by Jaime Rush
Amy finally used her hand as a hair band. “That’s why we’ve got to keep our alliance hidden for as long as we can.”
“Our alliance?” Eric said.
“We want the same thing. That makes us allies.”
He scrubbed his hand through his stiff hair. “Right now we have no idea where Lucas is. That’s the first problem.”
Petra asked, “Can’t you find out anything from him? During your dreams,” she added in a harder voice.
It hit Amy then that Petra was jealous of her connection with Lucas. Was she an overprotective stepsister or did she have other feelings for him? No matter, she knew she couldn’t deal with that right now. “He won’t tell me anything. He doesn’t want me or you to rescue him.”
Eric shook his head. “Noble son of a bitch. Typical Lucas. Look, you’re the only one who has a connection to him. You’ve got to find out something.” Frustration made his glow flare out from his body. “Can you connect to him?”
She shook her head. “I tried.”
“He told you they were injecting him with something.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t know what it is.”
“They’re keeping him alive,” he said, his mouth a grim line. “They could torture him to find out what we know, but Lucas would downplay that. Besides, they already know we’re on to them.”
“How do they know?”
The two exchanged a look that clearly said: should we tell her?
When the answer was their silence, Amy let out a huff of breath. A sea gull, squawking as it swooped by, mirrored her frustration. “Look, whether we like it or not, we’re involved in this together. I need to know everything.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. Made her wait a few seconds. “I’ll tell you what you need to know,” he said at last, propping his arm on the same piling Petra was leaning against. “It started when I was arrested for suspicion of arson two months ago—bogus charges. The questioning just stopped all of a sudden, and this guy in plainclothes comes in, says he’s Trevor Gladstone. He doesn’t ask me more questions about the fire. He wants to recruit me for the Department of Tactics and Defense.
“I said ‘Hell no’ and that was the end of it. Or so I thought. Except I keep seeing him around. I even followed him once, but he lost me. Then Lucas mentions someone’s been breaking into the gallery, looking around but not taking anything. He installs a video security system and shows us the video of this guy creeping around his office. And holy shit, it’s Gladstone.”
Petra said, “Then I wigged because he was a guy who’d been friendly to me at Hooters, where I worked.”
“So we realize this guy has been casing us. There’s no such thing as the Department of Tactics and Defense, but he’s probably government, has to be, with the clout to interrupt an interrogation.”
“That was the organization Cyrus was logged into,” Amy said.
“So we kidnapped him,” Eric said in the casual way he’d say they invited him to dinner. That was what unnerved her about him; one of many things. “He didn’t give up much information, though. Lucas got onto his computer, and with a little bit of cooperation we found what you saw at Cyrus’s. We saw our profiles, Hammond’s, and yours before his computer shut down.”
“That’s how Lucas found you,” Petra said, not hiding her disdain at that. “Until then he only knew your first name.”
Eric pushed away from the piling. “We figured Gladstone gave us a code that alerted his people he was in trouble. We ditched the laptop in case it had GPS capability and left him there. Since they knew which profiles we’d looked at, we decided to wait to approach you and Hammond. Gladstone was monitoring us, trying to get to know us. Cyrus is probably your monitor, yours and Hammond’s.”
Amy felt a jab in her heart. Cyrus had been reporting on her. Was that the only reason he’d been in her life? She pushed past her pain. “I saw two program names on the home page on Cyrus’s computer: DARK MATTER and BLUE EYES.”
“What the hell is BLUE EYES?” Eric asked.
“That link was on Gladstone’s computer, too,” Petra said.
“I didn’t have time to check it out.” Amy flipped over the list. “I did, however, write down everyone in Cyrus’s speed dial memory.” She got a pen from her backpack and marked lines through several names. “These probably aren’t Offspring. I don’t know who Zoe Stoker is. Oh, Bill Hammond left a message while I was there, saying he had a bad feeling about me coming over and that someone was watching him.”
