D.A. wouldn’t give a shit about a speeding ticket?
I’m working out the motor of my 821 to gain some ground on her, but I’m just guessing where she is, because I can’t look at my phone’s screen while I’m riding.
When I landed at the regional airport where I keep a hangar—and this bike—she had about an hour and fifty minutes on me. Right now, if I had to guess, it’s maybe ten. And I can get it down to zero if I push it.
I rev things up a little, gritting my teeth because it’s fucking freezing. When the tracer app attached to her car pinged to let me know she’d pulled over at that weird side-of-the-road spot, I jumped the gun and had my guy Davide fire up the TTx. He’s a younger dude, was in the Air Force until I hired him to do cargo stuff. Now when I’m in a big hurry or I can’t fly myself, I have him chauffeur me around.
This time, he was able to prep the plane while I headed to the airport, so we were in the air within half an hour, but I was in a rush and left my leather jacket.
I grin as I spot her taillights. Can’t be quite sure…and now I can, because there’s moonlight, I’m up on her ass, and that’s a white Acura. I lower my head as I zip around her, hoping it won’t freak her out to see a lone guy on a bike. It’s not like she knows I’m headed to her place, and she sure as shit doesn’t know why.
Aren’s being weird as hell. He’s called twice in the last day and a half, incensed like that first time, cussing me out for footage he claims the Brooklyn cops have of some of his guys and Alesso doing the monthly exchange. Fishy thing is, I had Max ask around, and nobody up in Brooklyn’s heard about that footage. And Max has some good contacts up there. One thing Max did hear is Aren’s fucking some woman who—as it turns out—works for the goddamn FBI. Soren looked her up, and her job description seems to be classified. Looked to him like she worked out of Manhattan.
If it’s true he’s with her, there’s no way that’s good. Roberto told me, in one of our few detailed conversations about informants and people turncoating, that you’d be surprised how often feds will do dirty shit, like fuck someone who has info they need.
I’m not overly worried about Aren causing damage to me, but it bothers me that when he calls, he keeps mentioning Elise. How she’s a cunt, and she got his cousin arrested back when that airport task force shit went down. He keeps asking me if I’ve fucked her—maybe to make himself feel better about his own sketchy FBI-agent fuckery? The last time he called, he said something that scared me shitless.
He said, “I hope she has protectors for her.”
The worst part was, I couldn’t even tell him that he better goddamn not or I’ll feed him his fucking dick—because I can’t let him know I care.
I had Soren’s PI buddy track Elise starting that morning after Aren called me in the middle of the night. How do I know Aren isn’t doing the same thing? Someone could be waiting for her in that little cabin. I didn’t pass anybody as I zoomed toward her, but you never know; if it were me, I’d lie in wait. It’s not rocket science to guess where she’d be going on a Friday if Aren was having her tracked and she was pointed up this way.
As I pass signs for Saranac Lake, I think what I really need to do is get Soren’s friend to track Aren and his top guys. Then I’m at the dirt and rock road, and there’s no more thinking. Just the dark, thick woods and ice sheets on the road, shining bright white in the moonlight. I can smell the water and the dirt and feel the breeze that’s trembling through the trees. When I kill the bike’s engine in a snowless patch near the mouth of her driveway, I hear nothing. Nothing.
Fuck, I love the winter.
There are no tracks to her house, so I assume I’ll find the place empty. And it is. Covering my own tracks is a pain in the ass, but it’s worth it. I sit on a tree stump in some woods along the property line, watching as