“Thanks.”
He nodded. “Act normal. We’re not leaving in a hurry, just leaving because we’re ready.”
She took a deep breath and got her bearings, while inside she tried to beat down the nerves running roughshod through her veins. “You mean normal like you being in the women’s bathroom? Again.”
His lips twitched. “Apparently, that’s how we roll.”
Following him through the doorway, she said, “I’m sorry I ran out.”
“Don’t sweat it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You were trying to help. I appreciate that.”
He nodded without meeting her gaze—probably because, hello, they had more important things to worry about—and surveyed the small anteroom that housed a drinking fountain and community bulletin board. He did the same for the café and bookstore beyond. “Let’s go.”
She knew better than to look around too much. Still, she couldn’t help but scan for the shoes. It would be better if Nike Man didn’t know Scott had spotted him, though he’d surely be suspicious at the timing of their departure. And they still needed to playact for the rest of the crowd. The last thing they wanted was a bunch of people taking notice and calling the police.
Scott took her hand—something she was getting dangerously used to—and they strolled through the stacks of books. She inhaled the soothing scent of binding glue and paper. It brought back memories of long summers in grade school spent reading in the back seat of Papá’s car while he sat surveillance on a target company or person. Once, those had been good memories.
They passed the bins of impulse-buy crap near the registers and sauntered out the front door into the fog-tempered sunlight. Salty, cool air filled her nostrils, seagulls swooped and squawked overhead, and for one desperate, futile moment she tried to convince herself that they were just a happy couple out shopping. Be the lie, her papá always said. Own it.
The breeze brought goosebumps to her bare arms as they reached the white van, with its already-fading window paint and weathered stickers. “We’re definitely going to have to ditch this now.”
“After we lose this guy.” He knelt down and looked under the rear bumper, running his hands along the grimy metal. “Keep an eye out, will you?” he asked, moving his inspection along the perimeter of the van. “I want to make sure we didn’t pick up a tracker.”
Or worse? She shivered. “Do you think he was FBI undercover, checking out a tip or something?” she asked. If they hadn’t been followed, how else would someone have found them?
“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. They didn’t mistreat her, but she was another burden, despite coming with a small stipend. 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 slur pocho when 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.
They strolled for the next hour, munching on snacks from a vending machine as they moved in ever-narrowing rings toward the Botanical Building. The huge wooden-slat structure stood at the end of a reflecting pool in a grove of palm and eucalyptus trees that tinged the air wi
th an earthy fragrance. Two half-pipe shaped wings jutted out from a central dome with a stucco base and arched doorways leading inside.
The air inside was moist and slightly warmer, the breeze buffered by yard upon yard of ferns, palms, orchids, flowering vines, and so much soothing green. Delicate floral scents mingled with that of damp earth and the nearby sea in an intoxicating perfume that made her breathe deep.
“It’s heaven,” she whispered, out of awe more than any need for privacy, overcome by the urge to never leave this spot.
“Yeah, but kind of a nightmare for our meeting,” Scott said, shattering her moment. “Plenty of concealment for us, but also for everyone else.”
They took a quick circuit of the interior before stationing themselves part of the way down a side path with a view of the entrance. Sunlight streamed in through the narrow boards, painting bright stripes across the cement floor, cutting across Scott’s face and turning the golden streaks in his hair to flame.
“Will you recognize this guy?” he asked.
A little breathless, she said, “Probably, but it’s been about ten years since I last saw him at my high school graduation.”
“What’s he look like?”
“He’s thirty-four, maybe six-two, trim build, black hair—it used to be long, about shoulder length—blue eyes, fair skin.”
“He’s that young?” he asked. “I thought he was a friend of your dad’s.”
She shrugged. “They met online. Age is meaningless. It’s only skill and tenacity that matter. And discretion.”
Several minutes later, his eyes narrowed and he frowned. “Is that him?”
A man dressed in jeans and a slim-cut green sweater strode through the archway and stopped beneath the shade of a paddle-shaped palm to remove his dark sunglasses. He wore his black hair short and lightly mussed like a movie star, and several days’ worth of stubble darkened his jawline.
“I don’t think so. Too muscular.”
But then he fully faced them and Valerie gasped. “Alan?”
The man couldn’t have heard her, but he stepped forward anyway with a wide grin that sent a little thrill through her. As a teenager, she’d had a bit of a crush on him, even though he’d seemed far more than six years her senior. Time had been exceedingly kind. He was every bit as good-looking as she remembered and then some.
Scott’s grip on her hand tightened, and his body stiffened as Alan approached, the epitome of casual, but still alert.
“Valerie,” Alan said as he pulled her into a hug, tugging her free of Scott’s hold. “Are you okay?”
She nodded against his chest. His scent was as familiar as his appearance was foreign. After her papá went to prison, Alan had been the only person from her past who had stayed in touch. When he cut ties after she graduated from high school, he had sliced out a piece of her heart.
Behind her, Scott cleared his throat.
Valerie stepped out of her old friend’s embrace and looked up into his dark blue eyes. “You weren’t followed, right?”
He smirked and brushed her shoulder as he reached for a piece of her long ponytail, twisting the strands lightly between his fingertips before dropping it. “You’re rockin’ the new color, Sweet Stuff.” Glancing at Scott, his smile dropped as he said, “And no, I wasn’t followed.”
“Why don’t we find somewhere a little less crowded to talk,” Scott suggested, his expression impassive even as something—disapproval?—radiated off him.
