Chapter 12
Twelve
Isteal a glance at Naomi, gauging her reaction to my suggestion. Her eyes widen, lips parting slightly in shock. Shit. I suddenly realize how that sounded.
"I mean, we should pretend to be married," I clarify. "I realized when the deputies came that we don’t have a cover story for why we’re traveling together.”
"Oh," she says, her expression dimming to something unreadable.
I focus on the road ahead, mentally kicking myself.
Of course, she's taken aback. Why would someone as beautiful and capable, as good and normal as her, want a broken-down wreck like me?
"I know it's kind of a stretch that someone like you would be with someone like me, but it's an easier sell," I say, trying to sound casual while my knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
When I risk another glance, she's finally looking at me. Something in her expression makes my chest tighten.
"I don't think it's a stretch," she says quietly. I swear I see her fair face turn a little pink. What's that about? "It's a good idea," she adds, looking away again.
Before I can process what just happened between us, a sharp electronic chirp cuts through the cab.
"What was that?" Naomi asks, sitting up straighter.
"The phone," I say, recognizing the sound immediately. "Can you check it?"
I wrestle it out of my pocket and hand it to her. Her brow furrows as she reads the screen.
"It just says, 'prtrdgcam.'"
I roll that around in my head, trying to decipher Static's cryptic letters. What the hell does it mean?
"You never explained who this is. Or why we can use this phone without it being traced," Naomi says, turning the device over in her hands like it might reveal its secrets.
"That phone was given to me by one of my former teammates.
His code name was Static," I explain, trying to keep buried memories from flooding back. Of course, with Static, a lot of them ain’t half bad.
Static was altered and trained like us. He could be lethal with his hands and a gun.
And while the rest of us were no slouches technically, he could see patterns in code and electrical systems that even the engineers who designed them couldn't comprehend.
"He could do absolutely magical things with computers. He explained that it piggybacks on other signals to satellites, bits at a time. It's why it's so limited. But he assured me it's untraceable. And if he says it can't be traced, it can't be."
"Why did he give this to you?" Naomi asks.
"Just in case."
"In case a girl on the run kidnaps you and then convinces you to help her,” she teases.
I nod, the bud of a smile on my lips. "Yep, just that scenario exactly."
That pink returns to her cheeks. A man can get drunk on a look like that.
I return my focus to the message. prtrdgcam. Could be a place, a password... I pull the truck over to the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires.
"What is it?" she asks, concern etching her features.
I reach across her to the glove compartment, acutely aware of how close we are in the cab. I pull out several folded maps and spread them across the dash.
"I think I might know what Static means," I say, scanning the maps with practiced efficiency. Naomi watches me intently. I find it easily. But I wait. Like chopping the ax, I don’t need her to know just how fast and easily I found it and have her question again what I am.
"Here," I say, tapping my finger on a spot on the map. "Prtrdg. Partridge Tree Mall."
"A mall?" Naomi looks skeptical. "What’s the cam part?"
"I don't know yet. But we’ll figure it out when we get there."
Half an hour later, we're walking through the sprawling shopping center. I don’t love how sparse it is because it’s harder to blend in.
It's midmorning on a weekday, so it wouldn’t be crowded anyway.
But with malls dying all across the country, it’s practically empty.
A bunch of storefronts are boarded up, and there are just a few elderly mall walkers and young mothers with strollers.
Naomi slips her arm through mine; her body suddenly pressed against my side. The contact sends electricity through me, and I tense involuntarily.
"I think this is how I would walk in a mall with my husband," she explains softly, her eyes scanning our surroundings for threats.
I nod, unable to say anything. I can take on an army single-handedly, but I can't handle this beautiful woman hanging onto my arm. Her touch is both comfort and torture.
I’m used to the torture part.
Ironically, it’s the comfort that’s making me squirm.
I have to keep reminding myself that we're just pretending. I'm dangerous for her. Bad for her.
