by T. G. Ayer
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Acknowledgments
T.G. Ayer’s Full List of Books
About the Author
Connect with Tee
By
Copyright 2014 by T.G. Ayer
All rights reserved.
Find out more about T.G. Ayer at
http://www.tgayer.com/
http://www.tgayer.wordpress.com/
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Cover art by T.G. Ayer
Cover art © T.G. Ayer. All rights reserved.
Edited by J.C. Hart
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
Dedication
For my forever friend, Tash. It's so true what they say about the truest of friends. Wherever we are, no matter where we are in life, our friendship always stands strong.
Love you to the moon and back.
CHAPTER ONE
Gray
I know what the deer feels like when the hunter has her in his sights, has the barrel of his rifle aimed at her head, finger slowly pressing down on the trigger. Every step, every breath I take feels like it's on borrowed time and I hate it with such a passion that it makes that iron fist that always holds onto my gut, tighten with vicious enjoyment.
My muscles in my throat are taut as I turn my head and allow my eyes to travel up and down the busy street. I squint against the sun streaming down on my head. It's cheerful brightness mocks me. The oversize sunglasses help against the glare, and maybe it helps to hide me a little too. I don't know. If someone is watching me right now I'll never be able to tell. I plan to get better at it soon.
Or else I'm going to be the one looking down the barrel of a gun.
My heart thuds as I cross Larkin and enter the cool hall of San Francisco's main public library. I push the sunglasses up onto my head and scan the hall as I keep moving. The atrium is enough to stop any visitor in their tracks, high and airy and all glass, but I don't stop to stare because I have a purpose. I'm not here to sight-see. I follow the signs to the first floor, worn sneakers silent on the marble floor tiles.
As I move I tug the leather cuff on my right wrist, ensuring it stays in place. The leather hides a truth that I'd rather not see. Call it denial, but I haven't fallen apart yet so out of sight, out of mind has helped me this far.
I enter General Fiction and inhale the unique scent of books; ink and dust and paper. I hurry along the silent aisles, reading off the spine labels under my breath, in search of Songs of Innocence and Experience by William Blake. I smile, thinking how strange that Alexei would even know who Blake was.
But maybe I am being naive. How would I know what kind of life Alexei had led when I'd known him for only the briefest time. I hadn't seen the old man in weeks and a few times I'd wondered how smart it was to have contacted him in the first place. He'd given me his card, yes, but that didn't mean I should have used it. It didn't mean I should have made him part of my problem.
My heels squeak on the polished wood floor, and the sound echoes around me. Too loud. I look around from beneath nondescript black bangs that skim my eyebrows, the edge jagged much like the rest of my short wig.
I look around. The room was far from empty, with the nearest person being a young guy his nose in a book as he stands beside a showcase of the latest bestsellers. He's harmless.
My heart thumps and I try to calm my nerves. I'm careful, I'm aware. Nothing's going to happen. And yet . . . I'm still nervous. I slip into a row and immediately I'm hemmed in by shelves that rise a foot higher than the top of my head. If I've disturbed anyone or drawn attention from the wrong sort, I can't tell now.
I lift my weight onto the balls of my feet, and hurry down the aisle. Moving quickly, I find the B's, and run a finger along the spines until I reach Blake. It takes seconds to find Songs, and I feel a sudden stab of fear. What if someone's loaned out the copy I need? What then? Keep coming back for that particular copy? How would I explain why I want that specific book? Why hadn't I thought this through?
I stiffen with fear.
Get a grip, Gray. Don't borrow trouble. That's what Dad used to say. Don't go worrying about something that hasn't happened yet, Gray. If you want to worry, just let the crap happen first. You never know, you just might have nothing to worry about in the end.
Good advice.
Taking a deep breath, I tilt the book toward me. A fine layer of dust coats the tops of the surrounding books and only my copy is clean. I slide it out and I hold its weight in my hand, then flip open the back cover.
My heart slams against my ribs. Please be the right one, I pray even when I know praying is stupid. What use are prayers when nobody hears them. I run my fingers over the paper that covers the hard surface of the inside cover. There. A small bump beneath the surface. Just where Alexei had said it would be.
I shut the cover and exit the stacks, forcing my gait to remain relaxed, my neck to stay calm. Anyone watching would see a girl with short cropped dark hair, long bangs, sloppy jeans and sneakers, off to the tables to read a book or to study. Not a girl so scared out of her wits, that the hands holding the book have a slight tremor to them.
