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As he and Reagan strolled away from the hotel, Blake forced himself to keep an even gait. They walked into the wind, to have an excuse to keep their heads down. The chill bit into his face, mocking him for the decision.
They needed to get someplace safe and assess the situation, but it was a Catch 22. Without knowing what the situation was, he had no idea where was safe, and he didn’t dare call Ephraim, and put his friend in danger, until Blake had an idea what was going on.
He wrapped an arm around Reagan’s waist, to pull her close. It would give the impression they were a couple walking the downtown streets.
She leaned into him without protest. “Where are we going?” Her question barely reached his ears over the November gusts.
“Not a clue. Closest bus stop, to start. We’ll take a bus out of town, to the farthest stop that looks like it’s got commerce.” Because wandering a random suburban neighborhood without a destination was low on his list of things he wanted to do today. If a helpful member of a neighborhood-watch group decided Blake and Reagan looked suspicious, he didn’t see any scenario where things ended well for them.
Conversation faded. He counted off each block, as they crossed the streets between. Four, then five. At this rate, they were going to walk out of town before they found a ride.
They turned the corner as an outbound bus pulled up to a bench about ten feet away. Reagan quickened her pace to match his, and a moment later they sat in the back. People occupied the seats around them, which meant talking would have to wait. That was fine; he didn’t have enough information to say much.
When the vehicle rolled forward, a blast of humid, warm air hit him on the face. It smelled like feet and cigarette butts. He didn’t care, as long as nobody was threatening them.
Reagan leaned her head on his shoulder, and he intertwined his fingers with hers. He didn’t believe for a second it was anything other than for show.
They didn’t talk, their ride taking them farther from the city center with each stop.
Reagan’s body went rigid against his, and his senses kicked up another level. She knelt on her seat, and kissed along the edge of his ear. “Guy in front of me is watching news on his iPad,” she whispered.
Blake clenched her hand more tightly but kept a lazy smile in place. “Anything interesting?”
She cupped his cheek, turning his head as if to kiss him, and pointed him in the direction of the screen. His heart plummeted into his shoes when he saw his own face staring back at him, courtesy of an old government ID. He couldn’t make out the scrolling text beneath, but the larger headline banner read Suspect wanted for questioning by the NSA.
Fuck. He pulled the cord, to indicate they wanted to get off at the next stop, and before the bus finished rolling up to the bench, he tugged Reagan toward the rear exit.
They were only about ten miles out from where they started. They needed to put more distance between them and his former employer. She tucked herself next to his side as they stuck close to buildings and kept out of the flow of foot traffic.
“Were you able to see what else they were saying?” he asked.
“I caught some of the ticker news. They raided the hotel where they thought you were staying, and you were gone, so they’re looking for you.”
Shit. “Why are they looking for me now?” Jabberwock was supposed to take care of erasing them. Did Blake step on his toes in some way last night, to provoke this? Was it part of the game?
She shook her head.
“Is your name or picture up there?” He hadn’t seen her, but he wasn’t watching for long.
“Not that I could tell, but I only watched long enough to see you.”
She may not be on their radar. If Jabberwock wanted her, this was a good way to get Blake out of the picture. Blake wasn’t certain that was what happened, but odds seemed good. He steered them toward a convenience store. “I need you to buy me a pack of smokes.”
“Because... stress relief?”
“Because I need to keep my head down, and stay away from places with cameras or TV’s, if my face is plastered everywhere. If I’m lingering outside of every building we walk up to, I’m going to look like a creepy fucker, just standing outside hiding my face, unless I’m doing something.”
Her chuckle was bitter. “The odd lump under your hoodie isn’t doing you any favors.”
“Cigarettes?”
“What kind?”
“Something light.” He wasn’t going to smoke them; he gave up that habit years ago.
She broke away from him, to head inside, and he took the opportunity to get a better idea of their surroundings. There was a diner on one corner, an auto shop down the street, and several businesses in between. When he looked in the other direction, he couldn’t fight his relieved smile. A motel, complete with a sign whose cracks and chips he saw from here, and all of the single-story units with outside entrances.
Reagan returned, carrying a plastic bag. She handed him a box of Camel lights and held up the sack. “I figured, since we skipped breakfast...”
Inside were a few packages of nuts and a couple bottles of water. Smart woman. He nodded toward the motel. “Get us a room? We’ll watch the news and see how bad this is, and figure out where to go next.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Six hours later, sequestered in their room, Blake had watched the news shift from him being wanted for questioning, to the NSA having evidence he’d been in the hotel room they raided, to him being implicated in a shooting last night that left six people dead. His prints were the only ones identifiable on weapons found at the scene of the crime.
“I’m curious,” he said, more to fill the air and distract himself, than because he wanted the answer. He sat on the edge of the bed, on the comforter. Part of him was afraid to pull the blanket back and reveal whatever lay underneath. The room was clean, but a layer of grime clung to everything anyway.
Reagan looked up from where she sat at the desk. “About what?”
“Jabberwock was supposed to erase us, correct? There were faked deaths. I know because I read about them. But erasing would also mean removing us from all law-enforcement databases.”
“I assume. Or rather, that’s what a rational person would do in a case like that.” She had a point.
“If that’s the case, what are they matching my fingerprints to?”
“Physical copies, instead of digital?” She turned her attention back to her phone.
Not likely, unless they dug through old records at Fort Knox or something, and there was no reason to do that unless they already suspected him. Something that shouldn’t happen if they thought he was dead. He sifted the riddle through his head, but it didn’t matter which angle he examined it from; he got the same answer each time. He wasn’t as erased as he was supposed to be.
“Where does Alex say we’re going next?” he asked. They needed a direction, and if Jabberwock was working this hard to take Blake out of the picture, they needed to head that way fast.
“It’s a bit vague”—she swiped at her screen—“but the way I interpret it, Minnesota.”
They’d need warmer clothes for that. “The way you interpret it?”
“He mentions street names and small suburbs. The problem is a lot of them are names like Springfield, where there’s one in almost every state. This note says SD, Lakeville, WF, 270, and based on his previous notes, that means a safety deposit box at the Wells Fargo in Lakeville Minnesota, on 270th Street.”
“Makes a hell of a lot more sense than most things I’ve heard today.” Blake was great with any place that took them away from prying eyes.
“Got it.” Reagan grinned and set her phone aside.
“Got what?”
“Kid about twenty-five miles from here, willing to sell his beater car for cash.”
“Suspect is considered armed and dangerous, and should not be approached. If you have any leads about this man, please contact the hotline immediately.”
Blake glared at the TV. His ID photo stared back at him blankly. Working for Jabberwock and the NSA meant keeping his identity a secret was the key to staying alive. This was the first time since he left that he felt exposed without that guaranteed anonymity. “Great. When can you pick it up?”