Eric’s expression grew grimmer as he looked at Amy. “Don’t go to Hammond again. Right now you’re the wild card. They’re not sure what you know or what you’re up to. Let’s keep it that way.”
Amy hooked her thumbs through the loops in her jeans. “Um, isn’t that what I said?”
“Maybe we can get you onto Cyrus’s computer again. Speaking of computers…” He looked at Petra and nodded toward Amy. “She retrieves data from damaged hard drives.”
Petra’s face perked up. “Really?”
“I checked.” He lifted a cell phone that could obviously get onto the Internet. “She’s got a reputation for her expertise, even got a small write-up in Wired magazine.”
Though Amy was proud of that, she was annoyed that he hadn’t believed her. “And what is the relevance of your interest?”
His smile was smug. “We ditched Gladstone’s laptop, but I took out the drive.”
All annoyance fled. Her fingers twitched. “Give it to me.”
“We’ll do it together,” he said.
“Look—”
Petra shushed them and cocked her head. She kept a pleasant expression on her face, but her glow grew jagged as she shifted her gaze toward the parking lot. “Eric, see that cop car? He’s calling into the station, citing your description. They’re talking about the arson suspicion. Even though they didn’t have enough to charge you, they were sure you were guilty. You need to get out of here.” Despite the words, she turned to Amy and said, “Laugh and pretend that Eric was trying to pick us up. We’re so not interested.” She waved him off and grabbed Amy’s arm as they walked away, laughing like teenagers.
“You’re good at this stuff,” Amy said on a peal of laughter.
“I’m good at pretending to be something I’m not.” Her smile was hollow at that.
They glanced back and giggled again. Shaking his head at the silly girls, Eric casually strolled toward, ironically, the police substation, taking a walkway that went behind the small building.
“How could you hear the officer?” Amy asked as they got into a burgundy vintage Barracuda.
“I have really good hearing.” The engine roared to life, smooth as whiskey, and Petra pulled away. Worry permeated her features.
“Eric seems like he can handle just about anything,” Amy offered as consolation.
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
U2’s “Numb” played on the not-so-vintage CD player. “You guys must have a thing for this band. I heard it at the gallery, too.”
Petra’s fingers tightened on the wheel, and her voice tightened around her words, too. “This is Lucas’s car. He says that U2 is the only band that is a perfect blend of music and consciousness, whatever that means.”
With that, the car took on a whole different meaning for Amy. She looked around, studied the perfectly maintained interior. Mixed with the scent of leather was the faint echo of a citrus men’s cologne. It was like being inside Lucas, feeling the warmth of him, hearing the rumble of his blood. Her fingers automatically went to the cross at her neck, caressing the edges and remembering it dangling from his neck that night he’d changed her life.
Petra dropped her off near her apartment building a short time later. She was surprised to find her laundry still in the washer, and she moved it to the dryer. She heard the scrape of shoes on the concrete floor and looked up—to find Spy Guy staring at her. She didn’t need to see his violet blue glow to know he was pissed.
CHAPTER 10
Rand acted surprised, shocked even, what friggin’ luck. The dealer narrowed his eyes as he pushed a pile of chips toward him. Rand had changed tables, played recklessly, and lost enough not to arouse suspicion. He collected his winnings, tossed a chip to the dealer, and departed. He knew to stay under the radar.
He’d gotten a little greedy lately, coming into the city twice in one week. The woman next door whose daughter had leukemia was selling off her possessions one tear at a time to pay the medical bills. Damn insurance company was stringing her along. Then an anonymous benefactor deposited thousands of dollars into the account set up for donations. Her “garage” sales had stopped and that fearful look on her face had lessened just a little. He had another two thousand in his pocket for her.
He wended his way through the crowds to the cashier. Unfortunately, he hadn’t thought to check ahead. Real bad luck that. He walked right into a brick of a man wearing a suit.