I force myself to
stroll to a desk at the far end of the library, one that's hidden from prying eyes. I sit and try hard not to look around. Nonchalant. I have to act like I have no care in the world. It has taken weeks to learn to stop looking behind me all the time, to learn that even from a distance a person could notice the small things like the tightness in your neck or shoulder that indicates awareness and the desire to flee, that indicates fear. Sure, I'd learned not to look like I was running from something, but that didn't mean I'd stopped completely. So, I can't afford to get careless.
I whisper the words under my breath, like a prayer, over and over again. 'Get careless, get dead.' It's kept me alive so far.
I calmly set the book on the table before me. I can see the age of the paper, yellow with ragged edges. I reach for the knife inside my bag, it's nothing more than a letter-opener but it will do the job. I slide the sharp edge beneath the overlying paper glued to the hard back cover. The glue stretches, like strings of a stubborn cobweb. The knife slips through them, snapping the threads and releasing the paper to reveal what hides beneath.
A slim brown envelope.
Alexei had come through for me. I slide the envelope out of the space and close the book softly. With a sigh of relief, I shove the envelope into my stained backpack before throwing it over my shoulder. I grab the book and saunter back to the stacks to return it to its place. Then, my heart thudding, I head out of the library and down the stairs slowly, as if I have no place to be.
Emerging into the sunlight, I slide my sunglasses onto my face and skip down the steps. I scan the street, the cars, the bus that slows down at the stop, the trees across the street. So many faces but none seem interested in me. I don't give myself the chance to enjoy any sense of relief. I turn and head home.
Or what I consider home for the next five minutes. I used to hear people say 'Home is where the heart is' but what about when you don't have a heart or if you have no place in the world that you care to be in? What then? Well, then even a cardboard box under a bridge somewhere will do. Nobody even looks at the homeless anymore. And it saddens me that I must take advantage of the cold heart and the blind eye of society.
I have to make one stop before I am on my way. Hiding isn't easy when you can't cook yourself a meal, when food must be stolen or begged for, or the cheapest takeout available.
I walk in the direction of the nearest burger place. It doesn't matter which one, as long as I can grab a couple of dirt-cheap burgers. I stand waiting for my order, head down, scanning faces beneath my lashes. I'm always watching, always searching.
The boy in the black jeans, skateboard in hand, could be anyone. FBI, undercover cop, killer for hire. Or maybe he's just a kid with a skateboard. I sigh to myself, the 'always on edge' feeling rests against my chest like a tangible thing. Like one of those round weights that fit on the end of a barbell, maybe a fifty pound weight will be appropriate for what hangs around my heart.
My order is called and I grab the bag and head out into the fresh air, breathing deeply of sunshine and suspicion as I walk faster and faster. When I look behind me, skater boy is watching me, bag in hand. Then he crosses the street and rips his paper bag open, his eyes only for his burger.
I suppress the sigh of relief, then snap my gaze back to my route, the roundabout way I use so as to lose anyone who may be on my trail. I'm always careful, doubling back, watching out for anyone suspicious, eyes always peeled, bones always tense, jaw always tight. So much tension, but my life depends on it.
CHAPTER TWO
Watcher
Despite the dark glasses, I blink against the sunlight as it stings my skin. But I keep my eyes firmly on my mark. The girl is easy to track. Inexperienced. Naive. Thinks she isn't being followed. It's there in the false confidence of the way she walks, the way she holds her shoulders. Maybe it's because I'm good at my job. Good enough that my target will never know how long I've tracked them, or how much time I spent watching them. I'm hoping it's because I'm better than most at my job.
Otherwise the girl is a danger to herself.
I'm standing beneath a tree, amidst the bustle of midday sidewalk traffic, the shadows of the branches and sparse leaves providing meager cover in the baking sun. I'm watching as Sara Roshkov hurries across the busy road toward the entrance to the San Francisco Public Library. I have little idea what she's come to the library for, which makes me more than curious. I can't imagine she'd be loaning out a book; not now, when her life is in such turmoil. That leaves the option I don't like - meeting someone.
The thought spurs me to move and I wait only until she'd reaches the top step before I jog across Larkin and enter the building after her. The cool air is a shock against my sweat-covered skin and I'm momentarily blinded going from bright sun to shaded interior. I keep my sunglasses on, habit and protection. She's hurrying up the marble stairs and I pause to watch her, pretending to admire the high, glass ceiling of the atrium. I follow her up the stairs and watch her enter General Fiction. My shoes don't make any sound on the stairs and I know she has no idea she's being followed.
