“You’ve got to go,” he whispers.
As if to cement that fact, there’s a sharp rap on the passenger window of the Humvee. Fucking Rebel. He’s wearing a grim and distinctly impatient look on his face. I want to castrate the man. Zeth lets me go, and I climb quickly out of the car. I don’t look back. I can’t. For some terrifying reason, it feels as though I’ve just said goodbye to Zeth and won’t be seeing him for a very, very long time.
“Awesome way to fly under the radar, blocking a lane of traffic outside the place you’re supposed to be attending a covert meeting,” Rebel says.
“You want me to do this or what?” I snap back.
“Just saying. Here.” He reaches into the pocket of his black jeans and pulls out a thumb drive; he hands it over to me, using both hands to curl my fingers into a fist around the object like it’s sacred. “Don’t lose that. It’s password protected.”
“What’s the password?”
“Accordia,” he says slowly, as though the word holds meaning to him.
My chest squeezes painfully when the Humvee behind Rebel pulls away from the curb and vanishes from sight. I slip the thumb drive into my purse, frowning at Rebel. “Where’s your bike? Where’s your entourage?” The other Widow Makers are nowhere to be seen.
“Hidden in plain sight. Remember, don’t tell her where to find me until you have the paperwork, and don’t give the password to the drive until she’s held up her end of the deal, either.”
“Okay. Fine.” I turn and make to head into the mall—I’ve had enough of talking about this. I just want to get it over with—but Rebel places a strong hand on my shoulder. “Sloane, you have to go see your sister. Please. Once you’ve got those papers, you need to head to New Mexico. She’s waiting for you. And she won’t…she won’t forgive me for not coming back.”
I feel like telling him I could give two shits about Alexis right now, but I get the feeling that won’t expedite this situation. He’ll only argue the point, and I’m almost late for the meeting. “All right. Shit.” I scrub my hands over my face, trying to keep my cool. “I’ll go and see her. But it’s not on me to fix your relationship bullshit, Rebel. And what the hell kind of name is Rebel anyway?”
The Widow Maker beams at me—not the look you’d expect from a man who’s about to willingly turn himself in to the DEA. “One designed to piss off my father,” he replies. “Tell Soph I’ll be home soon.” And then he’s turning and jogging off up the street.
I am alone.
I haven’t been alone in so long now that the realization comes as a shock. No one watching me. No one guarding me keeping me from harm. And no one preventing me from just walking away. Pins and needles prickle down my arms and backs of my legs. I could just do it. I could walk away. Then the pins and needles turn into a sick, paralyzed feeling. As if that’s an option. Seriously, I wouldn’t be able to if I tried. The man I’m in love with would always pull me back. I enter the mall with a small part of me screaming inside. I think it’s the part that’s in charge of my self-preservation instincts.
It takes me a while to find the food court. It’s three levels down in the basement, but Zeth told me to take the long way down, using as many escalators as possible, so I could scope out the lay of the land. Commit to memory where all the exits are. Plot out which way to go if I need to make a fast exit. It’s almost a waste of time, though. If Agent Lowell wants to take me into custody, it won’t be terribly difficult.
It’s five past one when I reach the food court—the place allocated as our meeting point. Rebel was at least smart about the location and time of our meeting. The lunch crowds—hordes of people queuing to grab a bite to eat on their breaks—create a wall of bodies, easy to slip through unnoticed. Lowell is already seated at a table in the middle of the food court, eyes downcast, fixed on the lit-up screen of her cell phone. I hurry through the bustling sea of people and quickly sit down on the other side of the table before I can change my mind and bolt.
Agent Lowell doesn’t look up from her cell phone. Her fingers move swiftly over the touchscreen, typing quickly. “You’re late,” she informs me.
“I know.”
“That tells me you’re unreliable, Dr. Romera. Why would I trust someone who’s unreliable?”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “You don’t trust me. You probably didn’t even know for sure if I was going to show up.”
A cold, unpleasant smile spreads across Lowell’s face. She puts down her cell phone and finally looks up at me. “And supposing you’re right? I don’t trust you, and you don’t trust me. How is this arrangement supposed to proceed?”