He ignored her questioning look and gestured toward the back of the building. They moved down a deserted path and stopped under a vine-filled trellis at the end.
“Alan,” the hacker said, sticking out his hand when they were all facing each other. “Scott, right?”
Scott scowled and glanced around, but returned the handshake.
Alan focused on Valerie. “So, how can I help?”
Scott desperately needed sleep, but even as he slouched in the backseat of Alan’s Acura thirty minutes later, he couldn’t let himself relax enough to doze off.
Up front, Alan and Valerie were catching up on old times, filling in the last decade, and generally having a grand old time while Scott fought against feeling like ammo without a gun.
And, if he were honest…jealous.
No one could miss the way Valerie looked at Alan. He was everything Scott wasn’t. Tall, broad-shouldered, well dressed, a techie like her, and very “hands on.” At every opportunity, he touched her shoulder, her arm, her hand, her hair.
Plus, she had a history with the guy. A relationship of trust.
Hell, he hadn’t even questioned her story about Hollowell framing the two of them. Just took her at her word without blinking.
And, unlike Scott, Alan wasn’t a killer.
“I can drive you as far as Texas,” Alan had said after consulting a map on his iPhone. “But I have to be back for a face-to-face with a client on Friday. The guy doesn’t do holidays.”
Valerie gave Alan an enthusiastic hug that made Scott’s chest burn. Not that Scott had any right to be jealous. He’d already decided he couldn’t risk getting intimate with her. Well, not again, anyway. There was too much at stake for that kind of distraction—the awkward tension between them was already off the charts—and he didn’t want hurt feelings when they parted ways.
But that didn’t mean he wanted to watch her go gaga over Mr. Tall, Dark, and Debonair.
Sleep would help pass the time, but he didn’t share Valerie’s blind trust of the man behind the wheel. The scenery through tinted windows turned increasingly barren. His brain didn’t have much more to offer when it came to ideas for cornering Hollowell.
Without some kind of evidence that Hollowell was involved, or something with which to extort Valerie’s old boss, Scott didn’t see any way out of this life on the run. For that, he needed Valerie’s and Alan’s expertise. Unless he could beat a confession out of the man.
Not freaking likely.
Scott’s mind went in circles, conjuring and discarding ideas, coming up with very little. But stopping meant his mind wandered to his mom. What was she thinking right now? Was she safe? Had she received his telegram?
Did she believe he was innocent?
That mattered more than it should have.
Some time later, he woke in that instant way he’d developed in Afghanistan, no groggy transition from dreams to confusion to final awareness. He might not know where exactly he was in the world—somewhere with low shrubs, some cactus, fields of cotton, and little else—but he knew immediately that he was in the backseat of Alan’s car and that it was late afternoon.
Valerie snoozed in the front seat, her head resting on Scott’s balled-up sweatshirt against the side window. Country music played faintly in the background.
Scott rubbed his face and glanced at his watch. Sixteen hundred. How could he have fallen asleep?
He caught Alan’s gaze in the rearview mirror, and the man’s eyes crinkled as if he were smiling.
“Where are we?” Scott asked, mostly managing to keep the irritation out of his voice.
“About thirty minutes east of Yuma,” the driver replied, his voice low, presumably in deference to Valerie’s slumbering state. “We’ve been on the road about three hours.”
The Marines had an air station in Yuma, but Scott had never been there. “You need a break? I can drive.” Riding in back made him feel like a ten-year-old.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Not that he could blame the guy. Scott might let Valerie take the wheel, but he’d never give up control to Alan if their positions were reversed.
They sat in silence for several minutes before Alan said, “I only have her best interests at heart, you know.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I understand if you don’t trust me.”
Was the guy reading his mind? Scott shrugged—a gesture probably lost in the rearview mirror. “I don’t have much choice now, do I? Besides, Valerie trusts you. That’s enough for now.”<
br />
“You could go your own way.”
You’d probably like that, wouldn’t you, asshole? Scott’s jaw clenched and he crossed his arms. “Oh, yeah? And who’s going to protect her after you drop her in Fort Worth?” And before?
“I have friends who can help.”
Was that a threat or a brag? “I think it’s better to minimize the number of people who know where she is, don’t you?”
Alan was silent for a moment. “My friends are experts at keeping secrets.”
“And unearthing them.”
The man’s dark head tilted. “True. But these people would do anything for DarkHand’s daughter.”
“Out of respect for a man who swindled banks out of millions?” Scott didn’t even try to hide his disgust.
Alan blew out a long breath. “Look, Valerie and her dad were legends. As a team, they breached some of the toughest networks out there at the time, and her dad wrote the early versions of some of the most popular tools still in use. We respect that.”
“So that’s why you’re here.”
“Dude, you can quit busting my balls, okay?” Alan glanced back, spots of color high on his cheeks, mouth a tight line. Returning his focus to the road, he said, “I don’t know what your deal is, but I’ve known Valerie since she was eleven. I’m the one who looked out for her—kept track of her—after she went to live with her aunt and uncle, fourteen years ago. Your involvement in her life is a fucking blip compared to mine.” By the end of his little speech, the guy was practically growling. “You have no right to question my intentions.”
“You’re right.” Scott relaxed a little. Alan seemed to genuinely care about Valerie, which was all that mattered. “But I’m still not leaving.”
Alan made a noncommittal noise.
Dangerous To Love Page 217
