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Just in case—and because she’d gotten lessons in paranoia from Manny—she took loops and circles, heading back at oblique angles to the safe house . . . and that was how she noticed the helicopter overhead.
In a city this size, seeing whirlybirds wasn’t unusual; they were part of the urban landscape, usually doing traffic reports or providing air support for police and fire. There would be a few private sightseeing operations around, too, though the area wasn’t the most scenic.
What alerted her, though, was that this one seemed to stay if not on top of her, at least in line of sight. It seemed unlikely that the butcher shop would have had plugged-in surveillance and facial recognition; it seemed equally unlikely that their enemies could have been watching every meat vendor in the entire city, on the off chance of spotting one of them.
Bryn sped away on an entirely random track, heading for the countryside. The vibration of the motorcycle jolted through her, brutal and yet somehow soothing, and she watched the helicopter in the mirror. It tacked after her, swinging on a course that would pace her as she headed away from the safe house.
Dammit.
She was going to have to ditch the surveillance, if that was possible—and that meant ditching the ride.
If you want to hide a tree, you go to the forest . . . and hiding a motorcycle was relatively easy if you picked a big, well-populated biker bar.
Luckily, Kansas City wasn’t short on them, especially on the outskirts of town. A little investigative riding, and she caught sight of an old-school biker dude in a battered leather vest and bucket helmet, riding his Harley. She gunned up next to him, pacing him, and shouted a cordial howdy; he nodded, and when she asked about a bar, he pointed and told her to follow.
He led her to the mother of all bars. The thing was like a shopping mall, with more neon than Vegas, and the ranks of bikes parked there warmed her heart.
Perfect.
She ranked her ride in next to his and gave him a smile, and he offered to buy her a beer, which she accepted, because . . . why not? She needed the helicopter to circle for a while, waiting in frustration.
She drank her beer sparingly, crushed the biker’s hopes as gently as she could, and fended off overtures from a dozen others. A trip to the bathroom took her toward the back, and from there, it was a quick, stealthy trip to the employees’ lounge. Nobody was inside, which was lucky, but then they were pretty busy. She rifled quickly through lockers, and found a set of car keys.
She left the rest of the cash she’d taken from Manny’s safe—about a thousand—stuffed in the locker, as a dollar sign apology, and went out the back door.
The key fit a battered Ford, which was probably worth about what she’d left in the locker. Bryn had taken the precaution of throwing on a stolen jacket over her clothes, putting the backpack in a big trash bag, and tying her hair back in a ponytail; she didn’t think anyone would be able to pick her out easily, and she made sure to keep her face turned away from the still-circling helicopter.
When she drove away, the helicopter didn’t follow.
Once she was safely away, Bryn drove fast. She ditched the hot car a mile from the safe house, wiped it down to remove any prints, and jogged the rest of the way back.
So far . . . so good. She hoped.
Once back inside, thanks to Pansy’s remote control of the gates and elevators, Bryn dumped the supplies in the refrigerator, then went to find Joe and Riley. Riley was sound asleep on the sofa, wrapped in a fluffy blanket; Joe was in the kitchen, making something out of canned foods. “You took your time,” he said, and stirred something that looked like baked beans. “Trouble?”
“A little,” she said. “I had eyes on me from the sky. Helicopter. ”
He froze for a few seconds, then continued stirring. “So, that’s not so good. ”
“The thing is, they couldn’t have picked me up coming out of here unless they had a way to track us, Joe. ”
“You think the van’s compromised?”
“I think we have a bug, but it’s not on us. We know the Fountain Group had found Ziegler, because we got that intel out of their files. But if they’d found him, why hadn’t they grabbed him?”
“Shit,” he said. “Because they bugged him, goddammit. I didn’t check him. I patted him for weapons, but—” He turned the burners off on the stove and followed her to the bedroom area; the closets still had a few clothes on hangers, plain things for both men and women. He grabbed the essentials, and he and Bryn headed for Thorpe’s cell.
Pansy opened it without comment. She’d heard everything, of course; this wouldn’t be enhancing their already rocky relationship with Manny, and Bryn felt the cameras on them like lasers. As the door swung open, Bryn stood guard while Joe went in with the clothes. “Strip,” he told Thorpe, who looked at him warily. “Down to your skin, including your glasses. Put this on. ”
“I need my glasses. ”
“You can have them back once we check them out. ”
“You think I’m bugged?” Thorpe looked outraged, then color drained from his face, and he yanked his glasses off to stare at them. When Joe extended his hand, Thorpe surrendered them, then stood and began to unbutton his shirt.
Bryn turned slightly away, giving him privacy. It didn’t take long. Joe tapped her on the shoulder and handed her the discards as Thorpe fastened the new pants (a size too big, but acceptable). “Burn them,” he said. “I’d be real surprised if Manny didn’t have some kind of incinerator around here. ”
“Back left—” Pansy said, but Bryn cut her off.
