Page 76 of The Vigilante's Lover
I down one entire bottle of water before answering. “A few miles back. I need to make a phone call, if I may,” I say. “Cell phone’s dead.”
“All righty.” He passes over his own cell. “I’d have kept my pay-phone box, but those dern workers came one night and hauled it off! Then they told me I couldn’t have no landline neither. Weren’t worth fixing the cables anymore.” He picks up his newspaper. “Damn progress.”
His phone is at least ten years old, an ancient Motorola flip. I pop it open and dial The Cure.
The voice is unhappy and harsh. “Who gave you this number?” The Cure barks.
“You did. Just before I scooped up a fighter’s girlfriend who’d been abducted in Vegas.” I hold my breath that he won’t say my name aloud. If Sutherland has gone all-points with a kill order, they could be monitoring anyone I’ve ever contacted.
“James, my golden boy!” The Cure says. “I haven’t seen you since you left the ring.”
I release my breath. He gets it. “I’m outside Vegas and I need a ride.”
“Give me the coordinates, and I’m on it.”
Damn. I don’t have any tech to give me my latitude and longitude. I could take a guess. I glance around the gas station. This Luddite is bound to have maps around.
Sure enough, there’s a rack of faded crinkled road maps by the door. I pull one out and dust falls from the creases. It barely holds together as I unfold it.
“Searching,” I tell The Cure. I find the highway I’m on and approximate the run from Grandma Marty’s. “Latitude 36.206653, longitude -114.053843.”
“I’ll send a helicopter,” The Cure says.
“I like subtlety,” I tell him.
He pauses. “I’ll scramble a fleet so it’s not obvious.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Anything for a fighter boy.” He hangs up.
I set the man’s phone back on the counter and glance out the doors. This place won’t be too hard to defend if I have to, but I hate having a civilian involved.
“Not much around these parts, is there?” I ask.
He looks up from his paper. “Only gas for fifty miles. You stranded?”
“My friend is picking me up.” I spot the door to the restroom. “I’m going to make a little use of that.”
“Help yourself.”
In the tiny room I strip down and wash off the sweat and dust from the travels. There’s probably no point in even stopping by any of my homes in New York, LA, or Detroit. A sniper would spot me before I got to the front door. There is no costume that hides a heat signature, and even Sam has never come up with a way to fake that.
When I come back out, I finish off the second bottle of water while I look out the window. It will take The Cure close to two hours to get here from LA. I need to find a defendable place and figure out what I can use as weapons, since I don’t have a thing on me.
The man resumes reading his paper. I spot cigarette lighters and motor oil. If he has some twine — yes, there’s a coil of it — I can oil it to be lit. Run it into the gas line.
That’s all a last resort. I’m not keen on blowing up this poor man’s livelihood.
I’m about to pick up the supplies when the unquestionable thrum of helicopter propellers drowns out all sound.
“That your ride?” the man asks, jumping up to look.
I peer out the window. When the dust settles, I see Colt McClure, The Cure’s son, waving from the open door.
“It is. Thank you,” I tell the gaping man and run toward the helicopter.
“I was in Vegas with Pop’s chopper,” Colt yells.