I scan the mall directory, searching for anything that might connect to Static's message.
Cam seems like it would involve a “camera.” We check for camera stores, electronics shops, and anything photography related. Nothing fits.
"What about the drugstore? They do photo printing," Naomi offers.
I shake my head. "That doesn't sound right. I don’t think Static would involve an employee."
"Let's walk around," Naomi suggests, her arm still linked with mine. "Maybe we'll spot something that doesn't show on the directory."
We stroll through the mall, maintaining our couple’s act. I'm hyperaware of every exit, every security camera, every person who looks at us for more than a passing glance.
That's when I spot a small jewelry kiosk in the center of the walkway. A bored kid, maybe nineteen, sits behind the counter, absorbed in his phone.
"There," I say quietly, nodding toward the kiosk.
Naomi follows my gaze. "Jewelry?"
"Wedding rings," I explain. "For our cover."
We approach the stand, and the kid barely looks up. The display case is filled with costume jewelry. Nothing real, nothing expensive, but good enough to pass casual inspection.
Naomi browses the men's bands, bypassing the modern black ones and eventually selecting a simple gold one. "This one, cowboy," she says, holding it up. “You seem like an old school kind of guy.” Her eyes sparkle with amusement.
I find myself scanning the women's rings, oddly invested in finding the right one. I select a silver band with a modest fake diamond surrounded by pale blue stones.
"This one," I say, holding it up. "The blue matches your eyes."
For a moment, we just look at each other. I have the sudden, ridiculous urge to get down on one knee.
I shake off the thought. It’s silly.
But it looks like she can’t say anything either. And that pretty pink is back in her cheeks.
The kid rings us up with barely a glance in our direction.
“Here,” I say, holding out her ring. Instead of taking it, she holds out her hand. No hesitation, I slip the ring onto Naomi's finger, still trying to ignore the fact that I like this a little too much.
"What about that?" Naomi says suddenly, looking over my shoulder. I turn to follow her gaze.
A photo booth stands in the corner. The faded curtain and worn exterior suggest it's been here since the mall opened decades ago.
"Could be," I mutter.
We approach the booth casually, making sure no one's paying attention to us. I hold the curtain open for Naomi, who slides onto the small bench inside. I remove my hat and squeeze in beside her, our thighs pressing together in the cramped space.
"We should probably take some actual photos," she says, feeding bills into the slot.
"Right," I agree, feeling strangely nervous.
The screen lights up, showing our faces. Naomi's so close I can feel her breath on my cheek.
"Smile," she instructs as the countdown begins.
I try. I really do. Because she asked me to. I can fieldstrip and rebuild an M249 SAW in less than twenty seconds. I can run sub-four-minute miles for a half-marathon.
But I can’t remember the last time I put on a smile for a photo.
"What the hell is that?" she says, looking at my face in horror.
“I’m smiling,” I say through my teeth since I’m still smiling. It makes it sound like I’m growling at her.
“That’s terrifying.”
“Thank you?” I say, dropping my failed grin.
“Well, that’s not going to fly because even though I kidnapped you and threatened you and am now on the run with you and somehow convinced you to burn your cabin to the ground to help me take on some sort of dark government conspiracy, I’m actually really delightful.”
“I believe it.” There’s not a hint of sarcasm in my tone. I really do believe it, pleased as she is with her little joke. It’s adorable. And charming.
“Well, if you’re going to be married to me, you can’t go around looking like that about it.”
“Noted, ma’am.”
That earns me one of the handful of smiles I’ve gotten from her. And as bad as I am at it, she is a stone-cold marksman. It hits me three places in quick succession. One in the head, chest, and a place I don’t even want to consider.
I smile back because I can’t help it.
“See? There it is,” she says, pleased as punch with herself. As she should be. She is the cause and sole owner of any smiles I’ve had in the past few days, which may make her the cause and owner of all the smiles I’ve had in the last decade.
