Page 16 of Soothsayer

I had the feeling I’d need it.

Chapter Nine

The fastest flight I could manage included a layover in Michigan, of all places, before doubling back to land at Chicago O’Hare at noon the next day. Michigan,right, because that made so much sense. The worst thing about flying was being part of a group of people with nothing in common other than their desire to get from point A to point B, forced into close contact for hours on end.

The next worst thing about flying was the way the whole process seemed completely arbitrary when determining who, what, when, and where we stopped along our journey. I didn’t believe in arbitrary, but goddamn, airlines could test even my patience.

For the first flight, I was seated between a teenager who kept his headphones in for the entire trip, and a chatterbox of a lady who was clearly nervous and took it out on me with loquacity.

“My sister said it would be hot, even in Michigan. And we’re going to be on the lake, and I knew I was going to forgetsomething on this trip, and you know what? I completely forgot to pack my bug spray. How am I going to be outside without bug spray? I’ve already had malaria once, and I don’t want to get it again, blah blah blahhhh…” She dropped off for an hour in the middle of the flight, thank god.

Upon arriving, I glanced at her eyes once, quickly, and said, “Don’t forget to use sunscreen.”

“Oh…you know, I didn’t even think about that.”

Yeah, I knew that. This lady had plenty of first-degree burns in her future, but hey, I’d done my part.

The second flight was faster, quieter, and by the time I landed in Chicago, I was more than ready to get to work.

I made my way out of the morass that was the baggage claim and called Andre. “I’m here.”

“Great. I’m twenty feet behind you.”

I jumped, honestly jumped, and whirled around to face him. Andre Jones was taller than me by a few inches, with dark brown skin and an angular, attractive face. He didn’t look like a reporter; he looked like a Marine. A smirking, smug Marine who dabbled in covert ops.

“Feeling a little edgy?” he asked as he lowered his phone and walked over to me.

I put my phone away and holstered my sudden desire to yell at him. It wasn’t Andre’s fault I was working on less than three hours of sleep and my perforated arm hurt like a bitch. The bullet wound bothered me, beyond the normal “oh damn, there’s a hole in my body” type of unease. It was a weakness?it would slow me down. With the people I was going up against, I couldn’t afford to be slow. I also couldn’t afford to piss off the only person I had to help me out in Chicago, so I plastered on a smile.

“Long flight.”

“Yeah, not that long.” His eyes immediately went to my sling. “How bad is that?”

“Nothing I can’t manage.”

“Let’s hope so,” he said cryptically. “My car’s out this way. You got that?” He gestured toward my duffel bag. “’Cause you don’t need to be ripping stitches just to prove you’re a man or anything. I’m happy to help.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m overly concerned with my masculinity? I’ll take the assist.” The duffel bag wasn’t really heavy, but it was unwieldy, and I’d already strained myself back in Denver hoisting it around.

“Got it.” He picked it up like it was nothing. “C’mon.”

His car was a Tesla that smelled like baby powder and dog hair. I wrinkled my nose, and he laughed. “You’re welcome to take a cab, Cillian, but my ride’s cheaper.”

“Not for what I’m paying you,” I replied, but I got in and, after a moment of awkward staring, buckled myself in with a sigh. “Where are we going?”

Andre started up the car and began to weave his way out of the airport parking lot. “We’re going to lunch.”

“Lunch.”

Well…that wasn’t quite what I was expecting, but then, waiting for him to say, “We’re going to the mob boss’s secret hideout!” probably wasn’t in the offing. “Anywhere in particular?”

“TGI Friday’s, down on the Magnificent Mile. Be grateful?I could have you buying me a fifty-dollar steak.”

I closed my eyes and leaned against the headrest. “Don’t get carried away just because you get to play private investigator for a while.”

“Hey, I don’t have to be a PI to know my shit. Reporters are fact finders. I could do this in my sleep,” he chided as we turned onto the highway.

“Oh yeah? Then tell me what you’ve found out.”

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