Chapter 16 #2
I’ve got to ditch this, he realized, with a sinking sensation. He settled himself to wait for the next stop, heart hammering and sweat increasingly sour. The voice of self-preservation shrilled inside his head, but he paid no attention.
One way or another, he was going to keep Rowan Price alive and free. If she didn’t like him, that might actually be better. The kind of man she’d feel proud of wouldn’t do half of what Del was prepared to do if Sigma didn’t leave her alone.
The rendezvous with Henderson’s Brigade was in, of all places, Fargo.
Which was entirely flat; Del thought privately it was a wonder anyone who lived here didn’t die of sheer boredom.
But by the time they reached the small suburban house, he didn’t have time to think about geography, or the fact that Rowan had brightened perceptibly.
He was too busy fighting off the need for Zed and cursing himself for tossing the last hypo in a rest stop garbage can twenty miles out of Pierre.
Not to mention wishing he could wrap his hands around Cath’s skinny neck and squeeze. The girl’s abrasiveness didn’t matter so much as the way she treated the older woman, like a not-too-bright den mother deserving only sarcasm.
The heat was muggy and oppressive, lightning flashes in the distance, a late-summer storm.
The neighborhood was the best kind for rendezvous and safehouses—middle to upper-middle class with fenced yards and neighbors too busy climbing the food chain to be curious about new folks.
Cath idled in the driveway before the three-car garage for a moment, waiting; the door began to lift, slices of warm electric light knifing through the cracks.
Rowan drummed her fingers on her right knee.
She was only limping slightly now, refusing to eat very much, and looking more thin and tired with each passing hour.
Her hair, pulled up in a messy chignon and secured with an elastic, glowed in the sudden light.
The familiar dead-air feeling of dampers folded across Del like water over a drowned man’s head, oddly peaceful.
Cath pulled the car neatly into the empty slot on the left, cut the ignition. The garage door went down.
Rowan grinned as the door between the house and the garage opened; Yoshi stood silhouetted, his slim dark form in a white T-shirt and jeans. He folded his arms and grinned back through the windshield.
Delgado was not at all prepared for this. She now looked genuinely happy and relieved, her eyes suddenly sparkling. He caught a flash of concentrated thought—a communication.
“Welcome home,” Rowan murmured, looked over her shoulder. The full force of her smile hit him like a baseball bat, drove every shred of good sense from his head. “Glad to be back?”
“Pretty much,” he mumbled, reaching for the latch.
Yoshi barely waited before he was at Rowan’s door, opening it for her. She accepted his hand, and the slim Japanese man nodded as his gaze flicked over Delgado. Rowan’s lips moved slightly.
Subvocalizing. They were communicating again.
Oh, Christ. Please. Not Yoshi.
It was unfair. Yosh was clinically cool and calm, preternaturally skilled with hardware, a master on the computer decks, and good enough in the practice room to earn grudging approval even from Henderson and Del himself. He was also a good guy.
A friend, if Del could be said to have any.
Rowan laughed. She reached up, slender fingers working, and pulled the ponytail holder free, letting pale hair cascade around her shoulders.
“I’m on my way.” She touched Yoshi’s shoulder. No hug, no kiss—that was good. That was very good.
Then again, Del had never tried to be affectionate with her in public, either. He hung in the background, watching, not daring to touch her when anyone else could see for fear of betraying what she meant to him.
That thought wasn’t comforting at all.
“Henderson wants us both,” she said. “Yoshi, you think you can take care of the gear? At least, until Zeke can manage?”
“What’s wrong with Zeke?” Cath stretched, pulling herself out of the driver’s seat. “Goddammit, my ass feels numb. You better have some vodka lying around, Yosh.”
As usual, Yoshi was unperturbed. “No vodka, but I believe Zeke has beer. And Henderson has been saving a bottle of most excellent whiskey for Del’s return. Hello, my friend. Took your time, didn’t you?”
Del’s fingers tightened. It was a good thing the car was between them, because he could see Yoshi’s hand on Rowan’s shoulder, squeezing a little. As if offering support. Goddamn it, he’s my friend. And she doesn’t belong to me.
“I got trussed up, beaten, and shot full of Zed. Not to mention dragged to the high-security part of Sig Zero-Fifteen.” Del forced himself to shrug. “It took a while before I could ask them nicely to let me play patty-cake with my friends again.”
Cath snorted. “There’s our old Del. Come on, I’m bushed, let’s get this crap out of the car. Don’t want to miss the celebration.”
