Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(112)

“Yes,” she said.

“The debit card has twenty-five grand on it. When it runs out, use the credit card. I would quiz you on all this, make sure you’ve got it, but Miles doesn’t want to contaminate his pristine brain with your data,” the guy grumbled. “Fucking nuts, if you ask me.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” she said.

“Another thing. We need a way to communicate, which is tricky, since we could be monitored by the big psycho badass. So, as per his Royal Highness’s strict instructions, I opened up a new Yahoo account. Username, UHaveGot2BKidding, all words capitalized, U and B single letters, “to” the number 2, no spaces. Password, PsiFreakBGone, no spaces, all words capped, B a single letter, and follow it with two exclamation points. You need to communicate with us, log onto that account and leave me a message in the drafts folder. Got that?”

Lara squeezed her eyes shut, pummeling her tired brain into a mode that could take in and efficiently store that kind of information. She had to visualize it written. “Um . . . I think so,” she faltered.

“Not good enough,” Seth barked. “Go find a goddamn pen and paper, if you’re not sure!”

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” she assured him.

“So this is the deal. I’ll check that account a few times a day. You ever need anything, money, documents, help, whatever, you let us know. Got it?”

The subtext was clear. That if she ever needed his help, it was because the worst had happened and Miles was gone. And they were helping her for his sake. In his memory.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice thick. “Thanks. I really apprec—”

“Thank Miles, not me. He made it happen.”

“Oh, I do. I have. Several times,” she told him.

“Good,” the man said. “He needs to hear it. Good luck, and be careful. Pass that crazy bastard back to me.”

She did so, her throat too tight to speak, and gathered up her armful of clothes. Miles hunched over the phone again, pulling her behind him as he muttered and argued into it. He stopped a few times on the way to grab a big, multicolored knit cap, which he tossed onto her pile. Then it was a pair of somewhat wacky, battered, mirror sunglasses, big, perfectly round discs, like John Lennon specs. With the pea coat and the hat, it was going to be quite the bold and edgy look. Certainly not her usual style, but she supposed that was the point.

The last thing he grabbed was a bright-blue canvas gym bag. He tossed it on the counter, turning away to finish his conversation. Lara lay her pile on top of it, and the old guy began ringing them up. Miles didn’t turn to look, even when her frothy ivory dress was sprawled all over the counter and spilling halfway to the floor.

Miles pried out his wallet and handed it to her, just as the guy announced the grand total of fifty-two dollars. He had no small bills, just a thick, intimidating wad of hundreds. She handed one over.

The guy peered over his glasses. “Got anything smaller?”

“Sure don’t,” Lara said. “Sorry.”

He grumbled, but made the change. Lara packed the stuff into the duffel. She donned the coat, which lapped down over her shoulders and almost reached her ankles. Miles shoved the hat down over her eyes, and perched the sunglasses on her nose. She swatted his ass smartly when he dared to laugh at the resulting outfit.

Then it was down the block and across the street, to the funky little diner for a meal. They were very quiet after the waitress took their order. Miles put his hands out on the table, like he was going to reach for her hand, but his phone rang.

He pulled it out. Stared at the buzzing thing. Not answering.

“What? Who is it?” she asked, unnerved.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Only Aaro, Sean, Connor and Kev should have this number. This was the burner. I didn’t give it to anyone else.”

“Don’t answer it,” she said swiftly.

He shrugged. “If they know that I answer this phone, then they probably know where I am already. I might as well learn what there is to learn, rather than stay ignorant.” He tapped the screen. “Yeah?”

He listened quietly, for several minutes, not looking Lara in the eye. “No shit,” he muttered. “Wow. Yeah, of course. I’ll come in and defend myself as soon as possible, but I can’t now, because I . . . yeah, I know, but . . . I will, as soon as I can, but . . .”

He covered his face with his hand. Lara could hear the guy on the other end literally bellowing at him.

“Look, man.” Miles’ voice was hushed. “I appreciate the heads-up. I am so sorry about Barlow. Jesus, Sam. I’ll do everything I can to make this right for you, but right now, I have to go.”

He hung up the phone and immediately turned it off.

“Who was that?” she asked.

He took so long to answer, she started getting scared. She drummed her finger on the table. “Miles,” she said, imitating his alpha master and commander voice. “Spit it out. Right now.”

Miles dragged another item out of his bag, a nylon pouch with long straps and clasps, still refusing to meet her eyes. “That was Sam Petrie. A cop friend of mine.”

“And?” she prompted. “What’s the heads-up for? Sorry about what? Defend yourself against what? What’s happening?”

He rubbed his face, glancing around at all the other customers in the diner, and leaned closer. “Greaves has been busy,” he said quietly. “He’s set me up. I have this shack, on some land I own up in the Cascades. They staged the place to look like I’m the one who’s been holding you captive. And they buried those guys I killed out back.”