The city of Boston spreads out like a glittering jewel in the late afternoon sun, and I wonder if this will be the place I stop running.
As the rows ahead of me gather their belongings, I run a hand through my newly teal and black-dyed hair. I took a pair of scissors to it before I worked up my latest passport, and I love how light it feels. Alex—the man who saved me and Oliver from the streets and became our surrogate father, until he tried to kill me—would hate it. Kind of the point.
Everything about my appearance is designed to draw attention. Eyebrow ring. Septum piercing. Sparkly blue eye makeup, fake lashes, crimson lipstick. Even the clothes I picked out for this trip are so garishly ugly, no one searching for a woman on the run will give me a second look.
After waiting in the long queue at Customs, all I want is a decent meal—and to wipe all this makeup off my face—but first, I need a place to hole up for the next few days. I’ve learned my lesson. No more squatting in an abandoned apartment for a full month.
My leg still aches, and I clench my jaw, forcing myself not to limp on the way to the T Station. I have no idea how Oliver found me, but my stupid decisionnotto move around definitely had something to do with it.
Back Bay—one of Boston’s ritzier neighborhoods—is a little over thirty minutes from the airport by subway. I had a couple of hours in London before my flight, and I found a handful of recently shuttered businesses in the area that might be suitable for a few nights. Long enough to get my bearings and track down the one person who can help me clear my name.
* * *
By the timeI feel comfortable stopping for the night, I’ve walked around Back Bay for three hours. With a bag full of tacos and a couple of bottles of water in my pack, I duck down an alley between two old buildings. A large“We’ve moved”sign covers the front windows of a comic book store, and when I stopped for a cup of strong tea at a local shop, I opened a connection to the dark web and had the blueprints of the entire block in under fifteen minutes.
The front and back doors are both alarmed, but no one ever thinks to secure the rooftop ventilation shafts. Thank God all these turn-of-the-century brownstones have fire escapes. At the far end of the alley, I struggle to move the large dumpster close enough I can jump to the rickety ladder. A loud, metallic screech accompanies the slow turn of the wheels, and I cringe. But it’s late enough most of the businesses are closed.
Hauling myself up onto the thick, plastic lid, I test my weight with a couple of gentle bounces on the balls of my feet. Good enough. The ladder’s a full foot above my head, but Alex insisted his entire crew keep in shape, and I’ve done more box jumps than I can count in the past fifteen years.
My hands ache from the impact, but I hang on and scramble rung over rung until I fall onto the first landing. When I reach the roof, my right foot almost slips off the clay tiles, but I changed out of my attention-grabbing attire in a T Station bathroom and put on a pair of black leggings, a dark green flannel shirt, and soft-soled black shoes with killer traction.
At the back of the building, I pry off the air vent cover with my multi-tool and shine a light into the dark space. Perfect. A ten-foot drop, then what should be a short horizontal crawl into the comic shop’s back room.
The hardest part of this whole operation? Wedging myself in such a way I can drag the air vent cover back over the opening. Winters in Boston can be brutal, and there’s sleet in the forecast tomorrow morning.
Shining my penlight around the top floor, I breathe a sigh of relief. Wood covers the windows. It’s mostly empty. A handful of scattered papers, crumpled newspapers and packing material, discarded cardboard boxes.
It’s quiet enough I feel comfortable dropping my pack in a corner and continuing down the stairs to explore the rest of what’ll hopefully be my temporary home. “Oliver would have a nerdgasm over this place.”
As soon as I say his name, I regret it. We were inseparable most of our lives. Knowing he’s the reason I can’t stay in one place for more than a few weeks makes my heart ache.
Taking my time, I comb through half a dozen boxes until I find a stash ofWonder WomanandDaredevilcomics. A roof over my headandinteresting reading material? Score. Scanning my light over the rest of the shop, I stifle a squeal. The sign over the back wall readsSocks Galoreand whoever packed up this place was clearly lazy—or rich—because there have to be two dozen pairs still hanging on pegs. The adjoining wall holds a collection of sweatshirts with various pop culture characters on them. They’re dusty, but otherwise brand new.
Snagging aDoctor Whohoodie from a hanger, I bring it and a small stack of comics upstairs. Best. Night. Ever.
I chuckle at my bargain basement standards. A bag of cheap tacos, six old comic books, and a clean, soft sweatshirt? This is what my life has become.
Pulling out my little camp light, I turn the dial to the lowest setting, then arrange the rest of my very limited stash. Inflatable camping mattress, sleeping bag, my multi-tool, the new hunting knife I bought just a few hours ago, my laptop, and cell phone.
If this place has power, I’m going to be hard pressed toeverwant to leave. “Yes!” My fist pump and subsequent dance around the room might be too much, but I don’t care. This is more than luck. This is divine intervention. Someone up there loves me.
* * *
At 1:00a.m. on the dot, I navigate to the dark web chat room Dante set up for the two of us. The encrypted wi-fi connection isn’t much faster than old school dial-up, but the chat room is text only.
Dante: You safe?
Z: As can be. You?
Dante: We doing the small talk thing? Wasn’t sure you knew how.
Z: Shut it. I need to know where in Boston to look for our mutual friend.
Dante: Can’t be sure. He’s careful. Traced a wire transfer from Rome to the Boston National Bank in the South End two days ago. Spent a little time running facial recognition on traffic cameras in the area, but no matches. Doesn’t help that Boston hasn’t had a single day without rain in a week.
Z: I can scope out the area. See if any local businesses have cameras.
Dante: Good idea. The name on the bank account is Michael Lawrence. There are twenty-three M Lawrences in the greater Boston area. Got addresses on twelve of them. Sent the data to your secure email.
