Deadly Promises (Tracers #2.5)(4)

He’d be the first casualty.

Sam eased over to a statue of a woman with a baby and long tulip leaves sculpted around the base. Deep crevices in the leaves would hide the small plastic case. Perfect.

“The park will close in ten minutes,” screeched from a speaker on top of a pole.

“Take care of my booty,” he whispered and made a bare flick of his fingers to toss the card into a deep fissure between a leaf and a stem.

He breathed a heavy sigh of relief for five yards and scooted between two large panel trucks. A quick glance past the other side and he started to move.

Strong fingers bit into his shoulder.

Sam froze, then turned to face the ugly mug of Dorvan, who appeared to be in the running for “Bone Breaker of the Year.” Dorvan’s shorter sidekick kept his back to the two of them, obviously watching the area so no one overheard them.

“Where’s the memory card?” Dorvan asked casually.

“I didn’t get it. Things fell apart at the meet.” Sam licked his dry lips, wishing he could cause a disturbance, but he didn’t trust the police not to shoot him in an altercation.

“Starface won’t be happy.”

“Swear I don’t have the card.” Sam figured the feds would be all over this place in another five minutes. “Tell you what. Give me a day and I’ll come up with it.”

A click sounded. Dorvan jabbed a knife tip into Sam’s neck. Sam hissed at the sharp pain. His day was definitely going to shit.

“Let’s go somewhere you can show me you don’t have it.” Dorvan jerked Sam along by his collar.

Not the response Sam had been banking on. A throbbing pulse hammered his skull. He would be searched, right down to body cavities.

“THE FESTIVAL OF Emperors has now ended and the park is closing.”

CeCe heard sounds as if they echoed through a long tunnel. A male voice talking a minute ago about… what? Now, a bullhorn-type announcement. Her thoughts bounced around until she realized she’d reached the end of her physical limit for standing still but her concentration wouldn’t be broken. Discipline came from hours of practice… and growing up in a cautious environment. She never dreamed she’d get so good at this when she took up yoga two years ago to use as a mental lifeline.

Or that her new skills would offer her a way to support herself and a chance at a new life in a new location.

Drawing the first deep breath in almost two hours, she flexed her fingers from their stiff position. Sharp needles of pain shot through her numb limbs with each move.

Click. Whirr. Click. Whirr. Click. Whirr.

What was that? She rolled her head to one side, paused, then to the other side and wiggled her toes. Her skin screamed for moisture, a shower to wash away the white powder coating. Step by step, she eased her body out of the deep Zen state she’d entered to perform her routine.

“I’m from the newspaper. You can talk now can’t you?” a male voice said.

Oh, if he was a reporter the sound must have been a camera.

CeCe stretched her stiff face and cracked open her eyelids. She closed them again then forced the heavy lids to lift, squinting until her pupils adjusted to the fading afternoon light. The matte finish makeup made blinking a chore.

“Of course.” She smiled. Her voice always sounded rough after a long state of calm, but she loved this job.

And loved finally being on her own at twenty-six with a chance at a normal life.

“I’m with the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.” A fortyish man in dark slacks, white collared shirt, and an Atlanta Braves ballcap over short hair stuffed his camera into a green bag on the ground then pulled out a pad and pen. He had kind eyes that matched the photo on the media ID swinging from the lanyard around his neck. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Not if you don’t mind me moving around while I answer.” She shifted her weight, loosening up her leg muscles, and felt the crack in the top of her base give so she spread her feet on each side of the center to keep from damaging the area further. She had to find someone who could repair fiberglass this week.

CeCe tossed the baby doll statue to the ground so she could keep flexing her hands.

A woman walking by stopped short, stared in surprise at the doll, then at CeCe, then seemed to figure it all out before she shook her head and continued on.

Normal reaction when a person saw a statue move.

“No problem. You do whatever you need to do.” The middle-aged photographer had a notebook out, pen ready in his stubby fingers. “I took a shot before you woke up. Is that what you do? Sleep?”

“It’s more of a deep meditative state I learned in yoga.” Hours and hours and hours of yoga that offered therapeutic escape and a way to survive. CeCe stretched one leg muscle, then the other.

“Have you done this a long time and do you work for a company?”

“No. I’ve been doing this for about a month. I contract from a company called Double Take. They’re in Atlanta. Will this be in the paper for sure?”

“Yep. Be in tomorrow’s. I’m going to take a couple more shots of you while you stretch.”

“Sure.” CeCe smiled inside, thrilled to show the owner of the company she was an asset. She’d get a copy of tomorrow’s paper for the owner of Double Take. In this troubled economy, the newspaper article would be free promotion. Maybe get a couple copies she could send to her family in Canada. All at once her enthusiasm bottomed out. Her family hated any contact with the media and had always warned her about staying out of the public eye, but she was now officially a nobody and living an anonymous existence in a new country. She just had to be careful with her answers.