Bloodshot by Cherie Priest

  He’d also said I could print the information out somewhere and have it mailed to myself. But I didn’t know anyone I could trust with the task. Conversely, I didn’t know anyone I disliked enough to foist a federal smackdown upon him. Or her. And surely that’s what would follow.

  The light turned green. Behind me, a car honked and I realized that I was sitting there, learning to knit or whatever, and on this occasion I was the asshole. I hit the gas and dragged my car up the hill, and then took it in circles around the block while I plotted my next move.

  I passed an Internet café on my left.

  I’d been there before. They had printers. I could download the files and print them on someone else’s public location—or better yet, I had a thumb drive in my purse, and it might be big enough to simply download the files and abscond with them to a computer without an Internet connection. But this one was within a few blocks of my own abode, and that wouldn’t do.

  I racked my brain for somewhere farther away. I couldn’t think of anyplace, but hell, if there’s one thing other than traffic in Seattle, it’s coffee. You can’t swing a dead squirrel without hitting a Starbucks, or failing that particular evil empire, an indie establishment.

  Upon completing my loop of the neighborhood, I got back onto the interstate with a very good idea—or it seemed like a very good idea at the time: I’d go out to the airport. It’s fifteen miles outside of town, and it’s a huge international hub. For all the feds might know, I could be someone who flew into town and then flew out again—poof! Just like that.

  Once I made it to the interstate, the drive took less than half an hour.

  I pulled over at a gas station and hauled an overnight case out of my trunk. In the filthy, dimly lit ladies’ room of the Chevron I donned a shaggy red wig (not too flashy, not too trashy) and changed into a bright red jacket and a black pencil skirt with fuck-me kitten pumps. Not how I usually dress, but that’s the point.

  I didn’t have time to gussy up as a boy, though I’ve done it once or twice before. I don’t think I make a very convincing dude. I think I look more like a lumberjack lesbian with an eating disorder than a kick-ass drag king.

  I emerged from the restroom and slipped straight into my car. I didn’t notice anyone noticing, which was good.

  Down the street and around the block was a spot called Mean Bean. It advertised gourmet coffee drinks and pay-to-play WiFi, plus printing services at a quarter a page. A quarter a page? Jesus. For that kind of money I could buy my own printer and throw it away when I was finished.

  Well, I didn’t know that yet—not for sure. But if Duncan had sent me sensitive government property of the variety likely to get me exposed or killed if caught, I damn well expected that property to have some heft.

  So screw it. I had that flash drive in my bag. I’d download it and scoot.

  Inside the Mean Bean, a heavily tattooed forty-something worked behind the counter, wielding the barista wand like an orchestra conductor’s device. The line was short and moving none too fast, but that was okay because I didn’t want to look like I was in a hurry. Best-case scenario, I wouldn’t stand out in any way except for the “hey, hot redhead” kind of way, and that would be all right.

  In the corner behind the cash register a camera was mounted near the ceiling and aiming my way. I’d anticipated as much, and I was prepared for it. I knew from the get-go that I was bound to pass at least one camera (and maybe more) on my way to get my goodies.

  Thus my cunning disguise.

  I waited patiently, using a recent edition of The Stranger as an excuse to duck my head at an inconspicuous angle, pretending to read the local free mag. They’d never get any good footage of me; I’d see to that.

  When it was my turn I asked after a computer and got talked into a tall, sugary, chocolatey drink since they wouldn’t let me use anything without buying a beverage, which conflicted with my personal idea of “pay to play” with regards to the Internet, but whatever. I paid for the drink and an hour of Internet time, took my receipt, and sat down at a terminal that backed up to a wall. It had no near neighbors, and there was no one to look over my shoulder. Behind me and to the left was an emergency exit. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need it. But I liked knowing it was there.

  I set the frosty iced drink down beside the keyboard, gave the room one more suspicious overview, and then logged into my email account.