The photo booth takes a picture. We turn, and she grabs my arm. It takes a few more. I look back at her, and she looks back at me. The smiles drop, but all that warmth goes to our eyes.
"Cute," a distorted voice says, breaking the spell.
Naomi jumps a little, and we both turn to look at the screen. Instead of our faces, there's now a shadowed, distorted disembodied head.
"Static.”
"Hello, Walker," the figure replies. "I see you've made a friend."
"Static. This is Naomi Barrett. Naomi, this is Static."
"Pleased to meet you," Naomi says, her voice steadier than I expected, given the circumstances.
Static's digitally altered face shifts slightly, and I can almost imagine his actual wry expression beneath the pixelation.
"Walker Cole reaching out after all these years.
I'd say it's nice to hear from you, but experience tells me that if you’re making contact, something's gone catastrophically wrong.
" His electronically altered voice still carries that familiar dry humor.
"Unless you just missed me? Or am I invited to the wedding? "
Naomi stiffens slightly beside me, her thigh pressing against mine in the cramped booth.
I ignore the comment and give Static the bullet points of what’s happened.
The encounter with Naomi in the woods, the fake marshals, the shoot-out, and finally, what Naomi discovered that put her in this situation.
I keep it concise. We're exposed here, and while I don't see anyone clamoring to use the photo booth, there's no reason to linger.
"El Centinela?" Static echoes when I finish, his distorted image leaning closer to the camera.
"That's right," Naomi says. She shifts forward with renewed intensity. "A black site. It doesn't appear on any maps. I only found it through financial records that shouldn't have been accessible.”
"I'll find it." Static's modulated voice still conveys his certainty.
No doubt from him, and no doubt from me either. If Static says he'll find something, it's as good as found.
"I need to get a message to my coworker," Naomi adds.
This is the first I've heard about this.
"Name?" Static asks.
"Matthew Spencer. He's also an analyst at the CIA," Naomi says.
Something flares up in me, an immediate, primal response that has no business being there. Jealousy? Over what? A name? A man I've never met who works with her? Christ, I thought all the buck was out of this bronco, but I’m acting like a damn fool.
"Matthew Spencer," Static repeats, and I hear keyboard clicks in the background. "Might be easier just to meet him. He's flying from Virginia to Montana. Maybe to look for you?"
Static lets that question hang in the air. Naomi doesn't answer, but I notice her fingers tighten slightly on her knee.
"Well," Static continues after the silence stretches, "now there's going to be a layover in Colorado. And the second leg of his trip is going to be canceled, so he'll have to rent a car."
"You can do that?" Naomi asks, clearly shocked. She looks at me, eyes wide, seeking confirmation.
I simply nod.
"I sure can," Static says, sounding pleased with himself. "Oh, and you know how you'll talk about something, live, in person, and you'll suddenly get ads for it on the internet? That's me too."
Naomi turns to me, eyebrows raised in disbelief.
"I told you Static is an absolute magician with computers," I explain. "He’s also a complete wizard with bullshit."
"Hey, I resemble that remark," Static says with a digitally distorted chuckle. "Done. Can you make it to Denver International Airport by tonight?"
"It'll happen," I say, already calculating routes in my head.
"I'll work on finding your lost site."
"Thank you," Naomi says sincerely.
"Yeah, Static, thank you," I add, and I hope he can hear what I'm not saying—I'm sorry for disappearing, for not reaching out sooner. For letting everything fall apart.
"You're welcome. It's good to see you, Walk. Been too long."
Before I'm forced to express any more feelings, something I'm about as good at as smiling for photos, Static cuts the transmission. The screen flickers, and suddenly, Naomi and I are staring at ourselves again.
"Better grab the photos," Naomi says softly.
I exit the booth with her and collect the strip of photos from the slot. I linger on the last image. No wide grins or forced poses. Just us looking at each other.
We look good together. Like we belong together. Like we fit.
And more than anything we might face in the coming days, that scares the hell out of me.