by Linda Howard
She’d headed west, into Virginia. The miles unspooled beneath her wheels. For a moment, just a moment, she felt as if she could truly breathe. No one would be looking for her here; no one would care. If she’d been followed, she hadn’t spotted the tail.
There was no reason to just drive forever, so she took an exit off I-66, then looped around and headed back toward D.C. She hadn’t gone all that far when she noticed a sign for a large chain store. Her heart gave a little thump. Sporting goods.
She took the designated exit and followed her nose, working her way toward the large, red and green sign she could see off to the right. A few minutes later she saw the store, straight ahead, in a large, bustling strip mall.
Cool.
She couldn’t drive aimlessly all the time—well, she could, but there were better ways to let her mind drift, ways that wouldn’t cost her a fortune in gas. She used to be in better shape; in college she’d run quite a bit, swam, did some yoga. She didn’t do any of that now. Oh, she walked around the neighborhood now and then, ate a healthy if unexciting diet, even occasionally dragged out an exercise DVD when it was too hot or too cold to walk, but it had been a while since she’d gotten anything resembling a workout, if one could call walking around the block a time or two a workout.
One couldn’t. She seriously needed to work on getting in shape.
There were a lot of things she could do. She could buy some free weights and start lifting, work on her muscle mass. She could jog instead of walk. She thought longingly of a martial arts class, but she’d already discarded that as being too alarming to whoever They were.
Okay, jogging would be a decent start. She’d need a new pair of running shoes, though. The shoes she had weren’t worn out, but she needed better support for running than she did for walking.
She couldn’t find a decent place to park in front of the sporting goods store, meaning she couldn’t find two end-to-end open parking spaces, and it was busy enough that she didn’t want to make people wait while she backed the car into a spot. Instead she went a few aisles down, in front of a children’s clothing store and a bakery, and found what she wanted. She even parked down at the end, closer to the exit. She had to walk a little farther, but given that she’d decided she needed to get in shape, that wasn’t a bad thing.
The strip mall was fairly crowded. People were in and out of the stores, up and down the sidewalks, winding their way through the lines of cars in the parking lot. There were kids and parents, older men, a harried woman in purple scrubs and sensible white shoes, teenagers in packs of varying numbers. One kid was texting as he crossed the street, tempting fate. Thank goodness there was a nurse nearby, in case he took a header or, God forbid, got clipped by a car. Looking around, Lizette didn’t see a single person who looked as if he or she didn’t belong here. She didn’t see anyone just sitting in a car, watching her. If she’d been followed whoever was on her tail was good, because she hadn’t spotted a thing.
Briskly she strode toward the store. The doors in front of her whooshed open. Almost instantly, the smell of the store engulfed her, and she took a deep, appreciative breath, pulling in the scents of leather and oil and metal blended. You wouldn’t think a sporting goods store would have a specific smell, its own perfume, but this one did. Probably they all did; she’d just … forgotten.
A sense of excitement bubbled up. This was her kind of place. Just in case she found more than new running shoes, she snagged one of the big shopping carts and headed down the main aisle.
The store felt strange and new and familiar, all at once. Her head swiveled back and forth as she looked up and down all the side aisles, taking in this and that, wondering what she needed, what might be of interest. At the same time, she checked out the other shoppers. No one paid her any undue attention; no one looked out of place.
But they wouldn’t, would they? No, they’d blend right in, and she wouldn’t see them coming until it was too late.
Her attention was drawn toward the rear right corner of the store, and she swiftly decided that shoes could wait. She wheeled her cart toward the hunting section as if it were pulling her in like a magnet. The area was marked well, with a big green, black, and brown camo sign hanging high: HUNTING AND FISHING GEAR. Just what she wanted—not that she had any desire to take up fishing.
She felt kind of like a kid in a candy store, almost giddy, and definitely thrilled. This didn’t feel like foreign territory.
What captured her attention first was an impressive display of weapons against the rear wall: rifles, mostly; some shotguns, air rifles. An employee stood at the counter, closely watching the aisles, on the lookout for shoplifters. Swiftly, automatically, she assessed him. Brown hair, small eyes. Maybe thirty, skinny, not much in the way of upper body strength. He looked at her, nodded, and immediately dismissed her as not being a likely customer.
Fat lot he knew. She didn’t bother nodding back. He’d already looked away.
She scanned the weapons display and remembered wishing for a gun when she’d thought she might be cornered in the parking lot of a slightly seedy apartment complex.
But you want a handgun that can’t be traced, and you sure as hell don’t want anyone doing a background check and alerting Them.
A big display of hunting knives caught her eye. There were other, more expensive knives in a locked display case, but these were encased in hard plastic and hanging on an end cap. Obviously they weren’t top of the line, but she didn’t want to blow a couple of hundred dollars on a knife, either. She pulled one from the peg and examined it. It had a six-inch stainless-steel fixed blade with a very slight curve. It wasn’t fancy, but it was a decent length, and the grip was small enough to fit her hand better than one of the behemoth hunting knives would. She dropped the clamshell package in her cart, along with a leather sheath that hung nearby. On the next aisle over, she almost crowed with joy. Bear spray! It was really pepper spray, extra strength, which wasn’t as good as a handgun but way better than nothing. And if she was going to jog alone, pepper spray would be a good thing to have on hand. What had she been thinking, walking in her neighborhood without it all these years?
