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I answer it and tap on the speakerphone. “Caleb, where are you?”
There’s no reply, just the gentle humming of voices in the background and the dull scratch of the phone’s microphone brushing against fabric.
“Caleb?”
“It’s just a butt-dial, mate.”
I shake my head, smiling wide. A little bit of weight slides off my shoulders.
Caleb Fawn, you beautiful bitch.
“No, she did this on purpose.”
I lay the phone down next to my laptop and keep an ear on it. The voices are obviously Lilah and Elijah, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.
Archer moves around the counter to peek over my shoulder. “Why?”
“Because she knows me.”
With a few fast clicks, I tap into the call and a map of Los Angeles pops up on the screen. Several seconds pass before it zooms in on the west side.
“They’re on Santa Monica Boulevard — heading toward the pier.”
“Shit.” Archer groans. “I hate Santa Monica.”
“Me, too,” I mutter. “As long as she keeps the call open, I can track them. I should be able to snatch a picture of the license plate from red-light cameras. Once I have that, this program will track the car using every security camera in the city in real-time, giving us a handy map of where they’re going and where they’ve been.”
Archer’s head slowly tilts. “Who the hell are you?” he asks.
I smile. “I’m Boxcar.”
“And where the hell did you learn to do this shit?”
I chew on my cheek as memories take hold of me.
“Afghanistan,” I answer.
I spin away from the counter and step toward the back room as Archer follows me inside.
“Hold on,” he says. “You were in Afghanistan?”
“Yes.”
I turn back to catch the look on his face. Predictably, his jaw drops as his eyes drink in the stunning array of assault weaponry and gadgets.
“Civilian, though,” I add. “I’m not military, but she was.”
Archer leans against the doorway. His face curls into a wicked smile, once again thoroughly impressed with my choice of spouse. “They don’t make birds like that back home.”
“There’s never been a bird quite like Caleb Fawn,” I say, reaching for an M16 attached to the wall. I check the shelves below it for ammo.
“What’s your plan, mate?” he asks. “You just going to load up, drive on over there, and what?”
“Get my wife back.”
“Right… but these are world-class assassins, as you pointed out. What makes you think a little run and gun isn’t going to make them pop a bullet in her brain before you even get close?”
Adrenaline spikes inside of me. I bring it back down with a deep breath. I don’t have the training to make something like this work without a solid plan. For starters, I’d need a sniper, but Fox isn’t here. Archer looks more the brute force type.
