“Well, at least I’m not calling to say I’m sending you a temperature-regulated container with a test tube of sperm like you sent me.”
Damn, that was a good idea.
“But seriously… You know I love you, right, Army?”
Her soft question wipes the smile off my face, and I sit taller. “No, Len, I don’t. You don’t really express love.”
Len is a hard nut to crack; she’s cool and aloof, much like me, but she’s loyal as hell to those who call her friend.
“Well, this is me telling you that I love you.”
Alarm bells are ringing. “Are you going on some kamikaze mission?”
I wouldn’t put it past her. Ever since Nile’s death, she’s lived as if she has a death wish. I recognize this in my friend, because it’s why I joined the Marines instead of the Army, and it’s much like how Pix lives her life. With Len, I suspect the only thing keeping her going is her vigilante brand of justice and taking down bastards who slipped through the cracks of the legal system.
“I might be soon,” she answers, then clears her throat. “But this isn’t a see-you-in-hell kind of phone call; I’m calling because I have intel that you need to hear.”
Ah, I understand now.
“You’re calling to tell me that Leeva arrived in San Francisco by private plane.”
Len knows all about my history with Leeva and has been searching for her, just like Digits has.
“How the hell… Fucking Digits,” she grits. “Does he have a continuous hack into the airport’s Security Operations Center?”
He actually has one for the entire Transportation Security Administration so he can monitor multiple airports at once, but I don’t tell her that.
“So you already know Leeva has arrived, but have you found her yet? My tech guy lost her before she left the airport.”
I stare at the Empress Hotel. “You can say that.”
“You doing okay?”
“No.”
“Shit,” she murmurs. “Army—”
“I slept with her,” I blurt.
There’s silence on the line, then Len asks slowly, “Come again?”
“With Leeva. Or at least, I think it was her. At Hedon.”
“Okay, you need to back the fuck up and explain.”
She listens quietly as I tell her everything.
“My gut and body tell me it was Leeva, but the lack of Guerilla’s tattoo on her neck is throwing me for a loop and telling me I’m wrong.”
“She could’ve covered it up,” Len reasons.
“I rubbed it; no make-up came off.”
“But what about skin prosthetics? When the team I work with uses disguises, they use facial prosthetics that are so good you can’t even tell.”
“Straight out of Hollywood, are they?” I mutter.
She chuckles, but then quickly sobers. “I got my tech guy, who is the best I know, to run the still image we captured of Leeva with his facial recognition software. It’s most definitely her, Army. Which means, based on the woman at Hedon having the same tattoo between her breasts as Leeva did getting off that plane, you did, in fact, sleep with her.”