She put two canisters into her cart, paused, then got another one. Three wasn’t too many. Over by the camping gear she found some wasp and hornet spray and almost automatically dropped two big cans into her cart. One would go by her bed, the other in the bathroom. It was just as good as pepper spray and could shoot a stream a good twenty feet. Huzzah!
In the camping section there was a huge selection of backpacks. She took her time selecting one that spoke to her, as in wasn’t too big but had plenty of zippers and pockets. Nylon rope. Some carabiners. She paused, looking at the last two items, remembering just this morning when she’d thought about an assault team roping down the outside of a building. The image didn’t bring on a headache attack now, but it did give her a tight feeling in her stomach, one almost of … anticipation. Good God, had she actually done something like that?
Probably not. Some weekend rock climbing was far more likely. Still, the idea was tantalizing.
She got some protein bars, a rain poncho, other items that appealed to her on some level. Her shopping was almost automatic; she barely gave any thought to the things she grabbed and threw into her cart. If she stopped to think she’d make herself sick, and she’d had enough of that. She needed these things; she needed them all.
Finally she made it to the middle of the store and the impressive display of running shoes.
Half an hour later, with shoes, thick socks, and a sleek new black jogging outfit—because who started a new exercise regime without all new gear?—she headed for the checkout counter. The days were still long; it wouldn’t be dark for a while. Even though she’d be late getting home, she could eat one of the protein bars on the way, dump her shopping bags, change clothes, and hit the pavement before dark. She wouldn’t run for long, not on her first day, but she was oddly interested in pushing herself, to see what she could
do.
When she reached the counter, she stopped and considered the contents of her cart. Pulling out the knife and pepper spray, the protein bars, the rain poncho, and anything else that could even remotely be considered as preparation for the coming zombie invasion, she pushed them toward the cashier. “I’m paying cash for these,” she said. “The rest I’ll put on a credit card.”
Maybe her caution was useless. Maybe someone was watching her check out, noting everything she’d bought. She had no way of knowing, and it made sense to her to make the extra effort anyway.
She did fleetingly wonder if the cashier thought her request was odd—especially paired with her purchases—but a closer look at the young woman made her realize the cashier wouldn’t have blinked if she’d bought a bow and arrow, a red bikini, and a miner’s headlamp. She probably saw all sorts of strange combinations every day.
But after she paid for her haul, Lizette blew out a weary sigh. She’d have to make one more stop on her way home: an ATM. She’d just blown almost every cent of cash she’d had with her. She really needed to start carrying more cash anyway, as a precaution. A machine would allow her to withdraw only two hundred dollars at a time, but she’d make a withdrawal tonight and tomorrow she’d go by the bank at lunch for a larger transaction.
They won’t like that, either.
Tough shit.
Dealing with invisible people was tiring. Still, even though she didn’t know what was going on, she didn’t think her problem was mental. If she ever sat down to make a foil hat, then she might concede that she was the problem. Until then she’d carry on.
On the way home, she didn’t zigzag in and out of traffic, and she didn’t speed … much. She’d already had her quota of excitement for the day, and though she’d liked it, she had to ease into this new/old persona. On familiar ground again, she went to her bank and through the drive-through ATM. She felt more secure with that cash in her handbag. She’d feel even better tomorrow after another trip to the bank.
She parked in the driveway, grabbed her bags from the backseat, and nodded to Maggie, who peeked through the side window of her house. Maggie waved her fingers, then let the curtain flutter closed. Keys in hand, Lizette headed for the front door. And again, the hairs on the back of her neck danced.
Don’t turn around. Don’t let them know you know.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But she didn’t turn around.
The man sat back in the driver’s seat, a cup of cold coffee in the drink holder to his right, his cell in his left hand. This was a quiet neighborhood, too quiet. It was nearly dark, and only a few kids remained on the street. He couldn’t stay here much longer; one of the subject’s neighbors had already asked him if he needed help.
This was, bar none, the most boring assignment ever. Who the hell had he pissed off?
“Yes, I lost her for a while,” he explained again. “But I found her.” He glanced at the laptop on the passenger seat, looked at the beeping red light that indicated the subject’s vehicle. “She went shopping. At a strip mall in Virginia.”
No, he explained again, he didn’t know exactly where she’d gone shopping or why she’d chosen Virginia. Maybe there had been a big sale. She was a woman, after all. He’d driven through the parking lot and found her car in front of a bakery. Where she’d gone from there he had no idea, but there had been a bookstore, a shoe store, and a women’s clothing store off to the right.
After about an hour she’d returned to her car carrying several shopping bags. From where he’d parked, he hadn’t been able to identify her bags, but she’d been alone and she’d been shopping, so there wasn’t any big deal about it. Afterward she went to her bank’s ATM. After shopping, that made sense.
