True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(10)

“Were you hiding?” she asked.

Yes, and it was stupid, because he knew it was no secret that he was in Seattle or even that he was staying at the Sheraton. He’d sent a tweet to his 5,788 followers when he’d landed and posted photos on Instagram of the welcome basket full of local fruits, cookies, and candies that was waiting for him in his room. Perhaps hiding was what people instinctively did when they felt threatened, even if it made no logical sense. He’d have to ask the human nature expert about that, too.

“No, of course not,” he said. “That would be stupid. Where did you park the car?”

“In the hotel garage. I figured we’d walk to the bookstore. It’s only a few blocks away.”

“Good thinking. Rental cars are equipped with GPS transponders so they can be constantly tracked by the rental companies.”

That was a cool fact he’d picked up while researching one of his Clint Straker books. Now it might help save him in real life.

“That’s nice to know,” Margo said. “But I think I’ll remember where I parked without having to call Hertz for help.”

Ian looked around, trying to decide where to go next. The Sheraton was on a hill. He could go uphill on Pike Street, east toward the freeway and Lake Washington, or head downhill, west toward the iconic Pike Place Market and the waters of Elliott Bay. He could take a ferry from there to someplace. But where? Or he could go northwest on Sixth Avenue, taking him downhill toward the Space Needle. He wasn’t going up there. That was a mistake people always made in books and movies. They headed up only to fall a long way down.

His remaining option was heading south on Sixth, down toward Pioneer Square. Something drew him in that direction. Perhaps it was instinct again, pulling him toward Los Angeles, his home, hundreds of miles south. He started walking fast down the street, rolling his suitcase along with him.

“Wait a minute,” Margo said, hurrying after him. “Your flight to Denver isn’t until four. We can leave your bags here and come back for them after the signing.”

“I’m not going to the signing and I’m sure as hell not coming back here.” He also had no intention of going to Denver or anywhere else on his itinerary. It was bad enough that they knew he was in Seattle.

Margo was confused. “Then where are we going?”

“Is your phone on?”

“Yes.”

“Turn it off. They can track that, too.”

“Who?” she asked.

“The people who are trying to kill me.”



Those people were watching Ian and Margo on the media wall in Blackthorn’s situation room. The huge screen showed the two of them from different angles culled from an array of cameras in the area: building security cameras, ATM cameras, traffic cameras, and even the cell phone cameras of people taking selfies and sightseeing photos and then posting them to social media.

“They are heading west on Sixth Avenue,” Seth said.

Cross nodded. “How many parked vehicles can we access within a four-block radius of their location?”

Seth typed a few keys. A satellite view of the downtown Seattle streets showed up on the media wall. Lots of red dots, each representing a parked car that could be remotely hacked, blinked along the streets and within parking structures.

“Forty-six,” Seth said. “Of those, twenty-one have ignitions that can be started through the manufacturer’s smartphone app. Fourteen of those cars have parking assist and five have full autopilot capability.”

Cross smiled. “Find me one with autopilot that’s parked on a steep hill.”





CHAPTER TEN

Ian and Margo were on Sixth Avenue and crossing against the light at the intersection with University Street. Ian had no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he couldn’t stay where he was. So his only plan at the moment was to keep moving and not to be a sitting target.

“Nobody wants to kill you,” Margo said.

“You haven’t turned off your phone.”

Margo reached into her pocket, pulled out her iPhone, and made a show of turning it off. “Satisfied?”

“You think I’m crazy.”

“I think you’re paranoid from drugs, drinking, and sleep deprivation,” she said. “We’ve all been there.”

“I didn’t take any drugs,” Ian said, walking fast.

“But you drank everything in the minibar,” she said. “I can smell it.”

“I was trying to numb the terror.” It was a lie. The terror came after the crushing guilt—that’s what he was really trying to numb but he wasn’t ready to tell her about that yet. He was barely ready to admit it to himself. “You would have done the same thing after what I’ve been through.”

“I was with you all day yesterday,” Margo said. “The closest you came to getting killed was when you made a pass at me.”

“The attempt on my life didn’t happen yesterday. Two months ago, one of the burners on my stove was left on. I didn’t smell the gas because my allergies were really bad so I took a bath to clear my sinuses and relax,” Ian said. “I was in the bathtub at the other end of the house when the place exploded. The stuffy nose saved my life. They didn’t anticipate that.”

“They?” Margo asked. “Who are they?”