A message from Ness, pinging up on my phone when I return from the train station, ruptures my happy bubble. It’sjust a picture. Me and Cynnie framed in my kitchen window as we make dinner. Either taken by a spotter or a drone. It says without words that Ness is watching me and knows who matters to me.
So, while I’m not enthusiastic to see De Leon, I appreciate the additional security.
Remembering that the guy is even more unbearable than usual if he’s not sufficiently caffeinated, I put the coffee maker on after I buzz him through the front door.
He always takes me by surprise. Someone as psycho as De Leon should have a bigger physical presence. It’s not that he’s a small guy. He’s about my size and weight. It’s just that he’s so utterly ordinary. His hair’s mostly hidden under a baseball cap, but I’ve seen it before and know it’s brown, to his shoulders, beginning to gray at the temples. Same color beard and mustache, cut close to his jaw. His skin’s light brown, which could be genetics or just a deep tan. His eyes are a clear, piercing gray, but he avoids direct eye-contact, so you have to be around him for a while before you notice. He’s not obviously scarred, just a few white lines here and there, but I know he’s seen a fuck-load of action. He wears plain clothes that are right for the late summer weather, no jewelry, plain sports watch, no visible tattoos. If I had to give a description of him to the cops, they’d be looking for most guys in good physical condition between the ages of thirty-five and fifty, that’s how unremarkable he is.
He nods when I let him into my apartment and follows me through to the dining nook. I leave him taking equipment out of a plain blue backpack while I get our coffees.
When I return, he has a laptop and a strip of black boxes out on the table. He nods me into the seat across from him and picks up one of the black boxes off the strip.
“Manny’s given me the frequencies for your chips. I’m just fine tuning,” he says.
I nod and let him get on with what he’s doing. The less conversation I have with the psycho the better.
He fiddles around with various boxes and his laptop for about ten minutes before he takes a break to sip his coffee.
“Where’s your girl?” he asks.
When I first met De Leon, he had a noticeable British accent. Not as strong as Logan’s, but identifiably limey. Now, there’s nothing. He could be from anywhere in middle America.
I lift my eyebrows at him. “None of your business. And how do you know I have a girl?”
“I can smell her.”
Accent or not, he’s a fucking psycho.
“I want her kept out of this,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “She should be chipped like you. If I was them, I’d snatch her to get leverage on you.”
Of course, he would. Because he’s a complete fucking psycho.
“We’ve considered that already. We’re having a panic button made for her, but I don’t think these guys are likely to involve civilians.”
De Leon lifts his eyes to mine. There’s no expression in them, or on his face. Creepy fucker.
“Have they shown any compunction about killing civilians?”
“No,” I admit. “But not Americans.”
De Leon nods. “Fifty-fifty, then. Anyone else you’re close to?”
“Logan and Emily. Mac. Manny and Jen.”
De Leon tips his head from side to side. Thinking? Thinking about killing someone? It’s hard to tell with the guy.
“Small circle of friends. Makes it easier for us to keep an eye on all of ‘em, but it also makes it easier for them to figure out who really matters to you.”
“Logan, Mac, and Manny can take care of themselves. Jen’s already chipped and I’m sure Logan’s got Emily locked down.”
A ghost of a smile wisps across De Leon’s face. “That, he does. I hear she’s interesting.”
“Interesting,” I say flatly.
“Unusual. Unique. That’s what Jen says, anyway. She smarter than you?”
“We haven’t compared IQ scores.”
