Desolation Road (Torpedo Ink 4)

He made his way back to Lana, taking his time to brush out the distinctive prints of his motorcycle boots with a branch laden with leaves. Scarlet was far too careful not to notice prints around her house in the light of day. He knew he hadn’t made any mistakes, he was too experienced, but just the idea that she was so good that she’d managed to elude both members of Torpedo Ink bothered him.

“She wasn’t there,” he greeted.

“No shit,” Lana said. “I guessed that since you didn’t come back and I didn’t hear gunshots. Did you figure out how she got out of the house? If she went out the back door, wouldn’t we have seen her making her way to either road?”

“I don’t know what to think. She’s a pro, Lana. You should see that place. She can be gone in seconds. Found a go-bag in the wall with a good hundred K in cash and a passport in the name of Libby Simon. Good forgery too. Costs a mint to get that kind of work.”

“Did she have any kind of alarm system? Cameras set up? Anything at all to protect the property?” Lana asked. “I didn’t see you protect yourself from a camera.”

“That’s the thing that puzzled me the most. The locks on her door were good. I mean really good. She knew what she was doing when she put them on her doors—and she put them there, not the owner. They were too new. The windows slide open and she had little round sticks in them to keep anyone out. That would work unless someone broke a pane, and she’d know. Simple, but effective. So great locks and a simple solution on the windows. No cameras. Not a single one. She doesn’t have any kind of aid-using technology.”

Lana nodded her head. “I guess that makes sense. She’s obviously smart. Code is always saying that technology is a two-edged sword. He’s made us very aware our phones can not only track us but put us in places we don’t want to be when a crime goes down. Cameras are everywhere and they’re more sophisticated. Devices in homes can record conversations and anything on social media is open season. This woman clearly doesn’t want anyone to find her.”

“Until tonight in the restaurant, when she wanted to be seen,” Absinthe pointed out.

“And she left her phone at her house after telling you she was taking a bath and staying in,” Lana mused. “Lights on in the right rooms. Lights go off when they’re supposed to.”

“Where the fuck did she go?” Absinthe asked.

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Lana said.

“It’s interesting that you mentioned that Code made us very aware our phones can not only track us but put us in places we don’t want to be when a crime goes down. Do you think my little librarian is out committing a crime somewhere?”

“I think she’s smuggling Josefa out of the country. I still think she was a victim of trafficking. For whatever reason, Scarlet took her to that restaurant. Taunting the traffickers? But she didn’t ever let Josefa’s face show clearly,” Lana argued with herself. “That doesn’t make sense, no matter how I say it.”

Absinthe sighed. “I guess I’m going to have to find out what she has to say in the morning.”

“You can’t confront her and let her know you were spying on her like a stalker, Absinthe. Seriously, if she has a go-bag, she’s got one for a reason. She’s got to be in some kind of trouble. Oh, God, what if she’s coming after you? What if she’s an assassin for hire?”

“And her cover is being a librarian in Sonoma for over a year just waiting for an assassination assignment?” Absinthe raised his eyebrow at Lana.

“You have to talk to Code and have him investigate her right away. I mean it. This isn’t safe anymore.”

He hated that she was right. He would have taken the chance for himself, but not for any of the other members of Torpedo Ink, and he knew after Lana talked to them that they would be sticking close to him.FIVEScarlet couldn’t help the way her heart pounded as Aleksei came riding up on his motorcycle, looking for all the world as if he’d been born on it. She thought she might chicken out, but the moment she saw him on his Harley she knew she had to ride on the back of the thing with him. Just once. God. Just at least one time. She’d done her best to prepare. Braided her hair. Wore jeans. A T-shirt, a denim jacket. Gloves. She had sunglasses.

She’d parked her car in the parking garage adjacent to the library in the space where she always parked it, grateful he hadn’t insisted he pick her up at her house. She didn’t want him to try to come in. There was no way to explain her home. She’d lived there a year. Even if she got a bunch of boxes and were to pretend she was moving to a new apartment, he’d more than likely offer to help her move—he was that kind of man.