Chapter Seven
Jason hadn’t had much choice but to hitchhike when he finally found a sunbaked state road.
With his bag over his shoulder and his thumb in the air, he did his best to look like a vagabond more than something Mother Nature had sneezed down the mountain.
Easier said than done. Without the thick canopy of vegetation, the August afternoon heat didn’t check its punches.
The driver’s window cranked down until the man behind the wheel rested his arm over the opening. “How far are you going?”
“Louisville.”
The driver made a noise that sounded somewhere between disgust and exhaustion. “Not going that far.”
“Just need a ride wherever you’re headed.”
The man hooked his thumb into the air. “Get in.”
“Appreciate it.” Jason took advantage of the uneven lip between the pavement and gravel shoulder, hiding his limp. The passenger door protested as it was opened and closed. Motor oil and perspiration tinged the hot air, but Jason was off his feet.
They rumbled off the shoulder. Thankfully, the man seemed uninterested in conversation or questions. Jason did his best to position his injured foot on top of his go-bag, and then he relaxed for the first time in hours.
Twenty minutes had passed since the last vehicle passed in the opposite direction. They slowed at a single, flashing yellow light. The old man downshifted and turned at the crossroad. “What kinda business did you say you were involved in?”
He hadn’t said a single word since they took off. Jason kept his line of sight out the windshield. “Sales.”
They accelerated along the straightaway, and the Chevy’s 350 engine rumbled until the man shifted gears. “Whatcha’ sell?”
Jason wiped the sweat beading at the back of his neck. “Whatcha’ need?”
The old man chuckled. “Had a job like that once. Good while it lasted.”
Funny, those were his sentiments also. “Where you headed?”
“Barbourville,” the man offered. “Sister’s daughter works at the Walmart.”
The prospect of a store stocked with splints, pain relievers, and food made him smile. “That’ll do.”
Now that he knew his destination, he could design a plan on the fly.
For everything that Jason had planned for, never once had he contemplated the need to physically escape from a GSI location.
That he had was confirmation that he’d made the right decision to quit.
Jason didn’t want his job to shake Roxana.
He’d make the situation right with Buck.
Jason would explain what needed explaining, and once cooler heads prevailed, they’d be able to laugh today off.
So long as that crazy bastard didn’t set foot anywhere near him again.
Roxana understood the power that innocent words could play in life-wrecking conversations. In the line of duty. I’m sorry for your loss. No progress. But “the man you call” threatened her fundamental understanding of love, family, and the future.
Then again, she believed in her fundamentals for a reason. They questioned who Jason was, but she had no reason to be shaken. Spiker and Vanka were nothing more than well-dressed home invaders or disgruntled former colleagues. “The man I call Jason Green wouldn’t put up with shit like yours.”
As if Vanka lived in another dimension, she angled her head, amusement coloring her expression. “Feisty.”
“Actually, let’s start with you.” Spiker’s lips thinned. “I want to know about your employer.”
The 180-degree change in topic caught Roxana off guard. “Come again?”
“Can we skip this part?” Vanka rolled her hand as if they didn’t have all day. “The amount of time we waste on the ‘what, little innocent me?’ act drives me bloody crazy.”
Roxana raised her eyebrow.
Spiker reached behind his back, then held his gun at his side as casually as he might his phone.
“He’s pushier than I am.” Vanka shrugged. “To a point. What were you saying about your employer?”
Roxana could answer without understanding why they wanted her personal information. “Okay.” She ignored the gun and focused on Vanka. “You want to know about my job?”
“Your job and employer,” Spiker amended.
“I am my own employer.” Roxana tipped her chin up with a low but growing dose of defiance. “And my job is what I want it to be.”
“Explain,” he barked.
“I pick and choose what contracts to take.”
“Then you’re an analyst?” Vanka asked.
“I’m whatever I feel like being.” An unsatisfied grunt rumbled from Spiker’s direction, and she added, “I have a way with words.”
“Meaning what?” he growled.
Roxana’s gaze dropped to his gun again. What could they possibly glean from the time she spent writing marketing and sales copy? “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Walk us through your typical contract,” Vanka prompted.
Roxana studied Vanka for an extra second in case she offered the smallest clue of relevance.
“Well…” No clues came. “Generally, I review a project summary and a few bullet points.” She had their complete attention.
