Someone set her up to take the fall for Yoden’s murder, and whoever they are, they’re well connected. Given what she’s obviously been through over the past four years, I doubt that woman’s scared of much, but she’s terrified of them finding her.
Carefully, I pack up her stuff, leaving her laptop for last. The fan is running at top speed, so the machine’s obviously processing somethingbig.From my kit, I withdraw a thin piece of latex film, smooth it over the tip of my finger, and press down on the sensor.
Maybe I’m not completely inept when it comes to tech, because a progress bar fills the screen. My momentary burst of confidence fades almost immediately when I scan the lines of code behind it.
It might as well be written in Klingon for all I can understand what she’s trying to do. In another window, however, there’s a still photo of me from this morning outside Boston National Bank.
Fuck. I should have been more careful. Dax will murder me if he finds out the target was on to me. Then again, sheistied up in my apartment.
Dax can’t know any of this shit. Not until I have proof Zephyr was framed—proof that doesn’t come from her.
The laptop beeps, and the code stops scrolling by. Replaced by the Boston DMV’s secure back end database. For a suspected murderer, she’s a damn good hacker.
She’s also a puzzle. An infuriating, sarcastic, possibly dangerous puzzle. After packing up her computer, I shine the flashlight around the mostly empty space. Erasing all evidencesomeonewas here would take me hours, but other than any hair or skin cells Zephyr left behind…the room is clean.
Two steps into the darkness of the first floor, something hard strikes the back of my neck. My hands and knees hit the ground, and a savage kick to my gut makes me retch.
“Where is she?” The voice holds an accent I can’t place. Refined. Precise. When I don’t answer, another kick knocks me onto my side. Too close to the still healing bullet wound from Edgewater. Fuck. “Where. Is. She?”
“No feckin’ clue who you’re talkin’ about,” I manage as I scramble up and reach for my Glock.
The cock of my attacker’s gun causes me to freeze, and I risk a glance up at him. The only light comes from small cracks in the wood covering the windows, so all I can see is a dark silhouette. He’s taller than me by a couple of inches, and built like a linebacker with a significant beer belly. A glint reflects off the barrel of the gun. His aim is steady, while I’m struggling to find my breath.
“Zephyr belongs to us. I know she was here tonight. Tell me where she went, and maybe, I will let you live.”
“Who’s askin’?”
Think. This arse is after Zephyr, and if you can’t distract him, you’re both dead.
“Do you really expect me to tell you?” The man laughs, and I glance around the room, desperate for a way out of this. There! A light switch to my left.
Kicking an empty box in his direction, I spin around, flip the switch, and dive behind a counter. The gunshot reverberates in the abandoned space, and glass shatters.
Shit. A fiery pain burns my shoulder, and a second shot hits the wall behind me. Why didn’t I notice the counter was just one big display case?
Because it was dark as fuck, idiot.
Pulling my Glock from the holster, I fire back, but from this angle, hit nothing but ceiling tiles.
“Putain!”the man shouts, his heavy footsteps thudding toward me. My left arm throbs, and a piece of broken glass stabs my palm. I have to get out of here right fucking now.
Rolling onto my side, I take aim and fire two shots. The bullets hit the man square in the chest, and he stumbles back, then crumples to the ground. Staggering to my feet, I skirt the counter, still drawing down on him. He groans and clutches at his torso. No blood. Body armor.
Move.
He’s no amateur, and I need to get the hell out of here while he’s still down.
As soon as I burst out the back door, I suck in a ragged breath. My shoulder burns, but I don’t stop to check how bad it is. Yanking the shard of glass from my hand, I toss it away and start running.
Sirens blare, getting closer by the second. Someone reported the shots. Explaining my presence? Not high on my to-do list, and I push myself harder.
Parking in this neighborhood is impossible, and my car is four blocks away. I hope I’m fast enough to lose the arse before he comes to his senses.
A spitting rain starts to fall, plastering my hair to my forehead. This is the second time I’ve been shot in less than two months. If I wasn’t so certain Zephyr needed me on her side, I’d seriously consider finding a new career.
* * *
I don’t go straight backto my apartment. I’m bleeding, and if anyone saw my car in Back Bay, I’ll be safer in a clean vehicle. Dax keeps a fleet of black SUVs in Second Sight’s parking garage. All registered to a local car dealership whose owner used the company’s services when Dax and Ford were the only two on staff. “Feckin’ hell. I liked this shirt,” I mutter. The wound isn’t deep, but it needs stitches. The gash to my hand might be good with only a bandage.