  It took forever. Whatever the Hatter had sent me, it was reassuringly big and fat. It turned out to be a PDF with the file name Holtzer, which was promising. I thought about opening it on the spot, but then I figured that it might only make my chances of getting busted better. Every moment I sat in that chair connected to the Internet was a moment that the feds could be tracking me, pinpointing my location and preparing to deploy violent, armed maniacs with badges.

  I dug out my thumb drive and shoved it into the USB port, then ordered the system to shoot the document my way. I waited while the little task bar filled up (oh, so slowly). When it finally chimed “Done!” I whipped that drive out, snapped its little lid on top, and retrieved a small spray can of nonstick cooking spray from the depths of my purse. Making sure no one was looking, I lightly spritzed the keyboard. Generally speaking, I don’t leave fingerprints. My body doesn’t make much oil anymore, but I’d fed recently.

  A fresh influx of blood always makes my body a little more human. I’m not sure what that says about me, or my undead condition, or the state of the universe, but there you go. Filling up with blood is a surefire way to make sure I start oozing and stinking again.

  Once I was satisfied that I’d left no identifying trace, I bolted—or, well, I bolted as smoothly and nonchalantly as I could manage. I slipped my arm up under my purse strap, pushed my chair up under the table, and made my way to the door.

  My car was right where I’d left it, and not boxed in by cops or feds, thank heaven. I crawled inside, dropped my purse on the passenger seat, and did my best not to peel out of the parking lot. It’s great, feeling like you’ve gotten away with something.

  It’s less great being afraid that you haven’t.

  A few blocks away I made a sharp turn and hid my car behind a strip mall. It was well after hours by this point, and there weren’t even any streetlights to illuminate the loading docks. It was perfect.

  I changed back into my original clothes, then took the wig and the jacket and threw them in a dumpster marked RECYCLING. I debated the wisdom of starting a fire, but then figured that it’d draw more attention than it was worth, so I covered up the discarded finery with cardboard and hoped for the best.

  I kept the skirt and the shoes. They’re nondescript enough, and they’re sexy. Back into the trunk they went.

  Back into the driver’s seat I went, and then I drove back toward town.

  On the way, I passed the Mean Bean and my stomach sank to see three very shiny black cars with government plates now gracing the parking lot. I tried not to kick the gas and make a scene, but I couldn’t get away from there fast enough.

  Look, for all I know, even the feebs need their coffee every now and again, at oh, say, ten o’clock at night. Out near the airport. About twenty minutes after I’d used the coffeehouse to download and effectively steal sensitive government documents.

  But I wasn’t willing to bet my life and freedom on it.

  I turned my cell phone over while I was driving, ripped the battery out of its back, and threw the battery out the window. I smashed the phone itself against the dashboard, and once it was in a satisfactory pile of inert pieces, I threw them out the window, too.

  My heart was throbbing a magnificent Thrill Kill Kult tune by the time I was back on the interstate, and no amount of mental down-talking could cool me back to mellow sanity. I thought—and I assured myself—that I’d thrown them off the trail. Hadn’t I? Now they’d go combing SeaTac and they wouldn’t be camping out at my own homestead.

  I wanted to go home—I wanted badly to go home—but I was too damn scared.
And let’s be serious for a minute: There was nothing in that condo that I couldn’t afford to lose. I’d made it that way by design. All my safe houses were similarly equipped with all the comforts of a long-term residence, but all the personal effects of a Motel 6.

  I thanked God—or anyone else who might be listening—that I’d grabbed my laptop on the way out the door. I keep it pretty well locked, but that’s no guarantee against anything and we all know it.

  It was the only thing I owned that I truly feared losing.

  It wasn’t particularly valuable; I could buy another one at the drop of a hat. But I hadn’t wiped my email logs or erased my contacts lists—and now I didn’t really want to. They were all I had. Well, that … and a little thumb drive with something very important on it.

  I needed to find out more. I needed to get a look at whatever I was risking life and limb for.

