Chapter 53
She’d ducked out of sight at the sound of running feet. Her escape had been discovered too fast. When she sorely needed the speed and agility of her youth, not even the shot of adrenaline, which still had her heart pounding, provided it.
Not like Moriarity, but rather Sherlock’s brother Mycroft.
Collecting rumors, formulating plans, and implementing solutions through shadowed nudges, anonymous hints to others, and tips to his famous brother.
All in defense of a country that had, in the foggy view of imperfect hindsight, abused her.
Her own government had been willing to throw her life away by assigning her to the riskiest of objectives.
Even decades later, she was an object still worth hunting.
Too many years buried in the darkness had taught her that everything was a conspiracy.
Henderson’s Ranch had been too abrupt a change, but the small town of Choteau had reminded, no, re-taught her about sunshine and fresh air.
She’d almost forgotten about those. Her past forays into the twisty streets and convoluted secrets of DC, typically under cover of darkness, didn’t make for a generally optimistic frame of mind.
Over the last few years, Dilya and her own eventual peregrination to Montana had turned that around.
Turned it around—and made her lower her guard.
She stumbled into a lunchroom. Big enough for a couple score of people.
Not a full-on cookline, instead set up with a steam table line and rolling racks.
The main cafeteria must deliver pre-made meals to here.
A chalkboard announced the day’s specials—which were enough to make her stomach growl without bothering to read them. How long since they’d last fed her?
A scrounged energy bar and a box of orange juice made her feel much better.
A banner told her, finally, where she was—RAF Brize Norton.
It confirmed what she already knew but that didn’t make her feel much better.
An interrogation black site, directly under the UK’s largest Air Force base, explained why she wasn’t dead yet. The Brits were too polite, too careful.
There was also a narrow window high on the wall. Too small to exit, but it showed hints of daylight—and the flashing blue of police lights.
Time to move.
She glanced again at the window. They weren’t converging on this building; they were passing by at speed. A crisis elsewhere on the base might buy her more time. She was almost out into the hall before her fogged thoughts wondered about what that crisis might be.
Praying she was wrong, she doubled back, scrounged a piece of chalk from the kitchen drawers, then moved to the menu board.