The Gender War (The Gender Game #4)(22)

“Still got mine,” announced Viggo, pulling his gun out of his pocket.

“When we get to the city, and you turn us over,” I said, looking at Viggo, “what should we expect?”

He considered the question for a moment. “We’ll be directed to a specific location. I would say one of the warden stations, but to be honest, you’re too high profile. That means a secret location, meant for spies and terrorists.”

“And… when we get there?”

“It’s hard to say. You’ll be patted down for weapons, and they’ll want to make sure you’re secure. After that, it’s a waiting game. I’m not sure if the king will want to question you immediately, or if he’ll let you stew.”

Turning to Tim, I shook my head. “Viggo, there are four other people that we have to hide, or else come up with a story about. And we have to do something about Tim—I don’t want him getting frisked.”

Viggo frowned and crossed his arms, rocking back on his heels for a second. “All right—Ms. Dale, Owen, and Jay will be a part of the terrorist cell that you’ve been working in. I managed to capture you all, and… uh, while I was there, I found Tim living in the wild.”

I gave him a look. “That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” I retorted. He eyed me and then nodded in agreement.

“Yeah. Give me some time to think about it.”

I bit my lip, deep in thought. “We need rope or something to restrain us, so it’ll look more convincing.”

“The Porteque gang will have that,” Owen supplied, approaching with a grim nod.

“Won’t they wonder why we aren’t restrained?”

“You’ll have to pretend to be unconscious, I think,” Owen replied. “We can say the job got botched—we managed to drug you, but we lost the man who carried the restraints. It’s flimsy, but it’ll have to do.”

I sighed but nodded. It was a thin sketch of a plan, but it was the best we had at the moment.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get going.”





9





Viggo





The air was still as I stood beside Owen, watching the lights of the approaching vehicle growing brighter in the night. When it trundled near us, I could see that the truck was massive, meant for hauling heavy loads of mechanical parts, with a two-person cab and huge, heavy-duty off-roading tires. The extra-long bed’s carrying capacity had been increased by the addition of a tall metal frame that rose several feet above the cab. A thick black canvas tarp was stretched over the frame to protect—or conceal—the cargo. It was a fairly standard modification on trucks like this, but the wardens I’d worked with had always called them ‘kidnapping vehicles’ for a reason.

I wasn’t sure whether I was glad that Owen’s contacts had come through so quickly—there might have been a better way to do this, but at least this way was fast. Violet and Ms. Dale had crouched down in a nearby copse of trees, waiting to be carried, ‘unconscious,’ onto the scene when we signaled to them; Tim and Jay stayed with them to do the carrying. I was less than sure about this plan, but it was happening. Desmond’s team—whoever they were—had a head start on us, and we needed to make every second count.

I stood behind Owen. He was the most familiar with them, so it would be better if he did all the talking. Not to mention, I loathed the Porteque gang. I was far more likely to shoot them than to have anything useful to say.

I also had to hope that none of them recognized me right away.

Owen held up a hand as the vehicle coming toward us pulled to a stop. The engine cut off, but they left the lights on to glare in our faces. As I watched, six large men climbed out, wearing clothes with various levels of shabbiness—two from the cab of the truck, and four from the back. When they approached, I could see the familiar black triangles underneath one of each of their eyes, and I tamped down a surge of fury.

“Hey, Peter,” Owen said to one of the approaching members, holding his hand out.

The man who had gotten out of the driver’s seat, a burly guy with a long, greasy blond ponytail and a goatee, stepped up to Owen, grabbing his hand with a firm shake. “Hey, Sam,” he replied. “Where’s the rest of your team? And… who’s the new guy?” He stared at me, and I inclined my head toward him, trying to conceal my seething glare.

“It’s a long story, my friend. Let’s just say we had a bit of a botched job. Oh, and this is Alfred.”

My face reflected nothing, but Owen’s choice of cover identities definitely left something to be desired. I held out my own hand and gave what I hoped passed as a congenial smile, rather than a baring of teeth. “Friends and associates call me Fred,” I stated as Peter took my hand in his. “I’m new.”

“Yeah,” Peter said wryly. “I gathered.”

We released the handshake, and Peter turned back to Owen. “Any heat we need to be worried about with this botched job?”

Owen shook his head. “No—I left one of my guys behind to clean it up, so none of it will fall back on you. But we had to step up our timeline because of it. That’s why this call was so last-minute. I’m glad you could make it.”

“Boss,” one of the other men, a smaller guy with narrow eyes and a tight, turned-down moustache, said behind him, but Peter waved a dismissive hand at him. My gaze passed over him once and then snapped back. Something about him looked… I didn’t want to say it, even to myself… familiar.