Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(20)

Angel and Riff slept really, really well. I know, because I lay there half the night, and listened to them snore.





Chapter 17

The Road




Next day we had our car delivered. It was a big black SUV, built like a bus. I had to sign a stack of paperwork, plus the online log-in. Then I had to check the flask and cables that came with it and sign for those, too. I couldn’t check the generator in the back, not without running it, but there was a little sticker that said someone else had checked it for me, so I had to sign to say I’d seen that, too.

After which, the thing was mine.

It was tricky, trying to leave the house.

We had to sneak our luggage out the back door so the dog wouldn’t see. He didn’t understand a lot in life, but he knew what luggage meant, and he knew he wasn’t coming.

Evelyn put her arms around me.

“Angel’s got good taste,” she said. “Look after her.”

Angel said, “Mom. I look after myself.”

Evelyn, to me, again: “Look after her.”

“She’ll be safe,” I said. “She’ll be totally safe.”

But I saw Melody’s strained face, her skin pulled tight over a skull that shook with pain.

“I promise,” I said, though softer now. “I will look after her.”

“Come on!” said Angel, and she grabbed my arm, and dragged me off towards the car.



I hadn’t planned on spending so long in the States. I had a place in London costing me an arm and a leg in rent, but Angel didn’t live in London. I had called in favors to be with her now, to finish off her training.

I’d taught her basics, way back, but that had been formality; she’d worked in admin and PR, and wasn’t exactly coming face-to-face with the divine on any frequent basis.

Then, in Chicago last year, things had turned a bit more serious. She’d already proved herself more than able. I even thought she had some talent for the job. And she wanted Field Ops: she wanted to travel, to get to hear the music that fascinated her, and hear it live, this time. I reckoned for the next few weeks I’d be no more than the fallback guy, if things went wrong. Which I was not expecting.

We drove south. Everything was fine. We checked a shopping mall that had been flagged—“poltergeist-type episodes”—and we got nothing. Then there was a church in southern Michigan, where we sat in with some techs and a US Field Op, and I told them all, “In Europe, I’d do this on my own,” and they took the teasing in good part. “That’s ’cause you’re cheap,” said one of them.

The job itself was routine stuff. Or as near as it gets.

Angel did well. I’d told them she was training and they let her lay the cables and she hesitated once or twice, asked for advice from time to time. She wasn’t short of confidence but she knew her limitations. That was good. Nothing worse than somebody who thinks they’ve got it nailed. They’re the ones who make mistakes.

We got together for a few beers afterwards. There was time for talk and debate and a little storytelling, and I was glad of that. I wanted her to hear the stories. Half the time, that’s how you learn: not from the manual, not from the classes, but from what the old hands tell you, when they’re fooling around, or trying to boast, or warn, or entertain. That’s when you get the truth.

We spent our nights in motels. Each evening, she’d phone her mom and ask her how the dog was. Sometimes she’d get quiet after that and tell me that she missed him, but it never lasted long. We’d eat in local bars and restaurants, trying to pick the healthy options, and usually ending up with beer and burgers, just because it was closest, easiest, and tasted good.

I didn’t phone a soul. I got my orders via e-mail and I didn’t want to talk to anybody anyway.

Then we got a new job. The town was called Big Hollow, and I thought that sounded spooky and funny and romantic all at once, and it was going to be her first real solo run, and I was sort of looking forward to it—the tension of the job, even the fear, and then the huge release when it was done, the celebration, and the fact we’d share it.

She called the place “Sleepy Hollow.” I called it “Big Hello,” until we practically forgot its real name. And we laughed our way towards it with some weird Moroccan music on her iPod, and she sang along to that the same way other people sing along to Taylor Swift.

It was not a time when I imagined anything was likely to go wrong.





Chapter 18

Not the Village Fête




The first trace of Big Hollow was a little mom-and-pop diner partnered with a gas station. The sign made me laugh:

EAT HERE

GET GAS

A half mile on we passed the skeleton of some huge building rotting by the highway. There were girders streaked with rust, and concrete floors, big as a football field. But no walls, no roof.

Angel looked at it.

“Welcome to the Midwest,” she said, and sang, like a ’40s ballad, “Where industry—is just a memory . . .”

“What do you think it was?”

“Oh, I dunno. Someone’s livelihood, though. Sad.”

I agreed it was, and then, like travelers everywhere, we pretty much forgot about it. We passed a big, wood-clad house. A veranda ran around it, and there were rocking chairs out, and hanging baskets full of flowers.