Atticus made it about two hours before he decided to break rule number four.
Knowing that Junger was a regular, if sleazy, businessman had lulled him into a false sense of security. Atticus had guessed he’d be transporting some weird sex thing, or art Junger wasn’t supposed to have, or illegal parts to a foreign vehicle, or some special synth ingredient he wanted smuggled in so he didn’t have to pay high EVP taxes on it.
Until the hand-off, his money was on the sex thing.
He kept glancing in the rearview mirror of the RV. The sight of the trailer never revealed anything new, but every time he looked at it, the hair on the back of his neck stood up.
He knew better than to poke his nose in other people’s shit. That was the quickest way to get it on your face.
But the longer he drove down the desolate stretch of road that wound like a gray river through the desert, the harder he found it to ignore his gut. He lived by his word. He suspected he’d probably die by it, too. But did his word mean shit if he was suckered into something he didn’t consent to?
And didn’t his word to stay safe, to not jeopardize his family, mean more than an agreement with a shitty old man like Junger?
Atticus checked the time on the glowing dashboard console. The sun would rise soon, and he’d have to pull off. He’d need to pull down the blackout shades on the windows. The sun wouldn’t kill him — not for a while, at least, since only the infirm and babies were at risk of immediate death — but burns hurt like a motherfucker, especially when it was delivered by the vicious animal that was the desert sun. Even in the fall, it was a bitch.
He’d have to pull off. He’d have to rest. He’d be stuck in the tin can of the luxury, compact RV all day. It wasn’t a prospect that bothered him before, but now that he had no idea what he’d gotten himself into, he found the idea of being stuck in the desert with the mysterious cargo not quite as appealing as before.
Atticus checked the time again. He had about an hour left.
If I pull off and just take a quick peek, I’ll be fine.It was stupid to have this much anxiety over the contents of a trailer. Even if something extremely illegal was inside, he’d almost certainly seen worse. The annoying part would be handling the fallout if it turned out it was worth breaking his word over.
He shook his head. He’d been out of the game too long if something like a little illegal cargo could rattle him this bad.
A wry smile tugged at his lips. If part of this little break from estate security life had been about discovering if he really missed the criminal world or not, he supposed that question had been answered.
He glanced in the mirror again, then looked at the time.
Hissing through his fangs, he scowled at the road, scouting for a good place to pull off and keep out of sight of any traffic. Not that he expected there to be much, but the last thing he needed was a long-haul trucker asking questions.
It was smart for a number of reasons to give him an RV and a trailer. Not only was it completely self-contained and left no money trail, if anyone pulled him over, he could say he was just camping in the desert. It wasn’t technically a lie, especially when he found a spot to turn off and tuck the RV behind a scraggly hill.
The vehicle bumped and rattled over rocks and the divots leftover from monsoon floods. He grunted every time it lurched, his knuckles gone white around the steering wheel, and hoped that whatever was in the trailer wasn’t fragile.
It was a relief when he finally cut the engine. Releasing his seatbelt, Atticus sat for a second to really, really be sure he wanted to do this before he sighed again, checked that his bolt gun had a full battery, and opened the door.
His boots crunched on the loose, sunbaked topsoil as he made his way around the back of the RV. He scanned the trailer again. Nothing was weird about it.
It looked a bit like the ones used to haul expensive equipment, or a very rich man’s dirt bikes. That didn’t exactly explain the units on the front and roof, but who knew what weird shit rich people got into when they started buying toys.
He’d made a lot of money over the years, but he’d never fallen into the trap of buying dumb stuff. Murder paid well, and Harlan was a ruthless investor and shrewd businessman. He’d taught Atticus and Adriana how to handle their money responsibly.
Atticuscouldbuy whatever he wanted. Trouble was that he didn’t want much — a nice house, a fast car, and maybe a woman who didn’t mind being bitten every night. He was a simple man with simple needs.
Or maybe not.If it really was so simple, why couldn’t he be satisfied with what he had? It sure as shit would have kept him out of whatever mess he’d stepped into.
Shoulders back and arms loose, Atticus carefully slipped his gun free of its holster and clicked off the safety. Somewhere a little too close for comfort, a coyote’s screaming howl erupted, putting his fangs more on edge.
He hesitated at the back of the trailer. The cargo was only to be accessed in case of an emergency. Junger had been very firm on that point. If there was a crash, an attack, or if for some reason the trip lasted more than seven days, he was allowed to unlock it. If not, then…
This could be a colossal mistake.
His jaw firmed. Italreadyfelt like a mistake taking the job. How much worse could he do, really?
A lot. He could do alotworse, actually.
Atticus hesitated. He didn’t want any blowback from his stupid decisions to hit Harlan and Zia, his adopted father’s anchor. They were starting a family. He didn’t want it to hit his sister, either, who already had to live her life smothered in secrecy because of a random genetic quirk.
So he didn’t open the lock right away. Instead, for reasons he couldn’t even explain to himself, he knocked.