Yoshi murmured something to Rowan, who shook her head, lips pursing. She slid past him without further ado.
Also very good. Hope was an even better drug than Zed.
What if she’d been lonely, or needed a shoulder to cry on?
Besides, he’d made the biggest mistake of his life in the practice room, pushed her too hard.
If Sigma hadn’t attacked, he might have been able to explain, to repair the damage, to use the subtle psychological pressure he was so famous for in nonlethal interrogation, getting her to at least give him another chance.
Too late. Or was it?
“Del?” She glanced over her shoulder again. “Are you coming?”
Yoshi’s dark, liquid eyes widened. He glanced at Cath. Delgado didn’t miss Cath’s slight shrug. Loosely translated: I don’t know, so don’t ask me.
“Right behind you.” He kept wishing his hands would stop shaking. It took all his concentration to walk in a straight line.
It helped that he could look up and see her.
She reached, using the doorframe for steadiness, and hauled herself wearily up the two steps into the house.
Her limp wasn’t very noticeable now, but her shoulders were tight as bridge cables.
It hurt him, to see that small betraying hitch in each step. Her left boot dragged each time.
Inside was a small utility room with a washer and dryer, both busily running. Cheerful yellow linoleum glared up, and Del reached, automatically identifying the people in the house. Familiar presences, all—Boomer, Henderson, Zeke, Brew. He’d worried about how many of them had gotten away.
Beyond the utility room was a kitchen with pale wood cupboards, also drenched in electric light.
Two laptops were on the counter, both closed and silent, the smell of Brewster’s beef stew bubbling in a crock pot—set with prissy exactitude six inches from the edge of the counter—made his mouth water.
Two jumbo packages of soft dinner rolls, too.
So different from a Sig installation. The small things—two pieces of gear left out, the smell of homemade food, and the poster of Jim Belushi tacked to the pantry door—probably Boomer’s—brought home the magnitude of what he’d done with walloping force.
I’ve escaped them. Again. Stole her out from underneath Sigma, again. They won’t try to capture me now—no, it’ll be pure neutralization this time. No decency, no tranquilizers, just a straight-out choice: me or them.
He caught up to Rowan, moving silently, and offered his arm. “Looks like your leg still hurts.”
Amazingly, she accepted, leaning on him. Tented together like a pair of unsteady drunks, they made it through the kitchen, into a short hall leading to a living room. That was probably the nerve center.
He would have to debrief with Henderson, find out what the critical gaps and safety shorts were, get a full layout on the damage to the infrastructure.
If he worked hard enough, he might be able to forget the uncertainty gnawing at his chest.
They rounded the corner into dimness and the sense of movement. Del was a hairsbreadth away from pushing Rowan behind him and pulling a knife when the lights flicked on, and the shout of “Welcome back!” shook the air.
Del glanced down at Rowan, who was smiling again, a beautiful open grin making his gut clench and his mouth go dry.
Then all four of them—Zeke the Tank, his massive hairy chest only barely covered by a white tank top; Brewster in a red polo shirt, white teeth gleaming against ebony skin; Boomer, his muttonchops brushed to bushy perfection; and Henderson, broad-shouldered and looking worn but still moving with the same dry precision bespeaking readiness—descended on Rowan and Del, and the babble only increased when Cath whooped and leapt past to jump into Zeke’s arms. Yoshi pressed a cold beer into Del’s free hand; Boomer picked up Rowan, swung her around in a circle, and did it again.
The living room was decorated with a banner, Welcome Home Del!
There was a cooler jammed full of ice and beer, plus a platter of cocktail weenies, probably Zeke’s contribution.
Rowan accepted a juice-glass of wine while Cath and Zeke unabashedly liplocked in the corner, Cath’s pale fingers tangling in Zeke’s dark curly hair.
The only furniture in the room consisted of two mattresses and a purple-velvet loveseat holding three liquor-store boxes next to a pile of kitbags.
The fireplace was brick, and the hearth held a large bouquet of supermarket flowers as well as plates of cold cuts, cheese, and crackers.
Jesus Christ, how are we supposed to get any work done with this going on?
Rowan, leaning on Boomer, treated the entire toom to the same open sunshine smile she’d bestowed on Yoshi.
“I told you he was still alive!” she announced, which provoked fresh hilarity. Brew clapped Del on the shoulder, Boomer grabbed him for a gruff hug, and Delgado was surprised to find out that it did, indeed, feel like coming home.