14. The Package Is A Distraction
The Package Is A Distraction
Rowan
Only when I’m sure Milo’s far enough ahead that he won’t notice me tailing him do I shut the house door and follow behind. My wolf easily tracks his scent through our quiet neighbourhood and into the busier ones closer to downtown.
When I next get eyes on him, Milo’s stepping through the door of a franchise coffee shop.
The map on my phone informs me that we’re on the northern edge of the business hub, which explains why Milo’s the only customer, and why the sandwich shop next door has already flipped their sign to closed for the day.
A handful of trees separate the small parking lot from the main road, and I find a shaded spot underneath one that gives an unobstructed view through the plate-glass window opposite.
Pushing in just one earphone, I use my other ear to keep tabs on Milo as he places his coffee order. What on earth is an iced tuxedo?
While I wait for my call to the General’s Office to be patched through, Milo tells the barista his sob story.
This is why we operate a catch-and-release system on strays.
They reveal more when they’re not under duress.
Stiffening in readiness, I listen to him spare her no detail on how his apartment door was aggressively kicked in, and how everything was trashed.
Then he embellishes with a natural flair when he tells her how the police arrived and took over his room.
I sag against the tree trunk in relief; he kept his word.
Brandishing his phone, he waves it at the barista, and I don’t hear what he says next because the sound of ice cubes and coffee in a blender drowns him out.
A moment later, she nods and disappears through the chain curtain to the kitchen at the back, then reappears with a phone charger cable. Milo’s smile is wide and genuine. I find myself matching it. Clearly the boost Bear gave his battery by cloning his phone wasn’t enough.
The barista asks if he wants a “double-pump—one each of white and dark chocolate,” to help with the shock, free of charge. Milo nods solemnly, and I chuckle at his hustle. The Pup’s good.
Right as he collects his drink and takes a seat conveniently in front of the large window, my call connects.
“Ranger,” greets Admiral Guerrieri.
“I want my usual contact.”
“And the General wants the circle small, so you have me.”
Clenching my back teeth is preferable to telling my superior to fuck off. “Then I need better intel. The meeting ye flew us out here for was a bust, and then ye marked a Package for special delivery, but none of us were home to sign for it. We found it sitting on the porch.”
“The Package was redirected to you because at the same time as you were in your meeting, a former employee reported a break-in and assault. There’s no such thing as a coincidence, Ranger. You know that.”
“Yer confusing me with Delilah. I know no such thing.” I scrub my blunt fingernails through my short beard, as Milo noisily slurps his beverage through a straw. “The Package is a distraction.”
“Are the Postal Service looking for it?”
“Probably.” Then I remember that Milo’s a hedge witch with no profile on the Witches Council’s database. But if his story is true, then maybe it’s not them who are looking for him at all. Maybe it’s whoever broke into his flat. “The Package was marked for the attention of the Office of Time.”
Admiral Guerrieri clicks his tongue. “Yes. The Office of Time is… not your concern.”
“I don’t have time to hang onto Packages that aren’t my concern. I’ll leave it in a drop box for the intended recipient to collect. But I need ye to give me more than ye have.”
“Ranger, the General has been very specific…” The Admiral’s voice fades to the back of my mind when a tall man in a gaudy purple leather jacket, who matches the description Milo gave of his intruder, steps into the coffee shop.
I cut my gaze to Milo. The moment he spots him, the straw falls away from his lips—a genuine and instinctive reaction that lends him credence.
Ignoring the Admiral entirely now, I switch to my messages with the Dogs.
Guardian:
No remains. Carnage. Struggle evident.
No remains.
My wolf pushes forward, and I straighten under the shade of the tree. Milo’s heartbeat is sky-high, but outwardly there’s zero indication. That level of fear is all the proof of identification I need.
The intruder must use magic because suddenly the barista, and the water that pours from the tap as she rinses the blender she used to make Milo’s coffee, freezes in place.
Turning to Milo, he says, “You have the Luna del Lupo; that’s the only way you could have evaded my magic. And you’re going to give it to me.”