Page 138 of Bad Attitude
But she doesn’t object.
By the time we stop at a motel, road-weary and aching, all we really want is a shower and a bed. If there had been the spirit for more, the dingy state of the room saps it. Raven climbs into bed with a sigh, curls up in my arms, pushing her ass back, and that’s enough for me.
“Seems I’m not used to so many hours on the bike. I ache all over.”
“Want me to kiss anything better?”
“Good night, Romeo.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Are you going to stop calling me ‘hellcat’?”
“How can I? It’s your name.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Okay.”
I stroke her hair until she falls asleep, then lie there in the dark, listening to her breathing. This woman is the most precious thing I’ve ever held in my arms, and I still don’t have any idea how I’m going to do my job and save her.
Maybe the only workable solutionisto resign. But then I’d be a criminal if I went through with the heist, and the FBI would throw the fucking book at me. Or not do the heist, then have to explain myself to Raven,andnot get paid. It’s not like I have thousands in the bank to fall back on. I’d need an income, and what other job would let me ride around all day with Raven? None of them, that’s what.
There are no solutions that I can see, and I’mrunning out of time. Two more weeks until the heist, and then Mercer’s going to want answers.
When sleep finally comes, my dreams are disturbing, and I wake the following morning feeling like I haven’t slept at all.
“Shitty motel,” Raven mutters as we eat bacon sandwiches for breakfast by the side of our bikes. “We’re not coming back here, right?”
“We’ll find somewhere else next time. Maybe a decent hotel in the city.”
We’re closer to San Jose than San Francisco, still an hour out of the city proper, but this is the area Raven wants to run. We part ways with a kiss, and I head north alone. I stay on the 101 as it runs past Pacific Heights, only a few blocks away from the house Mercer has given me the code for, and I’m there by ten o’clock.
It’s a small place, wedged between a larger house and an apartment block, cream timber build with a red door that shouts budget family more than it does FBI-owned. A ‘For Sale’ sign gives it justification for being empty, and a ramp runs off the road into a garage that I don’t have the key for, but the coded entry on the front door is modern. I type in the six-digit number Mercer gave me, and it clicks open.
Inside, the house is basic but functional. Two bedrooms and a living area, with simple furniture. I do my checks, locating the wall safe and the medical supplies Mercer told me were there, so I know where they are if I need them in a rush.
The garage isn’t a garage at all, but a convertedbasement, the external door sealed from inside. Concrete walls and floors. A simple home gym: mats, a vaulting horse, free weights in one corner. A dartboard. Along one wall there’s a selection of weapons in a glass case—pistols and a submachine gun, with enough rounds to keep any prepper happy.
I don’t really care. All I need is somewhere I can head if things go badly on the heist. I doubt I’ll see this place again, but at least it gives me options.
My phone vibrates when I’m heading for the door, and I half expect it to be Raven.
It’s not. It’s a number I’ve memorized. It will never be stored in my phone, and I shouldn’t even see it on my display unless the shit’s hit the fan.
I swipe to answer with a knot clenching in my stomach. “Declan.”
“We’ve been trying to reach you about your car’s extended—”
“You’re clear, go ahead.”
The line clicks, then Mercer picks up. “Declan? We’ve got a problem.”
I exhale slowly. At least she said ‘we’ and not ‘you.’ “What is it?”
“Meridian Pacific is on a watch list.”
“What kind of watch list?”
“Good question. The analysts did some digging, and it hit an access denial even I can’t get around.” She pauses. “You know what that means.”
