“Maybe.” He stood and rubbed his hands together and wiped the gravel from his knees. Then he unlocked the door and splashed water from a plastic bottle over his hands, flicking it from his fingertips before using his shorts as a makeshift towel. “I don’t think Hollowell’s network is big enough to track us.”
He gestured her to get in the van. “Did you see anyone follow us out of the store?”
“No, but he could be watching through a window,” she said, climbing into the passenger seat as he slid behind the wheel. “What if there’s someone else out here, ready to tail us?”
“I can handle it.” He sent a glance her way. “Trust me.”
“I do.”
Even if she didn’t, what choice did she have? She knew the basics of counter-surveillance, but she was no expert. If she had to go on the run with someone, she couldn’t ask for a better partner than Scott.
She was more grateful than she could express to be with him.
They spoke little on the drive, and she tried not to be distracted from her task of watching for tails while taking in the splendor of San Diego.
“That’s Mission Bay Park,” Scott said as they passed a waterlogged area of green grass and palm trees, bridges, and sailboats, the narrow inlet glittering like a sequined dress in the strengthening sunlight.
She had vague memories of her first view of the ocean a decade ago when her uncle Hector had picked her up at the San Diego airport and driven her up 5, taking 99 through Bakersfield and on to Four Creeks. Still reeling from her dad’s death and Papá’s going to jail, she didn’t mind that Hector barely spoke English, because he mostly left her alone.
Despite Spanish being the first language for both of her parents, she’d never learned it from them. Dad had wanted her to be as American as possible and only spoke Spanish at home when he was really upset. Papá didn’t fully agree—and he slipped a few times—but mostly he went along to keep the peace.
After living with the Ramirez family for four years, Valerie had learned enough Spanish to get by, but the language barrier had been one more strike against her in her aunt and uncle’s house. Her cousins—three older boys who worked in the fields with their parents from sunup to sundown—called her a coconut, brown on the outside, white on the inside.
Kids at school often used the slurpochowhen they bothered to acknowledge her presence. Her only “friend,” if you could call her that, had been the school’s computer instructor, who was in awe—and maybe a little scared—of Valerie’s skills.
Everyone was happy when she left for college.
“You seem to know San Diego pretty well,” she said when Scott turned into a parking spot in lush Balboa Park.
“I was here for boot camp and SOI.” He glanced at her. “School of Infantry. I had some leave in between and a few days off here and there during SOI.”
“It’s so beautiful here. I always meant to come back to visit…” Under different circumstances.
Scott nodded. “I’d never seen the ocean until I landed here. Spent every spare minute I had on the beach after boot camp ended.” A rare grin lit his face. “I even started surfing, but I’m pretty awful.”
She smiled, imagining him in board shorts, sunburned, all gleaming, wet muscles as he paddled out into the swells.
The moment didn’t last long. “Grab whatever you need,” he said. “We might not be able to return to the van.”
They divvied up the money between her flowered bag and his backpack, thinking the duffle would draw too much attention. She had filled the remaining space with clothing, toiletries, and her computer. His bag held the same but instead of a computer, he had a large digital camera.
“For surveillance,” he said. But something about his expression and the way he held the camera made her think it was more important to him than just a tool of the trade.
“Oh, and here,” he said, tossing her a dark gray Billabong hoodie with the logo on the front. “To keep you warm.”
Her heart warmed. He must have noticed her goosebumps earlier.It doesn’t mean he cares. The man noticed everything, after all.
“Thanks.” She donned the thick sweatshirt. Not only did it block the cool breeze, but it smelled of Scott, warm and faintly spicy. She resisted the urge to bury her face in the soft cotton.
He left the van unlocked with the keys above the visor, and they walked the paths of Balboa Park’s many gardens, scouting the area before their meeting with Alan.
“I’m sorry about earlier, at the bookstore,” Scott said. “I should know better.”
She slowed without realizing it, and his grip on her hand tightened. Catching up to his stride again, she took a deep breath. “Don’t apologize. That was half my life ago. I should have figured out how to move on.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible.”
Something in his voice made her look at him, his strong jaw tight, pale eyebrows drawn over dark sunglasses as he mentally recorded everything around them like a human version of the Google car with all of its cameras and sensors. What had he suffered? She knew so little about him, but she didn’t dare ask.