  Ian and Cal wouldn’t be the best people to contact. If they knew what was good for them they were already in transit. A boat in Ballard. Was I a genius, or what? It was perfect, and mobile, and tougher to track than a stationary listing.

  I hoped.

  So where could I go to take a moment and look at the files?

  There was always the factory.

  Hmm. Was that a good idea or not? I couldn’t make up my mind. The factory had power, but it also had a recent break-in and a couple of nosy kids trunked up in there.

  Reconnaissance, Major Bruner had said.

  The word clicked back in my brain and stung me. But if I were to examine that word, it didn’t imply anything but curiosity, did it? Reconnaissance meant that they didn’t know anything and they were just taking a look. And with Trevor stashed in the basement, there hadn’t been anyone to make any reports … though his absence in and of itself might be construed as suspicious.

  Then again, I’d called Bruner and talked about Trevor as if he were alive. So there probably wasn’t too much suspicion. Not yet.

  I was making myself crazy, thinking myself in circles, trying to justify a course of action that was likely not the wisest or safest one to pursue, but in times of crisis I’m pathetically human. I didn’t want to go hop a flight for a distant locale and set up someplace new. I wanted to go somewhere familiar and feel safe.

  I was still talking to myself in those same pretty pirouettes when I pulled up to the block beside the factory.

  Since the factory wasn’t owned in my name—or any name that could be traced back to me—I told myself that I was doing something smart after all, and if nothing else, I was warning the young ’uns inside that trouble might be coming. Did I owe them that? No, I didn’t. But I’d feel like a douche if I didn’t pass them a heads-up, and it was extra fodder for my resolve to visit.

  I let myself inside through a back door. This door was usually covered by a pair of shipping pallets, but since it was my building I knew where to look. The kids knew that if anyone noodled with that door that it was almost certainly me, so it didn’t set off any of their little alarms, either.

  Inside, everything was quiet. Everything was always quiet for the first few minutes, while the kids worked out that there wasn’t any trouble.

  I sensed them, both on the second floor where it was warmest. They weren’t upset or stressed, though their ears perked up and I received a twinge of cautious alert when they realized someone was inside. I stretched my psychic side and felt my way around the premises; I didn’t detect anybody else, so I announced, “It’s me, guys.”

  From upstairs, Domino said, “Again already? Fucking-A, lady, leave us alone.”

  I climbed the stairs and found Pepper at the top. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” I said back. “And tell your idiot brother that I’m not here to bother you. I’m here to leech the power supply, and since I pay for it, I am fully entitled to do so.”

  “My brother is an idiot,” she said, but there was no malice in it—just agreeable acquiescence.

  I was already extricating my laptop from the bag. “See? I knew you were smarter than him,” I told her. “Tell me, short-stuff—where’s the nearest power outlet in this joint?”

  I so rarely needed them that I didn’t know where they were located.

  “By the light, I guess.” She pointed at the contraption whose lightbulb I’d broken, then replaced, on my last visit. It was plugged into a raised spot on the floor.

  “Right. Dumb question.” I pulled up an elderly dining room chair to the crate I’d stood on the night before, and voilà—makeshift work space. “Don’t mind me. I’m having a scatterbrained kind of night here.”

  “It happens to the best of us,” she said.

  My God, how the hell did that poor kid end up so much older than her years? Half the time when I talk to her, I feel like I’m addressing a forty-year-old woman.

  I checked the laptop to make sure that the wireless card was disabled. So far as I knew, there wasn’t any free WiFi in the area, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Not anymore. No more sloppy operations for me. I wiggled the safety prong into the power outlet and let my machine boot.

  “Hey guys, gather ‘round, would you? We need to have a little talk,” I said as I waited for the screen to come alive.

  “Screw you,” Domino said. He didn’t move away, and he didn’t come any closer.

  Pepper came to sit at my feet. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  I smiled down at her because it was hard not to. “What are you, my therapist now?” Everything restarted on cue, bringing my screen back up to full function with a grouchy little window at the bottom complaining about the lack of an Internet connection. I closed it away.

