The Countdown (The Taking #3)(45)

After a second or two, I dared another quick glance out the window.

He was still there.

Agent Truman hadn’t always been part of the Daylight Division. Once upon a time he’d been the infamous Dr. Arlo Bennett. Aka, Griffin’s dad. None of us had known the two were one and the same, not until he’d shown up with his army of Daylight Division goons to storm Blackwater Ranch.

That’s when he and Griffin had come face-to-face for the first time in decades. The reunion hadn’t exactly ended well.

I hadn’t envied Griffin before then, when I thought her dad was a scientist who’d sacrificed her to the aliens just so he could experiment on her when she returned.

I envied her even less once I knew her dad had changed his identity and was working with the feds to round us up. And then he put the cherry on the worst-dad-ever award by shooting her right in front of me.

It made no difference that he was a Returned too.

The last time I’d seen Agent Truman had been at Blackwater, right after Willow had taken a baseball bat to his head.

He’d said that being older than the rest of us meant he healed slower than we did, but I had to say, considering less than two weeks had passed, he looked pretty good. It made me wonder what he’d told his cohorts . . . how he’d explained his miraculous—and exceptionally speedy—recovery, since after Willow had gotten done with him he’d looked like a crash test dummy on its way to the dump.

Now he glanced up, his eyes scanning the length of the building.

He saw us . . . he saw us . . . somehow, I’m sure he saw us . . .

Run. Thom wanted me to run. To get a head start. Did that prove it, that he wasn’t a traitor? That he hadn’t led Agent Truman right to us?

I let my eyes drop to Chuck’s watch, dangling loosely on my wrist. The sight of it slowed my heart rate. Calmed me down.

Then I saw Agent Truman pull out what looked like a handheld radio or walkie-talkie, but with a screen. He entered something and held it out and up, toward the motel.

“Hey! Jesus!” Thom reached up and slapped his neck, right below his right ear. “What the . . . Did you hear that?”

I slid my gaze sideways at him, and then back to Agent Truman, who was grinning now, and taking sure steps in our direction, his eyes moving upward, to the second floor where our room was located.

“Oh my god, Thom. It’s you.” I had to think fast. We had to act fast. “You are the reason Agent Truman’s here. Somehow they . . . he or Natty and Eddie Ray . . . someone put some kind of tracker in you.” I pointed to his neck, to where he was still rubbing the place beneath his ear.

I dropped the curtain, my mind spinning as I rubbed the back of my own neck. My blood was pumping hard. We only had seconds until Agent Truman would be here, and I doubted he’d give the courtesy of a friendly knock when he arrived.

“Okay,” I said. “I got it. You have to stay here.” I grabbed the gun I’d shoved under my pillow. “I’ll be right here, ready to surprise him.” I ran to the bathroom. “Hopefully he thinks you’re alone.”

I didn’t give Thom time to argue—we didn’t have time. I slipped on my boots—Blondie’s boots—and disappeared into the still steam-filled bathroom. The near panic of waiting to be caught by Agent Truman was too much, and my chest constricted to the point I almost couldn’t breathe.

I turned those emotions inward, focusing, trying to harness them into a storm I could use against Agent Truman in case the gun wasn’t enough. In case it jammed. In case I ran out of bullets. In case Agent Truman disarmed me.

My ability—could I do that? Could I call on it at will?

I could try.

Suddenly this plan I’d come up with—granted, on the spur of the moment—this whole thing where I would ambush Agent Truman, I realized it was amateur hour. It was me trying to pass off a blob of unsculpted Play-Doh to a snooty art dealer.

I couldn’t do this. It was pathetic. This was Agent Truman, a seasoned veteran. A man who carved up Returned just to see what made them tick.

What was I thinking?

Then I saw the window, the one above the tub, and I heard Thom’s voice in my head: “Go out the back . . . you can get a head start.”

I wasn’t the one with an implant in my neck. Thom was right, I could escape unscathed.

I heard footsteps coming on the cement walkway outside the motel room door. Agent Truman wasn’t even trying to be stealthy. He wasn’t even remotely afraid of us.

For some reason, knowing how little he thought of us . . . of Thom and me . . . well, it pissed me off.

Suddenly the gun in my hand was vibrating. No, the gun wasn’t vibrating, my fingertips were. I didn’t think I’d be able to hold it steady enough to shoot. But then again, I had a better weapon now.

Outside the bathroom, on the other side of the flimsy hollow-core door I was hiding behind, I heard the doorknob to the motel room jiggle, and I could imagine Agent Truman out there, testing the lock. I imagined Thom, too, waiting and feeling guilty because he was the reason Agent Truman was here. Blaming himself all over again.

A storm blew through me. A hot wind coiled, twisting and snarling when I heard the bright red metal door bang against the wall as Agent Truman let himself inside.

What a jerk!

This was what I needed, to be angry. Enraged.

It would give me the upper hand, and then the gun would be unnecessary. I held my breath, waiting for the right time.