Her hair is short and black today, a wig she's been using since she arrived in San Francisco. She keeps her neck straight and stiff. Seems she knows not to appear as if she's looking over her shoulder. I'm not sure what she's learned from her father, but she sure has to learn a lot more about running and hiding so the likes of me won't find her.
I've been tracking her for a while now and I feel a pull of something as I watch her. There is a fragile air to her and she's lost weight, the hollows of her cheeks proof that life on the run doesn't exactly involve luxuries like three square meals a day. And Sara Roshkov is used to a life of luxury considering the family she belongs to.
I follow, grabbing a book from the bestseller shelf beside me, keeping sufficient distance between us that she'd see nothing suspicious should she turn around. What she would see is a young guy, black jeans, black tee, black sneakers, much like her own dark clothing. The hoodie I'm wearing is equally nondescript, the ball cap plain too. Nothing I wore would stand out in a person's memory should they spot me. My black hair is short, the style efficient and easy to maintain. Again nothing to remember me by.
She sneaks a look over her shoulder as she enters an aisle up ahead, but her eyes graze my face and her gaze seeks further beyond me. I flip through the book and then enter the aisle next to her. She's facing me and I can watch her through the stacks without her seeing me. She's already halfway down her row, finger running along the covers as she searches for her book.
It feels a little voyeuristic but hell, the full scope of my job is inherently voyeuristic. I keep my attention on her as her finger stops on one particular book. Her expression is satisfied; she's found the book she wants but before she takes it off the shelf her eyes cloud, the gray darkening to dark metal; a moment of doubt that shows on her face as if she battles the monsters within.
As much as I can read people, their eyes, their body language, it's what goes on inside their heads that eludes even the best of us. Nobody can train you for that.
She straightens her back and then tilts the book toward her. taking it down from the shelf with extra care.
She flips to the back of the book and slowly the pieces fall into place. Someone has left something for her in that particular book. There are a number of possibilities, but it's clear that someone is helping her. Is it someone within her family? Roshkov had always kept his personal life totally private. Not that our surveillance hadn't picked up on his many mistresses or his other extracurricular activities. The man was involved in everything from human trafficking to drug-running. No wonder his wife, having left for St. Petersburg a year ago, is still to return. Something is rotten in the Roshkov paradise perhaps?
Now, as I study his daughter I wonder if her mother is the wife in Russia or is she the offspring of one of Roshkov many affairs? There is too much we still need to know about Sara and perhaps we will get our break soon. One thing I do know is that she has a heart, that there is
a goodness in her.
There is no way for me to tell what the book hides and any attempt to find out will likely jeopardize the mission. I could pass her by and steal the book from her without her even realizing it happened. But that won't help the case.
She has what she wants, so now she heads out, and her shoulders relax a little. She thinks the coast is clear. I allow her that misconception. I hang back as she leaves the library, keeping my distance as she exits the building and heads back into the sunshine.
I'm her shadow as she hurries to a fast food joint where she buys a couple burgers and then keeps moving. I follow, my awareness turned on to full blast.
She heads further west, into the Tenderloin area of San Francisco. It didn't surprise me that she'd chosen one of the most dangerous parts of the city to hide out in. What does surprise me is that she's had the guts to stay there this long, hiding among the homeless and the drug dealers. People get killed every night in this area and so far she's survived. If anything she is resourceful.
I've watched the building in which she'd found a place to sleep, cased the place once when she'd left for a soup kitchen a few blocks away. Other than that, I just watch and report back on her activities. Despite my impatience that we were too slow in getting info, despite my need for us to reach the next level of this investigation in which we take Roshkov down, despite all my personal feeling I must remain clearheaded, keep my head in the game.
Now I watch her enter the deserted building as I lean against a light pole and pretend to light a cigarette.
I hear the buzz in my earwig that indicates someone is being patched through.
"Eagle, come in, over."
I press the button on the comms. "Eagle here, over." My eyes don't move from the mark.
"This is HQ, do you have a situation report, over."
"All quiet here, over."
CHAPTER THREE
Gray
I walk for a while until I've left the teeming streets of San Francisco behind, until I enter a part of the city that's teeming instead with shadows, where darkness simmers even when the sun is high and bright and hot enough to burn your skin. Here the light fails to penetrate, here where the buildings are too close together and the alleyways are narrow, holding dangers I'd rather avoid. The Tenderloin, the most dangerous part of San Francisco, and my safe haven. While I've waited for Alexei to get my papers sorted, this part of town has been my hideout.