  “What’s a therapist?”

  “It’s …” I reached into my purse and pulled out the thumb drive. “A doctor who makes you talk about your problems. But that’s not the point. The point is, I need for you two to go on serious lookout duty over the next few days. Or maybe even few weeks.”

  “Serious lookout duty?” The boy was mocking my tone, but he was also interested in what I was saying. He liked a challenge, and I liked that about him. It made him easy to manipulate.

  “That’s right, bucko.” I clicked while I talked, prompting the machine and telling it to open the PDF in whatever program it liked best, but for chrissake open it already. “I might’ve gotten myself into a little bit of trouble with the government.”

  “Is that why the man in black came inside?” Pepper asked.

  I didn’t like the way she put it. “Man in black.” Men in black are always trouble, without a doubt. I said, “No, I don’t think so. I think he was more of a random intruder, though I can’t be sure. But be on the lookout for more guys like him, just in case. And there might be other people, too—real official-looking people who have badges and guns.” The fear level in the room rose a notch. It radiated from both young parties.

  The PDF took forever and a day to sort itself out through Adobe. This no doubt had something to do with the fact that it was more than six hundred pages long (score!) and chock-full of images.

  “But don’t get too worked up about it,” I added. “I don’t think the government knows about this place—”

  “You don’t?” Domino interrupted.

  “I don’t,” I confirmed. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here right now, doing this. As I was saying, I don’t think they know about the factory, and I’m damn sure they don’t know anything about you guys. So if people do come poking around, the odds are very, very good that they aren’t looking for you.” I found that it was easier to keep cool when I was forced to keep cool so other people wouldn’t panic.

  Pepper said softly, “They’ll be looking for you.”

  “Sort of. They’ll be looking for this.” I pointed at the screen. Then a miserable thought broke through the surface and whispered nastily, They might be looking for this, but they might be looking for me, too. Just like Ian. And just like those other chimps, whoever they were.

  But I didn’t spill that part. Instead, I sai
d, “Someone sent me some information that’s very important. He didn’t know it, but he accidentally alerted some very nasty people to the fact that I wanted it. Let me be clear,” I said, tearing my eyes away from the screen. “It’s got nothing to do with you. But that doesn’t mean you won’t get caught in the middle if you’re not careful. I don’t want you caught in the middle, okay? I want you to keep your heads down and stay out of sight, and if that means leaving, then you have to go find someplace else for a while. And by the way, that cell phone number I gave you doesn’t work anymore.”

  “It doesn’t?” Pepper sounded worried.

  “It doesn’t, but I’ll get you a new one as soon as I can, okay?” I reached for my purse again and pulled out my wallet. Inside, I had more than two thousand dollars in cash. I handed the whole wad to Pepper. I’ve got half a dozen bank accounts under that many identities. One or two, the government flunkies might catch, but I wasn’t worried about every single one of them getting frozen, and these kids might need to be mobile.

  “You’re just giving us … that’s a lot of money.”

  “Not as much as it looks like,” I said. “And yes, I’m giving it to you—on one condition. If you do get caught, you’ve never heard of me. I don’t know you’re staying here, and you’ve never seen me before, and you didn’t even know anyone owned this building, got it?”

  She nodded with all the gravity of a black hole, but I wasn’t finished yet.

  I said, “I’m not fooling around with you here—or you, either, Domino. These people who are looking for me, if they get hold of you, you have to convince them that you’ve never heard of me. If they don’t believe you, they’re going to fuck you up bad. Do I make myself understood?”

  “Yeah,” he said, still playing it cool and bored.

  I restated, “I’m serious!” because I didn’t think he grasped exactly how serious I was. “If you tell these guys the truth, you’re fucked way worse than I am. If they think you know anything at all, they’ll never let you go. Total ignorance is your only recourse, dude.”

  “I said, I got it.”