God only knew why. “Most want me to spin a few facts and figures into something more persuasive.”
“Talking points?” Vanka asked.
Roxana shrugged. “Whatever. Depends on the audience.”
Spiker paced to the far wall and back. “Where does our Watcher come in to play?”
Her eyebrow arched. “What?”
“The Watcher you stole.”
Had she worked with a client called Watcher? “If I gave you a copy of my client list, would you leave?”
Spiker sharpened his gaze. “That would go a long way to wrapping this up.”
“All right then. I’ll get it.” Roxana stood but quickly retook her seat when Spiker leveled his gun toward her midsection. “Or you can.”
“Where do you keep your client list?”
Roxana couldn’t look away from the gun’s barrel.
“Where?” he demanded.
“Could you point that somewhere else?” Roxana managed to sound somewhat assertive.
“Ditto,” Vanka added.
Spiker ignored their request and waited.
“My phone,” Roxana said.
“Where’s that?”
“In the office nook next to the kitchen.”
Spiker nudged his head, and Vanka sprang onto her high heels, returning a moment later with Roxana’s phone in her hand.
“Passcode?” Vanka asked.
Roxana bit her lip.
“Give me a break,” Spiker groused. “What’s the damn code?”
“One, two, three, four.”
Their disbelief made her feel like the odd one out in kindergarten.
Defensively, Roxana shrugged off their expressions. “It’s not like a fancy passcode would’ve helped with a gun in my face.”
“She has a point.” Vanka entered the code. “Voila. It worked.”
“Every time,” Roxana muttered.
Spiker pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Where’s the client list?”
“Click on the box in the top corner,” Roxana directed. “Those apps access the work platforms, but I really only use the first one. It’s green.”
Confusion lingered in Vanka’s expression, but her thumb pressed the screen. She and Spiker leaned in for a closer look before she added, “I don’t understand.”
“The interface sucks,” Roxana admitted when they didn’t look away.
Spiker’s jaw gnashed
This was a little ridiculous, but she continued. “Don’t click on the menu, but the little wheel in the upper right-hand corner.”
Vanka side-eyed Spiker and glanced to Roxana again and waited.
What was this? A help desk? Roxana bit her tongue. Sarcasm had its place, and that wasn’t when obtuse home invaders had a gun. “Tap where it says Client Roster.”
After an uncomfortable moment, Vanka tapped and scrolled, eyes widening as if Roxana had the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge listed before Steve Carell.
Spiker holstered his gun and snatched the phone from Vanka. His nostrils flattened and flared the more he scrolled. “What is this shit?”
Roxana didn’t know what more they wanted. “What you asked for…”
He swiped and tapped, fuming. “Enough. This guy is more important.”
Spiker held the phone so close to Roxana’s face that her eyes wouldn’t focus, but she didn’t have to see the picture that had been taken in front of the fireplace.
Jason had one arm around her, the other outstretched to snap the selfie.
He wore the green flannel pajamas that Amanda’s mother had sent for Christmas.
“Explain,” Spiker demanded.
There wasn’t much to explain except for the screen-printed blocks, grouped in threes, that read Ho, Ho, Ho. As it turned out, Ho was an element from the periodic table, and now, Roxana would never be able to forget what Holmium was—her stomach dropped.
Amanda’s mother was the former First Lady. If politics and terrorism had crashed her world again, she would lose her ever-loving mind. “Why don’t you explain for a change?”
“Shut up and focus on your interaction with GSI’s Watcher.”
Every conversation came back to Jason. “Why do you call him a watcher?”
Spiker walked away as if her question gave him a headache.
Roxana looked to Vanka, wondering if there was some woman-to-woman connection that she could muster. “What am I missing?”
“When did you get engaged?” Vanka asked.
Roxana glanced at her ring and wished she could return to those carefree moments. “Last night.”
“As in yesterday?” Genuine confusion pursed over the woman’s expression. “Do you have feelings for him?”
“What kind of question is that?”
The dubious calculation in Vanka’s face softened. She inched forward until she’d replaced the post that Spiker had manned, then she lowered her voice. “Did you fall in love with him?”
Roxana pressed her hand against her chest, protecting her heart against the whisper of quiet pity and vague empathy.
The other woman closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Bloody fucking hell.”
“What?” Spiker glared.
Vanka’s slight head shake conceded her dawning acceptance. “She’s telling us the truth.”