Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(52)

June was buzzing around the room, stacking stray books and magazines, collecting clothes left on the back of chairs, tossing assorted miscellaneous outdoor gear into a corner closet. “I’d say this is messier than usual, but that wouldn’t be exactly accurate.” She flashed him a smile. “Life’s too short to waste it cleaning.”

A bright red sea kayak was suspended on a pulley system from the ten-foot ceiling, and a pair of bicycles—one commuter bike, one full-suspension mountain bike—hung on a graceful cantilevered oak rack that elegantly exploited the laws of physics. The galley-style kitchen was simple but highly functional, a long row of salvaged Doug-fir cabinets and decent appliances paired with a broad island workstation and four mismatched vintage stools. The design details were crisp and clean, with two-piece baseboard and classic craftsman-style trim at the doors and windows. Peter had seen his share of crappy apartments in his time, and this was not one of them. Someone had put some care into this place.

June stood at the long table and started unloading her pack. “Aren’t you coming in?”

The white static fizzed and popped at the base of his brain. He thought of Don’s advice, gradual desensitization. “Sure.” He stepped through the door, the static foaming higher and his leg reminding him of its delicate condition. “Do you have any ice?”

“In theory,” she said, waving him to the kitchen. “Plastic bags to the right of the fridge, second drawer. You see anything else you like, knock yourself out. Mi casa, su casa, baby.”

He limped into the kitchen area. The medical boot did help, and the static was manageable for the moment. Maybe Don was right. Suck it up, Marine.

Aesthetics aside, her kitchen was a desolate wasteland. The fridge was empty but for assorted condiments, a brine-crusted jar of green olives, eggs long past their sell date, and a half-eaten tub of yogurt that had turned into an uncontrolled science experiment. Her freezer had a half-full bottle of Grey Goose vodka, five partial pints of H?agen-Dazs ice cream, and a box of veggie burgers so frost-encrusted that you’d have to thaw them in a volcano. She was either on the road a lot, not much of a cook, or both.

But there was plenty of ice. He loaded a Ziploc and stumped back toward the couch. He wanted to ask June about her father. Then he saw that she had her laptop open.

“Hey, turn that thing off,” he said. “We don’t know what your hunters can do. If they could track you through your phone, they probably hacked your laptop, too.”

“Peter, it’s fine,” she said. “Leo has this great anonymous Wi-Fi setup.” She didn’t look up, her fingers flying over the keys. “I’m a guest user. I’m untrackable here.”

“And if they hacked your laptop?”

“I’ve got so much security on this thing, sometimes even I can’t get in. Wait.” She stopped typing and ran her finger over the mouse pad. “What the hell?”

“What is it?”

“My cell modem. I turned it off twice at the hospital, and again just now when I opened the laptop. I thought my laptop was just getting old. But the modem’s turned itself back on again.”

“What have I been saying? They hacked your laptop, and it’s trying to tell your hunters where we are. Triangulating the cell towers.” Peter reached over and pushed the laptop lid closed. “This is now a paperweight. How long has it been online?”

“A few minutes?” June screwed her face up in frustration. “I fucking need that computer. My whole life is in there. Besides, how else are we going to keep backtracking those guys from the redwoods?”

Peter didn’t know how long the cell modem needed to talk to the towers. He’d have to take the computer somewhere else and let it really connect. Set a false trail for the hunters. Because he knew they hadn’t stopped hunting.

But there was no reason to remind June of that.

“What about the tablet?”

“It’s a toy. For kids’ games and Grandma on Facebook.” Her voice was getting louder.

“Relax,” he said. “I’m guessing you’re backed up six ways, right? And most of your work is stored in the cloud, anyway? So you just need a new laptop.”

She gave him a look. “Easy for you to say, Mr. Big Bucks Buy-Me-A-Car.”

“I forgot to mention,” he said. “As your security specialist, that’ll be in my expense report.”

She threw a pillow at him. “I’m a freelance journalist,” she said. “Not exactly rolling in the dough. Laptops aren’t cheap.”

“Don’t sweat it,” he said. “You can pay me out of the proceeds.”

She blinked. “The proceeds of what?”

“The book you’re going to write. About all this crazy shit. I’m betting this time you won’t just be nominated for the Pulitzer.”

Her mouth twitched, and he knew he was right, she’d been thinking about the story. When he was overseas, he’d had a magazine writer embedded with his unit for a few weeks. The guy had a hardwired need to turn every experience into a piece of published writing, and Peter figured June was no different.

“I’ll call a few friends,” she said. “I can probably scare up something used.”

An odd sound came from her bag. A muffled electronic chirp.

He said, “What was that?”