“Excuse me,” Rand said, knowing better than to react to the man’s rudeness or lack of manners when the man stepped in front of him again.
A beefy hand clamped onto his shoulder. “You need to come with me.”
Shit. He sighed, as though accepting his fate, but at the same time bolted. Or tried to. One second he was turning, and the next he was on the floor with a knee jammed into his back. He was hauled up as though he weighed a hundred pounds and shoved through the gawking bystanders to the back of the casino.
“What’s the deal?” he said.
The man said nothing as he propelled him through a door that read EMPLOYEES ONLY and down a hallway. Another man waited inside what looked like an interrogation room in a police drama. He would have actually welcomed the sight of a detective. These dudes were definitely not cops, which meant they didn’t have to follow any rules. No phone call. No bystander videotaping the incident. Plus the police needed proof that he was cheating, and there was no proof.
These guys didn’t need proof. They’d obviously decided he was guilty. Both men felt him up, and they were none too gentle about it.
“Hey, watch the merchandise. I don’t have any weapons.”
They threw his wallet on the table, his car keys, his winning chips, and kept looking.
Please don’t let them do a cavity search.
“No electronic devices,” Tall and Mean said to no one in particular.
He shoved Rand into a chair and started throwing pictures onto the table: pictures of him playing roulette, blackjack, craps.
“We’ve been watching you,” he said.
“Well, that’s obvious. I realize I’m a stunner and all, but really, you shouldn’t have.”
A whack on the back of his head snapped his neck forward.
“You have odds way beyond the normal sucker who comes in here.”
“Guess I’m a lucky guy,” Rand said, and got another knock on his head.
“That ain’t it. You’ve got a system. Since you don’t only play the cards, it ain’t card counting. So what is it? Tell us and maybe you’ll walk out of here on two bruised but not broken legs.”
Rand swallowed hard but kept his body slack and relaxed. “I don’t have a system. You said it, buddy. How can I win at different kinds of games? I’m telling you, it’s luck.”
This time the fist came from the front, smashing his nose. Blood spurted onto the pictures on the table, giving him multiple views of bloody Rands.
Tall and Mean smiled; oh, yeah, the son of a bitch was enjoying this. Someone was cheating his casino, which regularly cheated people and preyed on their dreams, but that part didn’t matter. “Try again, dick-weed.”
The other guy, Big and Beefy, stood against the wall, his body sculpted like concrete, muscles ridiculously big and veiny. He was also enjoying the show. Likely he was backup in case the muscular but-not-even-close-to-beefy Rand Brandenburg caused trouble or Tall and Mean got tired of getting blood all over himself.
“Don’t I get a phone call? How about a towel, at least?” Blood continued to gush. When he tried to stanch it he heard a crackling noise. Damn, it was broken.
That got him another slam, this time in the side of his head. His ear rang and pain shot right through his head. Thankfully it wasn’t the other side; that could have torn the gold bar that lanced the top of his ear or ripped his spike right out of his eyebrow.
Big and Beefy said, “I can do this longer than you can stay conscious, I bet.”
Rand was going to say something about him messing up his pretty hand but thought better of it. He closed his eyes for a second and saw another fist coming—he opened them. “All right. I’ll tell you my system.” He noticed the camera up in the corner of the room. So he was being taped. Would the police ever see it? Coercing a confession by brutality wouldn’t fly in court. With a jab of fear he realized this would never see court. He might not, for that matter, see another day. “I can see ten seconds ahead.”
Silence.
Then the fist he’d already seen.
For a second worms wiggled in his vision. Did he dare want to see ahead again?
“Try again,” Tall and Mean said.
“That’s all I have. I’ve been able to do it all my life. I concentrate and see ten seconds ahead. I can see what cards the dealer has, what number comes up in roulette and craps. That’s my system. It’s prescience. Psychic. Whatever you want to call it.”
