Perfect Gravity (Wanted and Wired #2)(19)
“Possibly not well,” Heron said. “There’s…”
Suddenly Kellen was no longer searching for the raggedy edge of sleep. “Not well? What d’you mean?”
He’d put a lot of time and effort into luring those monarchs down to the oyamel forests for their migration. If loggers or some corporation had come in and messed things up, he was gonna be pissed.
Heron frowned, never a good sign. “There’s something dark near Morelia, maybe just a data anomaly, some intrusion countermeasures or… No, it’s northwest of Morelia. So good news, the butterfly habitat is probably fine after all.”
“But?” There was always a but.
“The data hole is over Guadalajara. Something is going on there that our government doesn’t want me to see.”
Kellen’s limbs tensed hard, and his breath bunched up tight in his chest.
The frown didn’t depart Heron’s face. “Senator Neko’s repeater initiated from the middle of that dark spot. Probably just a coincidence, of course, but I dislike coincidences.”
Every time Kellen heard her name, it was like liquid nitrogen froze his entire body, melted straight to gas, and swished off, leaving him ass-bare and blazing with indeterminate but excruciating temperature. Every. Damn. Time. “Senator who’s what?”
Heron pinched up one eyebrow. “The chances you misheard me hover near zero.”
“Clarify repeater.”
“A repeating message.”
“To you?”
“Yes.” Heron’s other eyebrow scooted up and met the first, high on his forehead. “I’m certain I told you she was coming here. Fanaida is bringing her, along with your rescue not-alpaca thing.”
“You told me bupkiss, man.” Fuck. Fuckity fuck. Angela here? In physical, touchable, soul-singeing, memory-wrenching, toxic proximity?
Heron tilted his head slightly. “No, I clearly remember saying that she—”
That she was requesting a meeting with his shooter. Yeah, Kellen had heard that, or some similar bullshit, but he’d been busy just at that minute, trying to keep his friend alive. He remembered thinking at the time that a game-master like Angela wouldn’t waste her favor owed on something as useless as meeting Mari, not unless she was planning to renege on their bargain. Or she had some other nefarious purpose. You could never put such shenanigans past a politician.
“Yeah, but can’t she meet Mari somewhere else?” Somewhere he wasn’t. Somewhere he wouldn’t have to see her, breathe her air, hold himself away from wrapping his arms all the way around her and forcing her never to leave again.
Heron raised his hands off the tabletop and turned his palms up. “I didn’t realize it would bother you so much. Haven’t you known her forever? I thought you were fond of her.”
Fond? Not even close.
Kellen kicked back from the table, rolling the chair till it crushed into a plastic-printed ficus. He rose in one movement, clenching his fists and wishing he had something to squeeze. Or crush. Or hurl. He had things to say, but his internal editor kept his lips clamped shut. Mind frame like this, it was best not to let fly. Hollering without carefully choosing his words, especially when there were legit hollerable offenses going down and he was grumpy as all get-out, was against his personal rule set.
But dangit…Heron had invited her here? Without even asking him? What kind of batfuck Judas move was that?
“Best I see to that vicu?a,” he muttered past half-clamped lips. A whole vomit of soot-filthy words pushed up behind his teeth, but he didn’t let it loose.
He’d almost gotten to the door when Heron spoke again. “Fanaida just drove into the carpark. Your Angela is with her.”
Here. Angela.
But not mine.
She hadn’t been his in nine years. And none of that was his fault. Not one second.
Chapter 4
Angela had fallen asleep during the drive, despite the cramped back seat and the smell of llama piss. Oh, right, no: vicu?a piss. Apparently they were two separate species entirely. Somehow her exclusive smart kids’ education hadn’t denoted the difference, but Fanaida had taken it upon herself to educate.
When the rickety old car screamed to a stop in a place that echoed, Angela woke, knuckled the temporary peace out of her eyes, and tasted the backs of her teeth, hoping nobody had noticed that she’d dropped her dignity—and possibly her hygiene—about fifty kilometers back. She felt fuzzy and unkempt. Blessing the lack of vid cams or paparazzi, she unfastened her door and spilled herself out of the tinier-than-it-looked car.
All carparks the world over looked exactly the same, though this one was a bit fuller than most. Not with cars, though: with shipping containers. Dozens of them. Hundreds? A few skeletal combustion cars littered the smoky, halogen-lit underground, and the space smelled of engine grease and…burnt tortilla? Ugh. Still, Angela was happy to get out of the cramped confines and stretch her legs some.
Mech-Daniel no sooner hit the pavement than he had instructions for her. She’d be willing to bet he’d saved them up for hours. “We are to report to Heron Farad in the conference room on the third floor as soon as possible.”
“Do I get a chance to shower first?” she asked.
Fanaida cut in with a sniff. “Oh, it ain’t that kind of request, mija.” She’d already come around to the little camelid baby’s side of the car and was trying to coax Azul out with a fistful of fresh grass.