Escaping the rain, I inhale deeply. The scent of pastries is almost stronger than that of coffee, and I might be in heaven. Going out to eat? Not something I can do. Showing my faceanywhereis a risk. At least for a few hours, I can pretend to be normal. Order a hot tea and a scone, find a table by the window and scan for wi-fi signals from the surrounding businesses I can hack into.
Like that’s normal.
“Oh, my God.” The strawberry rhubarb scone is still steaming when the barista sets it on a plate and adds a generous scoop of homemade whipped cream to the little bowl on the side. “That smells amazing.”
“We make them on site,” she says with a weary smile. “Do you take anything in your tea?”
“Milk, please.” I pass her a ten-dollar bill and adjust my bright red glasses. They’re not prescription and keep slipping down my nose. But tinted eyewear is one of the best ways to confuse facial recognition algorithms. These thick frames obscure the position of my eyebrows, and the polarized lenses, even though they’re only a couple shades darker than clear, hide the shape of my eyes well enough.
“I’ll have to bring that over to you. Take a seat. It’ll be just a minute.” The shop is mostly empty—only a single businessman playing on his phone and two moms with babies in strollers along the back wall. No one pays any attention as I take a seat by the front window and set up my laptop.
The first bite of the scone—dipped in whipped cream—tastes like heaven, and I dart a glance around the shop in case anyone heard me moan. I’m off my game. Pretending to be just another local stopping for a bite to eat and a cuppa? This is the most exposed I’ve been in over a year. The entire time I was in Rotterdam, I only left the apartment for groceries.
Focus. Find cameras you can hack and get the hell out of here.
The barista drops off a tiny pitcher of milk, and I offer her a smile as she rushes off to bus another table. From this vantage point, I can aim my laptop’s camera at the front steps of the bank and record everyone who goes in or out. The bell over the coffee shop door jingles, and I hunch down in my seat until I get a good look at the guy. He’s young. No older than twenty, and from his accent, he was born here.
He’s not a threat, and I blow out a long, slow breath and pick up my tea. No one knows I’m in Boston. When I left Rotterdam, I bought five bus tickets—each with a different credit card—then paid cash for the ticket that took me to Hamburg. If the cartel knows where I am after all that? I deserve to be caught.
By the time I’ve finished my third cup of tea, the jet lag is catching up to me, despite the caffeine. But I have all the information I need to hack into half a dozen businesses around the bank and see if they save their security camera footage. And an extra strawberry and rhubarb scone in my pocket for dinner.
* * *
Hours later,sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor of the comic shop, my hands start to shake. The video I took around the bank this morning doesn’t show anyone who resembles Martín Levi. But a tall man with dark hair and cheekbones that could cut through a New York steak appears several times over a three-hour period.
He’s careful. Checking out one of the clothing shop windows, hitting up the little cart on the corner for a hot dog, and talking on his phone at the bus stop in the middle of the block. But he’s definitely staking out the area. Thank God he didn’t decide he needed a cup of coffee.
Boston’s a big city. He could be looking for anyone. Hell, he could have been waiting for his girlfriend for all I know.
“Bullshit,” I mutter in the semi-darkness. Hints of hazy afternoon light seep through slats of the boarded-up windows. Coincidences in my line of work—my former line of work—get you killed. Or jailed. Or worse.
“We know you stole from us, Zephyr,” Françoissays, a glint to his hazel eyes. His lips curve, but that’s no smile. More like gleeful anticipation. “Tell me what you took and where you hid it, and I won’t have to use these.”
The dripping wet paddles hooked up to a car battery fade in and out of focus. I’m so tired, I don’t care about the pain anymore. I’d give anything to be able to sleep. Almost anything.
“Go to hell.” I spit in his face, and he jams the paddles against the bare skin just above my waist. My entire body jerks uncontrollably, and I swing from the thin ropes binding my wrists, then looped through a chain hanging from the ceiling.
Do I scream? The roar in my ears is so loud, I can’t tell. He and his favorite thug, Theo, have been at this for hours. Alternating between the paddles and a belt whipping across my back and legs.
“You’ll tell me soon,” he says, a singsong quality to his words. “Or I’ll start in on that pretty face of yours.”
Gasping for air, I paw through my backpack for one of the bottles of water I picked up after leaving the coffee shop. “You’re in Boston. Alone. No one else is here, and you’re fine.” The water is blessedly cool, and after a few minutes, my heart rate slows.
Focus. I need to focus. Figure out who this guy is and why he might have been at the bank today. Ishouldbe hacking into the clothing store’s wi-fi and accessing their security camera footage, but until I know he wasn’t after me—or confirm he was—I can’t think about anything else.
I’ll have to access the Boston DMV to find Martín, and I could probably run this man’s photo against their databases as well. But that will take time I don’t have. Instead, I access the dark web and pray Dante’s around.
After fifteen minutes, I glance down at the clock on the screen. Shit. It’s close to 11:00 p.m. in Antwerp. Of course he’s not online.
Flopping back onto the inflatable mattress, I stare up at the ceiling. The track lighting runs from one end of the building to the other, and I count the individual bulbs, willing myself to relax. Even if Mr. Cheekbones was at the bank looking for me, he didn’t follow me here. I was careful. Doubled back a dozen times, changed clothes in a Dunkin’ Donuts bathroom before ordering an extra large tea that was surprisingly good.
But now, I’m exhausted. Dante’s not the only one on Antwerp time. Setting the alarm on my phone for three hours, I shut my laptop and roll onto my side. Everything will make more sense after I get some sleep.
If it doesn’t, I can always run. Again. Give up my quest to find Martín. I hear Montana is a good place to get lost. Or North Dakota. I don’t care where I go, as long as it’s somewhere no one can find me.
Chapter Four
Ronan
