down, am I?”
“Nope,” he said, smirking. “Can you do me a favor and find something good on the radio? This is going to take a while.”
“Sure,” I said, getting back into the driver’s seat of the Jeep. “Any requests?”
“Yeah, something with a lot of drums and no Auto-Tune.”
“You got it.” I reached over and started scanning through channels, finding nothing but static. Then, without any command from me, my mind opened, and the red words blinked.
Searching clear frequencies.
As bits and pieces of audio began ripping through my brain, I started trying to pinpoint a local classic rock station. But instead another fragmented image floated before my eyes. Guitar chords accompanying a woman singing; the smell of oatmeal cookies in the air. Small feet standing upon two men’s tennis shoes; legs swaying back and forth, back and forth.
Within a few seconds, the song sped up in my mind, the pitch reaching such high levels, I instinctually covered my ears. But that did nothing to stop the music, which was now just an insanely loud screeching sound that was splitting my head in two.
Internal malfunction.
Audio capability compromised.
Reconfiguring … please wait.
As the vision faded, I sat there in the car, unable to hear anything but this awful, excruciating noise. My hands began to tremble, so badly that I feared the shuddering would overtake my entire body. Then suddenly I couldn’t move an inch—legs, arms, neck. Nothing was moving. Luckily, Hunter was still rummaging around in the trunk and noticed nothing. Whatever this was had better wear off or I would find myself having to explain to Hunter why I was paralyzed.
If it wasn’t so alarming, it actually might have been funny. All this time, I’d been worried about the threats in the outside world. Holland. The V.O. Three. The cops. But it wasn’t until now that I let this realization sink in.
There was something strange happening inside me that I didn’t understand and couldn’t control.
What could be a bigger threat than that?
We arrived in Knoxville well into the early evening. Hunter couldn’t push the Jeep over forty-five miles per hour due to the spare, so it took a little longer than expected. I was quiet for a good part of the drive. I spent an hour or two with my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep while my internal clock counted down the minutes of this one day I had promised him, and praying that these increasingly debilitating false flashbacks would stop.
But when we finally found this Richard Grady’s house, I blocked everything out and focused, instructing Hunter to park across the street. House was a pretty tame word, though, given the size of the place. From where we sat in the car, I had a slightly obstructed view of graceful arched columns and beautiful brick construction, broken up by the bars of a fancy, wrought iron gate that led to the horseshoe driveway. Pristine green lawn peeked through, and with the window cracked, I caught a mix of sweet grass smell, chemicals, and the perfume of roses.
Video surveillance detected.
I froze.
Zoom activated.
I heard the clicking near my eyes, felt them narrow. Then my visual field changed, nearby objects racing past while the tree flanking the gate grew larger.
There. A tiny black video camera, nestled in branches that flanked the front gate. Just what I didn’t need—someone with CIA ties getting a good shot of my face for posterity.
I blinked, and with an almost inaudible whir, my visual field returned to normal. Only seven cars visible on the street—it was a weekday, after all—all of them newer, pricey foreign models, with the exception of one slightly older but impeccably washed Honda Accord, five houses down on the left at 15432. Five with Tennessee plates, one with Oklahoma, and one Georgia. No rentals.
Access DMV database?
The prompt tempted me, but no. Doubtful anyone knew we were here, and if they did—well, they’d know to cover their tracks.
“We don’t have to do this,” Hunter said, drumming his fingers on his jeans while he stared toward the gate. Even though I was acting like I’d rather be anywhere but here, I was surprised he could read me so well.
The problem was, my emotions tugged me in two opposing directions. One part was all tingly with excitement over the idea that, at long last, here was someone who might be able to answer the five thousand and one questions I’d been left with when Mom died. Someone who might allow me to finally let her rest in peace. But the other part writhed with nerves. What if this was the wrong Grady, and we’d traveled all this way for nothing? Or the right Grady, but he refused to talk?
Or worse—this guy was ex-CIA. What if I said or did something that landed Hunter and me back into Holland’s hands?
A virtual avalanche of bad outcomes, just waiting to topple down on our heads.
I scanned the sprawling yard beyond the gate and the quiet, tree-lined street in a panoramic sweep, taking in every tiny detail.
Four weapons detected.
But the guns were scattered among the houses. Surely not Holland’s men, who’d be armed to the teeth?
Yet what about the V.O.? With all that technology at their disposal, maybe they had weapons that were undetectable.
Human threat detected: 76 ft.
Just a couple of early morning joggers, clad in well-worn, appropriate-looking athletic attire, chatting as their sneakers hit the pavement. Nothing suspicious.
“Let’s do it,” I finally answered. No point in further delaying the inevitable.
“Remember, I’ve got your back,” he said, creaking open the passenger door. “Like Batman and Robin. Tarzan and Jane. Michael Knight and Kit.”
I paused with one hand on the handle. “Who?”
He laughed. “Never mind. Just this stupid old show about a guy and his car. They play reruns on TNT.”
I climbed out and put my hands on my hips. “And who’s the car in this scenario?” Though tension still plucked my android nerves like harp strings, I was thankful for Hunter’s interjection. The way he made me laugh was one of the many reasons why the thought of setting him free was tearing me apart inside. But I had to do it, and I would. Tonight. Once we were back on the road and our day together was officially over.
He loped around to my side of the car and stood in front of me, gently easing a loose strand of hair back behind my ear. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he teased. “Seriously, though, I’m here for you.”
My smile wobbled, and I averted my eyes. He was here for me, but only because I’d been hiding things.
