Total pages in book: 211
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201554 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1008(@200wpm)___ 806(@250wpm)___ 672(@300wpm)
Eager to deal with this problem and get back to her, I don’t bother with the elevator. I take the stairs and I’m at the front of the hotel in a blink, but I don’t stop for my car. I walk toward Harper’s house and dial Blake. “Talk to me.”
“He’s still there,” he says. “And the plates are registered to one of the neighbors.”
“He pulled them off another car.”
“That’s my bet,” he agrees.
“That’s not a stupid, half-assed PI move,” I say.
“Not all PIs are stupid,” he reminds me. “Quite the contrary. There’s a Glock at the back door in the bush to the right of the entrance. I only had two men available outside of Adam and one is tracking down Isaac. Adam’s with you. He’ll find you when you need him.”
“Got it.” I disconnect and jog the rest of the way, coming up a street that will bring me to the rear of the vehicle. I slow as I turn a corner, my target in view, parked in the same spot, but I don’t give the driver time to see me.
I cut left down the side of one of the neighbor’s houses without any resistance. I enter the unfenced backyard and cross two more open rear yards before I’m moving through the shadows of Harper’s property and arrive at her back door. I grab the Glock and holding a weapon, any weapon, is like holding an old friend in my hand. I check the ammunition, and shove the weapon into my waistband, under my jacket before I head to the side of the house.
Once I’m there, I find the car still boldly parked across the street, almost daring me to confront him. I rest my back against the wall and Adam, dressed in all black, down to the beanie on his otherwise curly black hair, appears by my side. “He’s alone,” he says. “He wants to talk. You don’t announce yourself to a SEAL and expect to be ignored.”
Spoken like one of us.
A SEAL.
Not ex-SEAL.
Because as I told Harper, a SEAL is always a SEAL.
“Agreed,” I say, “and while I could assume it’s a trap, I don’t really give two fucks. If he wants to talk, I’m not going to disappoint him.”
“I do like how you think.” He pulls his weapon. “I’ll cover you.”
I push off the wall and start walking toward the front of the house. The minute I clear the wall and the bushes, and I’m in the open, the driver revs the engine of his car, rolls down the window and holds up a lit cigarette. He starts rolling forward and tosses it, along with something else. He floors his accelerator and drives away. I walk toward the cigarette, more interested in the rolled-up piece of paper next to it. Adam joins me, and offers me a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and hands them to me. He’s prepared, but that doesn’t surprise me. He’s Adam. He’s Walker. He’s a SEAL.
I pull the gloves on and squat down to grab the little gift I’ve been given and find a line of numbers with random letters. My brain plays with them—translating letters to numbers and the reverse—memorizing the fourteen digits before I toss the paper and the cigarette into the baggy Adam is holding open for me. “What was it?” he asks, eyeing the items in the bag. “A code? Aren’t you a numbers guru?”
“It’s not a cipher, code, or a translatable message. It’s not even a point in history. It’s an identifying number, like a name, but it’s not a VIN number or a parts number.”
He gives me a deadpan look. “You know all of that in the sixty seconds you were looking at that number?”
“Yes,” I say. “And as you said, he wanted to talk and that’s what he did.” I motion to the bag. “If we find out what the identifier’s attached to, we’ll understand that message.”
“Or it’s a distraction to focus you in the wrong direction,” Adam suggests as we walk to the front of the house.
His pocket vibrates and he pulls his phone out and glances at a message while I consider his thoughts. It could be a distraction, but if it is, it’s someone who’s studied me. Someone who knows how damn obsessed I can get about a series of numbers. Isaac isn’t that detailed or focused. My father is another story. He knows things about me, like how I used to get hung up on equations and struggled to spread my focus. But that was then and this is now, and thanks to special training in the Navy, I’m beyond that.
“Isaac’s at home,” Adam says, sliding his phone back into place. “He went straight there from here. He didn’t meet with anyone.”
“Anyone but you watching his house?”
“No one. You think he’s being targeted, too? I thought you believed he was behind your watcher?”