Another slam to the head, and this time the room blinked in and out. “What kind of device do you use? What’d you do with it?”
“Device?” His words were slurred. “No device. Just here.” He tapped his temple and grimaced in pain.
A phone rang, and Big and Beefy answered it. After listening for a second, he said, “What?” He looked at Rand. “Why?” After a second he hung up and looked at Tall and Mean. “We gotta stop. Someone else wants him.”
“Who?”
“Boss didn’t say, but they must be pretty powerful. We don’t get to finish him.”
Tall and Mean grunted in annoyance. “This ain’t right.” He aimed a look at Rand. “You must be messing with some pretty big shit.”
The two men walked out. The lock clicked behind them. Rand got up and made his way over to the phone. He glanced at the camera and smiled, though it felt more like a grimace with his face swelling up. He lifted the receiver. No dial tone. He tried 9 and a number but still got nothing. He wandered over to the door and twisted the knob. As he suspected, it was locked. He paced, wondering who these people were who wanted him.
An hour later the door opened and his two buddies reentered and leaned against the wall. They looked at him but said nothing. A few minutes passed with Rand trying to appear unconcerned as he sprawled in one of the chairs. The door opened again, and the guy who stepped in made Tall and Mean look like a teddy bear. He didn’t need brawn or mass either. He would have made a perfect villain in an old horror flick, with his winged eyebrows, bushy moustache, and eyes so dark the devil could lurk inside. A gratified devil, by the smile that spread across the man’s face when he looked at him.
To the two beefcakes he said, “He say anything?”
“Just some bullshit about seeing ten seconds ahead. You with the FBI or something?”
“Something.”
Rand wasn’t sure whether he should be relieved or not. He sure as hell didn’t feel relieved. So who was this guy? And why was he being cagey about what agency he was with?
The man picked up his wallet and tried to compare the driver’s license picture to the bloody mess in front of him. “I see you guys have been having fun.”
“It’s just a job,” Tall and Mean said with a shrug.
; He tossed the wallet on the table. “Randall Brandenburg. You’re a hard man to catch up with.”
“I don’t like staying in one place too long.”
“Any particular reason for that?”
He’d been running loose since he was a kid. His mom was too busy making love with her bottle of vodka to care. “Not really.”
Two other men came in, neither in uniform. The cagey guy nodded, and the two lifted Rand by his arms to his wobbly feet. He felt cold handcuffs snap around his wrists.
“Is there a back way out of here?” the cagey man asked the two beefcakes. “I don’t think you want customers seeing your handiwork.”
Reluctantly, the two led them down the hallway and out a back entrance. A black car pulled up. Cagey Man opened the door while the other two helped him into the back, and then he got into the passenger seat.
“Am I under arrest?”
Cagey Man turned toward him as the car pulled away. “Not technically.”
“Then let me out.”
“Since I saved you back there, I think you owe me.”
“Owe you what?”
“Your cooperation.” He seemed to assess Rand. “You’re not a cooperative guy, are you?”
“Not technically.” He crossed his arms over his chest and sat back in the seat. “I don’t like games. Beef. Drama.”
“Do you like money?”
“Money’s not important to me.”
“Why are you using your—shall we say—talent, to cheat? I have a better use for it.”
This had bad painted all over it in bright red. “Look, I appreciate the offer and you saving me, but no thanks.”
Cagey Man turned forward again. No one talked as they left Atlantic City and headed south. Rand wasn’t in a talkative mood, and he knew they wouldn’t answer his questions anyway. He was pretty sure they weren’t with the FBI, police, or the New Jersey Division of Gaming Enforcement.
The silence was oppressive. The two men in the back with him checked their watches periodically. After four and a half hours, not too long after he saw the sign telling him they were in Maryland, one of the men turned to Rand. “That’s where we’re headed.” He pointed to a cluster of buildings, though there were several in the distance and Rand couldn’t figure out which one he pointed at, or why he was even bothering.
