The Nissan doesn’t move. I wait for the gate to close.
“What’s happening?” Nolene whispers.
“Nothing so far,” I murmur, my hands gripping the wheel.
The gate closes. I accelerate slowly away from the safe house. My eyes flick to the rearview mirror. The Nissan is still sitting there.
“I think we’re in the clear,” I state, letting out a relieved breath. “Is Amy okay?”
“Amy,” Nolene replies, her voice oozing sarcasm, “is still in straitjacket land.”
“You sure she’s comfortable?”
“She’s fine,” Nolene says dismissively. “Stop worrying.”
But I can’t, wondering what on earth I’m going to do with her when I get to the sanctuary and how I’m going to explain everything to Ross and Merele.
Rolling my shoulders, I speed up slightly and check the rearview mirror again. Alarm rockets through me. “We’re being followed.”
Behind us, the Nissan is maintaining a discreet distance. They—whoevertheyare—must have someone else monitoring the safe house. Someone I didn’t spot.
“What do we do?” Nolene asks tightly.
“We lose them,” I say, speeding up. “There’s no way I’m leading them to Ross and Mel.”
36
JUSTIN
––––––––
Thursday, July 15
“Stupid uniform’s strangling me,” Joel grumbles, tugging at his shirt collar.
“Stop fidgeting,” I hiss, “and try to look the part.”
“What part?” Joel counters. “The two of us, we’re a comedy show—the juvenile and the geriatric.”
“Yeah, well, we fail and it’s not the ratings that’ll go down, it’s us.”
We’re standing in our caretaking uniforms outside the three-story brick building housing the Animal Unit on the South Campus of Werner’s Science and Health University. The lab-worker-turned-informant came up with the idea to get us inside. Caretakers on the evening shift are responsible for cleaning and decontaminating the unit by mopping the floors and cages, emptying the fecal trays, and changing any bedding. Caretaking is outsourced to a company called Clevely Cleaning Services. Early this morning, acting anonymously on behalf of the university, the informant sent CCS an email canceling their services for tonight. Unknown to them, an entry team of three AFD members are taking their place.
“You think our whistleblower’s kept his promise to leave the back door unlocked?” Sue asks, chewing on a thumbnail. An attractive third-year philosophy student, she became an animal rights convert after reading Peter Singer’sAnimal Liberation.
“I hope so,” Joel replies. “Otherwise, we’re in trouble.”
I glance at my watch. Nine-thirty p.m. “Let’s get the equipment out,” I say, moving to the back of the van.
With false plates and makeshift CCS logos on either side, my old man’s vehicle is unrecognizable. The three of us haul out mops, buckets, and a service trolley. Hidden inside the cleaning paraphernalia are tools that have nothing to do with caretaking: field radio, rope, video camera, steel wrecking bar, spray paint, and battery acid.
Sue piles everything onto the service trolley and bends over to make sure towels and terry swabs cover the equipment.
I’m admiring the view when Joel whispers, “You got your eye on the job or the girl?”
“Relax, I parachuted right after I watched her eat popcorn.”
“I’m surprised you managed to persuade her to be a part of this mission.”