The last guy who had lost the subject had already been sent on some shit job in the Middle East. In their line of work, they either produced the goods or someone else was brought in to do the job. The boss didn’t reward employees who screwed up by sending them to Paris.
Her history told him the subject was in for the night. He didn’t know what went on inside the house, didn’t need to know. In an hour he’d be relieved. If he was lucky, he might make it home in time to see the last couple of innings of the Nationals’ game.
Then the subject’s front door opened, and his boredom fled. What the hell?
She stepped into her driveway and executed a couple of quick stretches. Gone was the staid office worker he’d been watching; he wouldn’t have recognized her if he hadn’t seen her walk out of that house.
Her hair was pulled back into a thick ponytail. Her face looked sharper this way, more … dangerous. She was dressed all in black, with the exception of her shoes, which were a dark gray. No baggy shorts and muscle shirts for this runner, not even in the notorious D.C. heat and humidity. Her shirt was short-sleeved and loose—loose enough to hide a weapon beneath, if necessary—and the pants were long and fitted.
This duty was new, but he had been briefed. Once the subject was in, she should have been in for the night. He’d seen pictures of her, walking in the neighborhood, iPod on, earbuds in, zoned out and dressed in shorts and a tank top that didn’t leave room for her to hide so much as a piece of gum. So, leaving the house was unusual but not unheard of. Still … this was an entirely different look for her.
She jogged toward the street, and he got ready to throw his jacket over the computer and start the engine if she headed his way. Instead she turned and ran in the opposite direction, and he relaxed again as he kept an eye on her: back straight, form good, she ran slowly past her neighbor’s house and then increased her speed. She didn’t keep her eyes straight ahead, but instead studied her surroundings, keeping good situational awareness. No iPod. People were stupid to run alone with their ears plugged so they couldn’t hear anyone coming up behind them. A lot of people got mugged that way.
The subject hadn’t looked straight at him as she’d hit the street, but he was sure she knew he was here.
Quickly he dialed a number on his cell phone. When the call was answered, he said, “I think something’s going on.”
There was a short silence, then an exasperated, “Like what, for fuck’s sake?”
“I may be wrong, but it looks as if she’s going into some physical training. Not a casual jog; the look’s all wrong, like she’s about to get into some serious running. No iPod, noticing everything around her. I’m pretty sure she spotted me.”
There was another curse, then: “Clear out. You don’t need to be there when she comes back home. I’ll get someone else on her.”
Chapter Thirteen
Three a.m. was prime time for any self-respecting burglar. Houses were dark; all the residents were—or should be—sleeping.
Felice definitely had active surveillance on Lizzy. Even if he hadn’t already been alerted, Xavier would have spotted the car right off. The car itself was as bland as a car could get, but he knew what vehicles belonged in the neighborhood, and this one didn’t. The guy inside was taking care to keep a low profile; he wasn’t smoking, but he was drinking coffee to stay awake, and Xavier didn’t need night-vision goggles to spot the movement of his hand as he lifted the thermos cup to his mouth.
Before actually arriving at her house, Xavier had made a thorough reconnoiter of the surrounding area. Everything was clear. This was exactly what Forge had said it would be: low-level, just one guy.
Knowing how the game was played, he wasn’t surprised they’d put eyes on her. But he hadn’t picked up any prior intel on the move, which meant Felice McGowan was behind the surveillance, not Forge. And it meant she had used people outside the usual network.
That wasn’t good news for any of them. She had taken control from Forge on this; Forge might have balked at the idea and this was nothing more than Felice having her way, but Xavier didn’t like the use of outside people. That signaled a breakdown of trust.
Trust was all they had holding this thing together. It was an armed, guarded, lots-of-safety-nets-in-place
kind of trust, but it worked because they all knew each other and the situation was limited to their small group. Outside people … he didn’t know their training, didn’t know how they’d react in a fluid situation, didn’t know how much they knew or what their orders were.
He’d rather deal with a skilled professional any day than an amateur. There was no telling what the fuck an amateur would do. They were as likely to open fire at a sudden noise as they were to totally screw the job by going to sleep. Hell, he didn’t even know if this guy was armed, or with what. Though knowing Felice, he’d bet on armed.
He sometimes imagined their group as all of them standing in a circle, aiming at each other’s heads. Forge was undoubtedly the most dangerous and capable of the group, outside himself, and then perhaps only because of his younger age and active training. But whenever he pictured this scenario, his weapon wasn’t trained on Forge; it was on Felice, because she had the most to lose, and that made her the most likely to break the status quo. She would want to protect what she had, and she might decide the only way to do that was to eliminate the rest of them.
Like that idea hadn’t occurred to each and every one of them. He had his own safeguards in place, and Al Forge wouldn’t be Al Forge if he didn’t, also.
One day, which might not come around for years but could happen at any time, Felice was going to be a problem. He might or might not survive, but then again, the same odds applied to her.
In the meantime, he had to continue on the course he’d set for himself five years ago—longer, if he went back to when he’d first agreed to live a double life in preparation for the unthinkable, in case it ever came to pass.
Nothing he could do about that. All he could do was handle the present, which meant he had to get into Lizette’s house—while it was under surveillance.
