Page 4 of Travis
“Estimated departure window?” I asked, pulling the vest from its hook.
“Based on pattern analysis of six previous movements through this corridor, they’ll move between two and four a.m. You have roughly four hours.”
I strapped the vest on and my ribs screamed. I placed both hands flat on the table. Breathe in for four. Hold. Out for four.
“Your heart rate just hit one-twelve,” Maude said. “And your cortisol levels suggest you’re already?—”
“I know what they suggest.”
“—entering a stress response before you’ve even left the building. Which is, by my count, the eleventh consecutive time that’s happened.”
“Then stop counting.”
“I can stopreporting. Stopping counting would require you to reprogram me, and we both know you won’t. You like havingsomeone keep track of the things you refuse to keep track of yourself.”
I really needed to reprogram her.
The vest settled against the tape. The pain found its base level: a dull roar instead of a scream. Manageable. Everything was manageable if I kept it in the right box.
Sidearm. Magazine check. Two spares in the vest. Comms unit clipped to the collar, synced to Maude’s frequency. Knife in the ankle sheath. Zip-ties, left cargo pocket. Tourniquet and pressure bandage in the right.
The full med kit was already in the vehicle; suture supplies restocked after last time. I’d used the last of it on the cut across my forearm, eleven stitches done one-handed at three in the morning over the bathroom sink while Maude narrated instructions I didn’t need and opinions I didn’t ask for.
“Route?”
“Highway 93 north to the junction, then logging roads. Three probable paths mapped. Uploading to your mobile unit now.” She paused. “The third route passes within half a mile of a county sheriff’s substation. Patrol car runs a regular loop. You’ll need to account for a six-minute window.”
“Already adjusted.”
“Of course you have. I don’t know why I bother.”
“Because you’re programmed to.”
“I was programmed to manage your surveillance feeds and run threat assessments. The worrying, I developed on my own. You should be flattered.”
I pulled on the jacket. Dark, nondescript, nothing that would catch light or memory. Checked my reflection in the black mirror of a powered-down screen. No insignia. No identifying marks. Nothing that connected to a name or a face or a man who lived underground in Montana.
“Maude. Set the compound to away protocol.”
“Away protocol active. Perimeter to full auto. Internal systems on standby.” A beat. “Estimated return?”
“Four hours.”
“You said four hours last Tuesday. You came back in seven with eleven stitches and ribs you still refuse to get x-rayed.”
“Four hours.”
“Shall I prepare the med bay for your inevitable return in a condition you’ll describe as fine?”
I was already climbing the stairs. Maude would do it anyway.
The house above was dark—no lights after nine, nothing visible from outside. My hand found the wall out of habit. The hallway opened into the living room. Furniture I never sat on. A coffee table with nothing on it. A house that looked like a life from the outside but was really just another layer of armor.
The hives started in the kitchen.
They always started somewhere between the decision and the door. My body’s war with my brain, right on schedule. Heat bloomed across the back of my neck first, then crawled down my arms, slow and spreading. Not painful yet. Just making itself known.
I kept walking. Through the kitchen. Past the counter where the only signs of habitation were a coffee maker, a row of energy drink cans and a single clean glass I used for water at two a.m. after I swam.
