Not sure,” she admitted with an upward tilt of her chin. “But I’m nothing if not resourceful. I’ll find a safe place to hide and—”
“And what?” Hunter interrupted again, which was unusual for him. She couldn’t tell if he was impatient with the whole scenario or just anxious to implement a plan. “You know how to hack into Director Morgan’s accounts? You got a way to trace his calls without using FBI resources that’ll pinpoint your location?”
A hard stone settled in the pit of her stomach. She hated to admit it, but… “No.” She shook her head.
“Lucky for you”—there was one of his elusive smiles—“we do.”
“Hang on,” Eliza spoke up. “Ozzie and Samantha are on vacation for the next two weeks.”
“Who are Ozzie and Samantha?” Grace managed to ask even though her head whirling at the speed with which she seemed to be losing control over the situation.
“Ozzie is an eighties hairband aficionado, Star Trek geek, and all-around tech wizard,” Sam answered easily. “There isn’t a code he can’t crack or a firewall he can’t dig under. He’d be able to shake the virtual tree until Morgan and his possible poisoned connection falls out. And Samantha is his wife.”
“What about Becky?” Eliza asked. “Ozzie’s taught her a ton about online spycraft over the years.”
“Becky’s already behind on her latest build.” Hunter shook his head. “And the baby’s teething, which means she’s not getting much sleep at night. I don’t think she’d thank us for dropping this in her lap too. Besides, the last time we asked her to help us, she ended up missing her deadline for delivery on the bike to that ancient German billionaire and he made her cut twenty Gs off the cost.”
“I know someone who could help us,” Sam offered. “She’s the one I called when we were down in Pana—” He stopped suddenly. “Uh, she was the one who saved our bacon on that Central American job.”
Hunter’s eyes brightened with interest. “I’ve always wondered who you convinced to—” He stopped himself too, and Grace’s natural curiosity gained ten pounds.
Private government defense contractors were certainly known for keeping zipped lips. The key to securing future jobs, after all, was to never talk about past ones.
“You think she’ll do it?” Hunter asked.
“Yeah.” Sam nodded. “I mean, as long as it doesn’t interfere with what’s she’s got going at work.” He further explained to Grace, “She’s employed by the DOD’s Cyber Crimes Division.”
“Call her,” Hunter instructed with a firm dip of his chin.
“Shouldn’t we talk about where to stash Grace first?”
“Thought that was obvious.” Hunter quirked an eyebrow and Grace watched Sam’s eyes go wide.
“No.” Sam shook his head. “Are you for real? The cabin?”
“Where else?” Hunter shrugged. “It’s off the grid. It’s owned by an LLC that’s backed by a private trust, so it’s not in my name.”
When Grace’s confusion showed on her face, he explained, “In our line of work, it’s best to avoid putting our names on public records. The kind of jobs we do can make us some pretty nasty enemies. Anyway, the point is, there’s no way the Feds could trace it to me even when they traceyou”—he inclined his head toward her—“to me.”
“He must really like you,” Sam said. “He’s never let anyone in his cabin. Hell, he’s never even told any of us where itisexactly. Somewhere in the northern part of Michigan is all we know.”
Despite her the whirlwind of conversation and characters going on around her, Grace was able to latch on to one irrefutable fact. “I can’t just go stick my head in a hole while the rest of you push forward with my investigation,” she insisted resolutely.
“Sure you can,” Hunter said at the same time Sam declared, “Don’t see how you got much choice in the matter.”
She opened her mouth to continue the argument but was interrupted by the sound of a buzz followed by a beep. Following the other’s glances over the second-floor guardrail, she saw the big door open. A slim woman with a long, blond ponytail walked in. She wore hot pink coveralls, carried a Starbucks cup, and had what appeared to be a sucker stick poking out of her mouth.
She’d barely made it halfway across the shop floor before she stopped in her tracks, tilted her head at something down in the workspace, and then jerked her gaze toward the second floor.
“Okay!” she yelled up at them, the sucker stick wiggling precariously. “Which one of you mother fuckers touched my bike?”
Sam pointed at Hunter. “Told you, bruh. You’re a dead man.”
When Hunter’s cheeks paled, Grace was hit by the irony that he appeared to have zero concerns about the giant pile of shit she’d inadvertently dumped in his lap. But he was clearly afraid of a diminutive blond woman who could probably pass for Malibu Barbie.
7
