Page 71 of The Vigilante's Lover
I pull it out and hold it in my hand. Will it know I’ve found it? Does it have a heat sensor or motion detector?
No alarm goes off. Nothing happens. I examine it closely. Jax said it was seriously old tech. It’s just a piece of plastic, maybe half an inch thick, shaped like an oval. There’s a little vent on the bottom. I guess that lets the sound come out for the alarm.
It must have some sort of sensor inside.
I should smash it, look at its insides. But I don’t know what that would tell me. I couldn’t do anything smart like reverse engineer the receptor so that I could see where the signal comes from, how it knows the house is compromised.
Besides, this wouldn’t bring me Jax. It would only alert more people like the silo guards or that Sutherland man.
Still, this bit of plastic, cold and hard, is my only connection to the Vigilantes. The only proof that they are real. I hold it tight and take it back to my bedroom.
I go to sleep with all the lights on, and the alarm beside me on the pillow.
10: Jax
The donut shop is silent and still when Sam pulls up.
“I’ll buzz you when I have the heat detectors down,” he says. “Then you can stroll on in.”
I watch him as he crosses the lot and deactivates the door locks. He pauses by a plastic bin and peers inside, extracting a bear claw from beneath a sign that says “Day-old pastries.”
That Sam.
He disappears through swinging doors behind the counter.
This part of town is quiet and dark. It’s a poor section, judging by the sagging facades of the buildings, and the asphalt outside the car is cracked and broken. This donut shop isn’t a chain, but some mom-and-pop shop. Probably retired Vigilantes who wanted a small business. Since they’re covering for an outpost, they don’t even have to turn a profit. Just make their pastries and work whatever hours suit them.
Easy life.
Not for me. But easy.
The screen on the dash lights up. Sam’s face appears. “Come on in, boss. Don’t forget to activate the clone ID.”
I click on the key chain that bears the electronic signature of a young man whose Vigilante status is pending. The records will show himcoming into service about 24 hours earlier than he is actually activated, but this window allows me to come into an outpost without incident.
I enter the door and am hit with the powerful scent of sugar. Working with Sam is always a trial of fighting junk food. Once he officially hit Phase Ten as a tech guy, he was eligible to skip ongoing military training. And he did. Best day of his life, he claims.
I prefer to stay in solid fighting shape, regardless of my class.
Just beyond the swinging doors is a pantry. Inside it is an elevator.
This must be the way.
Like most Vigilante elevators, there are no buttons. If you get in at the top, you get out at the bottom. It’s a steel trap with no emergency exits. Most are equipped with gas jets as well, whatever poison the Vigilantes want to give you, nerve or sleeping or laughing or death.
The car stops and the doors slide open. Sam is hunched over a keyboard connected to six older-model screens. No slick glass displays here. Not surprising, since it’s a storage for backups. The room is bare, just concrete walls lined with wires that lead to this main console. Off to one side are metal cabinets that house more backup units. Still, there will be hidden security.
“Klaus is gone from the system like you said,” Sam says, munching on the pastry as he scrolls through code. “He exited six months ago with his death at the safe house.”
“What about before?” I drop onto a stool next to Sam.
“I pulled the backups. It’s all the stuff we know. You nabbed him from the German syndicate. Lots of our exploits in Vegas. Your move to the West Coast syndicate and hiring him on.”
“What about the night I killed Singer? He was there.”
“Nothing in the system or on backup.”
“Jovana?”
