Page 172 of Deep Cover

43

Annie

We walked part of the way back, which was unusual in itself. Cole pushed everything. It wasn’t like him to relax into a walk. Why walk if you can run?

The times we did run, it was largely playful. Like the coyotes we'd seen in the morning, we'd lunge a little at each other, chasing briefly, little bursts of speed and playfulness. We were both tired, I think, the unexpected emotion adding to the long run we'd already had.

Once, before I started with PD, working as a waitress and stone broke, I drove from Washington to San Francisco to spend time with friends. On the way home something either jabbed a hole in the radiator of my junker car, or it simply wore through. Nothing happened until I stopped to get gas in a little hole-in-the-wall town on the California Oregon border. Once I stopped, the pressure or centrifugal force or magic or whatever it was keeping the liquid inside the car let loose and coolant sprayed out and puddled beneath the car. Stranding me until my Dad could be convinced to stop laughing over the phone and send me money.

A run like we'd just taken could be like that. Keep running and the energy keeps up. I suspect it’s how people run marathons and ultra marathons and whatever crazy mileages may be past that. We'd stopped and now we both felt the effort of starting again. That's why we strolled and played and didn't run.

That's what I told myself. Because telling myself that our encounter out there in the dawn landscape had rattled Cole too, seemed arrogant and presumptive and impossible. And like something I shouldn't ever allow myself to wish for.

But of course as we got closer to the house Cole became Cole again, or maybe he became Mr. St. Martin, Sir! It was funny how easily I called my instructors sir in martial arts and Mr. whatever the last name was, but calling Cole sir because of the circumstances was galling.

Nevertheless, things hadn't changed to the point where I thought I could get away with lagging behind when he said run. Or not running faster when he said run faster.

The sun was fully up and the March day heating up when we flew out over the flat desert floor, nearly back to the compound. The sun was in our eyes as we ran up to the isolated buildings. I was watching the ground because trail running was a recent activity for me. Cole was watching me, I think, because he was behind me making suggestions of what he'd do to the ass he was watching if I didn't make it go faster, faster, faster!

So I was laughing and breathing hard when I rounded the back of the compound, came up on the front of the main house and stopped so short that Cole literally ran into me.

There were men there, lots of men, wearing black cargo pants and tight black t-shirts that emphasized muscle. Not that they needed to because they held black satiny looking assault rifles, standing in kind of wide-legged parade rest stance.

My first thought, insane and made up out of nothing, was that Cole was under arrest for trafficking in controlled substances. Maybe the vines and roots and leaves he brought in from the rainforest were classified as drugs. The men standing there, moving from parade rest to active threat, looked like they could be DEA or some other alphabet soup agency. There were black SUVs arranged in a semicircle beyond them and that added to the first confused thought.

After that I went the other way, thinking they were there because of Cole's money, that they had been planning some kind of heist, some attack on Cole and his money and that I instantly discounted because Cole didn't keep millions of dollars in his home. Why would he?

It was only after these two wrong guesses that I saw Vincent step from one of the SUVs, wearing black also, but very obviously tailored and expensive black. His face was stony and at the same time, maliciously gleeful. He held an enormous automatic handgun at his side, holding it the right way, muzzle pointing down, gun following the line of his leg. His little rock hard eyes darted back and forth between me and Cole with dark pleasure.

Behind him, Kie climbed from the SUV, shivering a little in the dawn air. She wore a wisp of dress and absurdly high heels that would have hobbled her on any surface that wasn't concrete or wood. She was smiling despite the marks on her face where someone had crudely cut slashes on both cheeks. They were still red and puffy, not healed yet and looked infected. It was appalling to think anyone would have done that to her. I hated Kie, flat out hated her, but she was beautiful. Whoever had done that to her was crazy.

But of course Vincent had done that to her. And Vincent was crazy, I was convinced of it.

Vincent was crazy. And Vincent was here for me.

---