Forged(10)

“And does the boss have an address for us?” Adam asks.

“Oh, right!” Gage slaps at his shirt pocket, jacket pocket, then finally his pants. He pulls out a scrap of paper, and with his smoke still bobbing between his lips, reads, “Our third choice.” He exhales smoke from the corner of his mouth, expression puzzled. “I swear, this is right from Nick. He said you’d understand.”

“I do.” Adam swings his gear back onto his shoulder. “Thanks, Gage. We’re good.”

Curt, direct, a man of few words. That’s Adam.

Gage doesn’t look fazed, though. He takes another drag of his smoke and tucks the scrap of paper into his pocket with a shrug. Maybe Badger always saddles him with these sorts of message deliveries.

“You all set with the rig?” Gage asks. “I’m supposed to see to getting you refueled.”

Adam says, “She’s all yours.”

As Gage passes by the group, he takes us in for the first time. The smoke nearly falls from his lips when he sees me and Blaine. He looks between us, confused, and asks, “Gray?”

Blaine shakes a thumb at me.

“As in Weathersby?” Gage continues.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Damn!” he says, clapping my shoulder. “God damn!” He punctuates it with another clap. Up close, he’s younger than I first guessed. Maybe Sammy’s age. “You’ve been giving the Order one heck of a time. Well done, my friend. Well done.”

“How do—”

“People are whispering on the water. Plus, your face is strung up back east, on wanted posters with a list of crimes as long as my forearm.” He holds his up in illustration, eyes gleaming with approval. I think I like this guy, all wild enthusiasm. Optimism’s been hard to come by lately.

“Well, we’re all giving the Order a hard time,” I admit. “It’s not just me.”

“It doesn’t hurt that they’re putting your face—and only your face—on everything,” Bree says. “Helps the rest of us stay unrecognizable.”

Gage’s gaze drifts over my shoulder.

“Hello,” he says to Bree, only he manages to draw the vowels out for so long that he has time to eye her from head to toe in the process.

“Do you need glasses,” Bree says, “or should I come closer?”

Sammy chuckles as Gage stumbles to recover, but Bree is already stalking after Adam.

“Aw, come on,” Gage calls after her. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Let’s get a drink later or something. Give me another chance. I promise I’ll behave.” She’s well out of earshot now, and Gage acknowledges defeat. He gives a disgruntled exhale and turns to me, Blaine, and Sammy. “If you feel like a few drinks tonight, I’ll be at the Wheelhouse—along the inlet. Come if you can get away.”

He takes a long drag on his smoke and heads for the chopper. We dart after Adam and the others.

As the inlet widens, the buildings go from spotty to cramped, and begin climbing in height, as though the town has been extended vertically in order to keep residences as close to the Gulf as possible. Rarely less than three stories, they seem to lean on one another, weary gutters and roof tiles intimate friends.

A gull screeches overhead. The last time I heard that cry, I was standing on a beach with Bree and staring at a rough patch of water where the Catherine had sunk the previous night, taking my father with her. There are days when I still don’t believe he’s truly gone. He stepped into my life over the summer, and out of it before winter could thaw. Our time together barely equates to two seasons. I’m not sure which would have been worse: never knowing him, or only knowing him the few months I did.

“. . . not even to other Expats,” Adam is saying when we catch up. “Where we’re staying, the details of the plan—that remains between our team and the one Badger’s assembled. This close to the border it’s always best to err on the side of caution. Ah, this is it.”

He points to an establishment as skinny as the rest. A bookshop, according to the lettering on the window. We stagger our entrance so as not to draw attention, which seems like overkill. The only activity in the street is a group of kids playing catch.

Inside the shop, two chairs flank the doorway, and a patch of light from a window above each dusts their cushions. Walls to the left and right are overflowing with books—leatherbound, clothbound, hard and softback. I’ve never seen so many. The shelves continue along the back wall as well, where a lanky man of about thirty stands behind a counter. He’s so engrossed in what he’s reading that he doesn’t acknowledge us. Not even with the bell above the door chiming every time it’s opened.

“Charlie,” Adam says, leaning over the counter and plucking the book clear out of the man’s hands. “Is Nick in?”

Charlie snatches the book back. “You’ve some nerve, Adam, getting between a man and his read.”

“We’re on a schedule. Is Nick here or not?”

Charlie returns to reading. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Don’t pull that with me. I don’t have to prove myself.”

“You absolutely do after interrupting this action scene.”

Adam puts a hand on the book and pushes it onto the counter, forcing eye contact with Charlie. “I’m looking for Nicholas Bageretti, who goes by Badger on the market, and Nick among friends. The real patriots are Expats.” Adam makes the same fist-and-E salute he had when greeting Gage.