Lies(15)

“Yes,” growls Thom. “Henry, quit dicking around and let us in.”

At this, the back wall of the shed swings open to reveal a set of metal stairs descending below ground. Small white lights are embedded in the concrete wall.

It’s an honest-to-God underground bunker. Holy hell.

The crazy-ass survivalist owner in question sits below among long work benches loaded with computers, assorted weaponry, and ammunition. I thought people like this only existed on the Discovery Channel. But he’s real, and about fifty or so, with silver hair and reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

“It’s an emergency,” says Thom. “This is my fiancée, Betty.”

Henry’s mouth drops open. “You’re getting married? You?”

“No,” I say just as Thom says, “Yes.”

The man looks between us, expression bemused.

“We’re still working out some issues.” A solid compromise from Thom. Sort of. “She’s going to stay here with you for a while.”

“This have to do with a friend of yours getting hit in Prague?” asks Henry, crossing his arms.

Thom just blinks. “News travels fast. Yes, it does have to do with that.”

“Thought as much. All right, then, boy. What do you need?”

“The works.”

Henry whistles between his teeth. “It’ll cost you.”

“I’m aware. Also going to need a hacker. The best you can find.”

“On-site?”

“No.”

“It’s going to take some time to organize.”

“That’s one thing I don’t have a lot of.” Thom sighs. “How soon can you have it ready?”

“Give me ’til midnight. One at the latest.”

“Okay. The vehicle up top needs to disappear as well.”

“Roger that.” Slowly, Henry rises from his stool, giving me a looking over. “Betty, huh? You realize he’s a certified a-hole who doesn’t deserve you?”

“I do,” I say.

“Good for you, honey. Break his spirit and make him crawl.” Henry grins. “Take the room in the back and help yourself to the pot roast in the fridge. Made it myself yesterday.”

While I seriously love this guy, Thom exudes an aura of less than impressed.

The bunker is all concrete and steel. Though the numerous racks of knives, guns, and other assorted things that go boom lining the walls give it a homey touch. If home is meant to be vaguely apocalyptic, that is. Holy shit.

“You okay?” asks Thom.

“Um, yeah.” I wipe my sweaty palms on the side of my jeans. Anxiety is becoming a bad habit, but I don’t see it ending anytime soon. “Is that a rocket launcher on that table?”

He turns, taking in the instrument of mass destruction in question. “Only a small one. Hey, what’s wrong? You’re not feeling agoraphobic, are you?”

“No, no.” My attempt at a smile feels weak and sloppy. “Just…you know…trying to keep up with everything.”

“You’re doing great. C’mon.”

He takes my hand once more, leading me down a hallway. We sure are holding hands a lot lately.

First there’s a long, narrow room with a couple of those paper body outlines hanging at the end. Henry has his own underground shooting range, apparently. As you do. Next is a storage room with even more gear and weapons neatly sorted and stored. Then a small kitchen and dining area. A lounge room with an elderly TV, battered-looking La-Z-Boy, and a green plaid sofa. A couple of closed doors, a very minimal bathroom, and finally, a small room with a double bed made up with military precision. It’s like Batman’s lair but with more weaponry and less of a cave-like aesthetic.

I’m so far out of my element these days, it’s not funny.

“Make yourself at home.” Thom dumps my bag on the end of the bed. “I’ve got some things to do.”

I nod.

“Betty.”

I look up. “What?”

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he says, eyes as serious as they can get. “I promise.”

“Who is he? How well do you know him?”

And there’s the pause. The entrenched reluctance to withhold all information, to not give anything away. I just wait while he wages his internal battle. Eventually he swallows hard, licks his lips. “Met him when I joined the Rangers. Things went south on a mission in Afghanistan and he took the fall. Dumbass politics. He retired from active duty, but he got bored, and also he was a little upset at the government in general, so he decided to set up shop.”

“So, what, he’s like the underground Walmart of war now?”

He almost smiles. It’s a close thing. “Basically. Only deals with a very select clientele. He owes me a favor. You’ll be safe here. This place is basically impenetrable.”

“Okay.”

“I got to get to work.”

“Sure. Go. I’ll be fine.”

Another pause, and his hand half reaches out, gaze going to my mouth. And I realize what he intended. Because this is what we always used to do when one of us went to work. Before he’d disappear off on a business trip, he’d take my hand and give me a kiss. Nothing overly dramatic or reeking of romance. Just a squeeze of the fingers and quick peck, really. Us going through the motions of being a couple. Him pretending to be my boyfriend.