Page 93 of Agency
“Should be,” I said with another sigh. Pausing, I closed my eyes as I leaned back in my seat. Taking a deep breath, I held in the air against the throbbing pain. Still not opening my eyes, I set aside the water bottle as I tried to relax with both hands on the armrests.
“Sorry, by the way,” I said in a low whisper. “I’m just in a lot of pain right now, and that makes me cranky.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I was just joking about being hurt.”
“I know. But I was still being mean.”
A warm, leathery hand enclosed mine and gave a gentle squeeze. He didn’t need to say anything. I could feel his forgiveness.
“That was a good idea about the river, by the way,” I said, squeezing back.
The glass jar had slipped beneath the surface of the Missouri River with barely a splash. Somehow, I’d expected more as I stood there with one hand on the back of my neck. Instead, there had been only the dull pain from the surgical slices I’d received as my nerves began their agonized awakening.
We’d figured the mason jar wouldn’t break in the river–just simply roll down towards the Mississippi, taking Joergensen and me along for the ride. The Agency would eventually figure out the cheap ruse, but we’d be hours away by then.
Hours away, here… in fuckingNebraska.
“Yeah,” Andrew said. “Even Jericho thought so. Don’t get that a lot.”
Jericho was up front, napping in the passenger seat, but now Morgan reached over and woke him up. Our nominal leader came awake with a start, and a wincing shake of his head that ended in a groan. I shook some pills out of my prescription bottle and, leaning forward, tapped him on the shoulder.
“Huh?” he asked, eyes still bleary.
“You’re probably feeling that tumble,” I said, offering the pills in my hand.
“Right. Yeah.” Taking the ibuprofen and blinking against the sleep in his eyes, Jericho looked to the front window, and to the rows of corns now illuminated only by our headlights. “We almost there?” he asked as he uncapped his own bottle of water, and I settled back in my seat.
“This is your old neighborhood, not mine,” Morgan replied, an edge of annoyance to his weary voice. He’d been driving when I dozed off, which meant he’d been behind the wheel for at least three hours, or maybe a bit longer.
Jericho just grunted. “What mile marker we just pass?”
“Fifty-five, I think.”
“Going to be after the next crossroads, then. On your right.”
“How far is that?”
“Fuck if I know. Five minutes, maybe? It’s just down the road, man.”
“Minutes? You can’t give me fucking klicks, or even miles?”
“This is the country, city-boy. Distance changes out here. Just keep your head up.”
“Any landmarks to look for?”
Jericho shrugged. “It’s by a cornfield? Maybe there’s a windbreak, too.”
“Well that fucking narrows it down, asshole,” Morgan said, shaking his head. “How many cornfields between here and there? And what the fuck is a windbreak?”
“Five? A hundred? Does it matter? And windbreaks are the stands of trees between the fields. They slow the wind and keep the topsoil from blowing away.”
“Oh, well your corn count isn’t exactly helpful…”
“You’re aware this is the cornhusker state, right?”
“Trust me,” Morgan growled. “All I’ve seen is fucking corn fields since we hit the fucking border. I’m well aware.”
“Sorry this isn’t Southie, Morgan.” Jericho said as he settled back into his seat with a groan. “Otherwise, I’d have some shitty Irish Pub named Paddy McFuckSticks to guide you with.”
