The FBI is here
I’m making them produce a warrant. They’re trying to c
Ripley doesn’t want to think about what could’ve made Cara press Send in mid-word without following up with another message.
“Bloody fucking hell,” James says, reading over her shoulder.
What’s going on????Ripley replies. When Cara doesn’t respond, she tries calling. “No answer,” she says, her skin tingling with icy pinpricks.
James grabs her hand. “We have to go.”
“My Dalmatian—”
“Leave it.”
And then they’re running across the fairground hand in hand, Ripley behind James, his body clearing a path for hers. They dodge pedestrians and scooters and strollers. Ripley has to jump over a small dog; she shouts “Sorry!” over her shoulder and gets a colorful epithet in return.
At the hitching post, James is mounted before Ripley can even untie her horse. “We’ll be faster this way,” he says. He reaches down and pulls her into the saddle behind him.
James’s chest is hard under her hands, Hoodoo’s body surgingbeneath them. It’s uncomfortable, but home isn’t far, and Ripley doesn’t care about her tailbone.Please,she thinks.Please, please, please.
Geraldine’s waiting on the porch when they arrive. James hands Ripley down, tosses Geraldine the reins, and straps himself into the passenger seat of the Charger like this is Formula One. “Punch it,” he commands as Ripley gets in, closing his eyes.
“Do you have your medication?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t take it.Go,Ripley.”
They fly down the highway, blowing by everyone who’s doing anything remotely resembling the speed limit. If there’s a cop on this road, they’re fucked.
The knowledge that they’re probably fucked anyway perches darkly on Ripley’s shoulder. Cara isn’t replying to the texts James is sending on Ripley’s phone.
James is ashen and sweaty when they pull up in the pricey short-term parking opposite the Arrivals terminal. Getting out of the car, he staggers a little.
“James, you idiot. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I’ll catch up.” His mouth is a grim, sick line. “Run, Ripley.”
“I’m not leaving—”
“Run,” he says, and even though he’s leaning on the car for support, the aristocratic note of command in his voice has her tossing him the keys, then dashing toward the terminal.
You can’t just walk into the Department of Homeland Security scanner at an airport, but Ripley’s worries about whether she’ll be able to reach Cara turn out not to be necessary. She spies a cluster of blue-clad agents outside the security access point,FBIemblazoned on their backs in tall white letters. Cara is calmly speaking to one, Griff behind her.
Next to them stands a small, alert-looking white woman in asmart gray skirt suit, an ID badge clipped to her lapel. Her silvering brown hair and square chin look familiar, but Ripley doesn’t have time to figure out why.
Griff’s boxes have been loaded onto a forklift, Beauty’s small crate resting on top of Beast’s larger one. Both of them are swathed in yellow tape markedUS Customs and Border Protection. On the side of each is a clear plastic envelope through which Ripley can make outSeized by FBIandDetailed Inventory Pursuant to Court’s Preliminary Order.
Her brain crashes, her thoughts shrinking to a single point. Her birds have come a hundred million years to be here at this airport. They shouldn’t be treated like that. They’re in danger, and she has to help them.
“Excuse me,” Ripley says, tugging on the sleeve of the nearest agent. “The crates can’t be stacked. They each need their own forklift.”
“Ma’am, I need you to step back,” the agent says.
“Please,” she says, hearing her rising panic. “They’re extremely fragile. If they’re stacked, they could fall and be destroyed forever. We need to put them in their special crates before they go anywhere.” There’s a fist inside her chest that grips her breastbone and pulls. Herbabies.
“Ma’am,” the agent says firmly. He straight-arms her in the chest, pushing her body away. “Stepback.”
James’s voice wraps around her like a balm, cool and British and commanding. “Release her, if you please, Agent…Baxter,” he says, reading the name stitched on the man’s windbreaker. “This is Ripley Adams, the co-owner of these fossils. I’m Dr. James Smithson, of the Smithson Foundation. Our organization has a fiduciary interest in these specimens. On whose authority are you impounding them?”
