Page 13 of License to Kill

“Oh, they have so much more than that, Karma.” Amelia handed me the latest laptop acquisition, the one dedicated to the Greenwich case. “It’s in the folder named Software. Start with the debriefing doc and follow the instructions. While you do that, I’ll work on getting the trailer ready for our drive to South Carolina. You’ll drive the SUV for the first leg, and once we’re in an easier place, I’ll let you have a turn with the trailer if driving isn’t bothering you too much. It won’t be fun, but you should be able to handle it now.”

Driving with holes through my leg wasn’t my idea of a great time, but I’d graduated to being able to walk as needed and being able to function for eight hours without any painkillers at all. “That sounds like a plan.”

“Good. That’s settled, then. Work until it’s time to hit the road. The fun begins.”

Her definition of fun didn’t match mine, but I didn’t complain. For the moment, I had a purpose, and that would have to be good enough.

Driving while full of healing holes hurt, but I managed. I even got my chance to drive the truck, which went a long way towards convincing me I enjoyed having a place I viewed as home. I wondered if that had been part of my problem.

Jake’s home was nice, but it hadn’t really felt like home despite living there for months. I’d formed habits, I even liked the master bathroom, but I hadn’t established the place as mine. Jake had something to do with that.

Had things been a little better between us, I may have felt differently.

For the next three weeks, home was a campground in the heart of some rolling hills, far enough from civilization that Amelia took her time making sure her RV was fully stocked for our entire stay. According to her, the campground was decent enough, but if we wanted any creature comforts, including firewood for evening fires, we needed to bring it ourselves. The only comfort we would get would be a half-decent internet connection and sewer hookups.

Apparently, campers whined when they were deprived of half-decent internet.

I gave the campground credit. It defined remote, and I couldn’t spot the other campers through the trees despite knowing there were at least forty RVs scattered somewhere nearby. Amelia handled the work hooking up the RV, although I watched and learned so I could help the next time we moved.

Two hours later, we had electricity, the sewer and water lines were hooked up, and we sat at a campfire while Amelia cooked dinner.

It amused me how often she cooked over a fire when her RV had a nice gas stove in it.

“Tomorrow, I have to run some errands,” Amelia announced.

Considering we’d just run errands to make sure we had everything we needed while camping in the middle of nowhere, I could only assume her errand involved death or destruction in some form or another. “What do you want me to do?”

“Stay here, keep your head down, and try not to wallow too much.”

I stared at her over the flames. “If I had something to do, I’d wallow less.”

Denying I wallowed wouldn’t help anything, and the instant I ran out of work to do, the emotions I bottled up surged to the surface, and since I lacked anything to be happy about, I decided her use of the word wallow beat the many other accurate alternatives. My awareness of my rogue emotions did nothing to mitigate them, nor could I find the strength needed to pretend.

She understood as much as she could understand.

“That’s a fair enough point. This week, we’ll make our first hit. We’re going to plant some evidence per the suggestion of the black market operators. As such, I need you to take some medications so when you helpfully donate some fresh blood, they can get the results we want them to have. One of the drugs will be one that you have a very poor relationship with.”

“Demerol?”

“Demerol,” she confirmed. “The damage I’m going to leave at the site afterwards will be consistent to a heavily drugged lunatic having been held while drugged. As Demerol gives you a unique reaction, it’ll be a better sell for those who know you. However, I’ll sedate you as soon as I’m able to get the appropriate blood samples, after which it’ll be business as normal. In bad news, I’ll be stealing a lot of your blood. Part of my errands is to get your type so I can do a transfusion. The idea is to make it so you can fully disappear. With the amount of blood we’ll be leaving, only a desperate idiot would hold any hope you’re actually alive. That won’t help if you fuck it up and show up somewhere the desperate idiots can find you, but it should buy us some time. I already have evidence of their other misdeeds in my possession, so we can complete that portion of the burn.”

“These ops are being awfully helpful,” I muttered.

“We’re solving problems for them, and they’re solving problems for us. Remember: we’re getting paid to do this hit, and you’re getting a damned good rate to deal with being drugged for this. For this to work, we need to appropriately frame them. The FBI bit that you were taken, either dead or critically injured, from the site. It was set up to make it clear that woman was the primary shooter and was responsible for your shooting and your pa’s death.”

I cringed.

“Your pa got a proper funeral, and so did that woman despite not deserving it. When you’re ready for closure, there’s a place for you to go. Give it time. I’d say give it time and get some therapy, but the therapy part won’t be happening for a while.”

No kidding. “I’m really too mentally unstable to be in the FBI.”

“Do you want to know what I think?”

I took a few minutes to gather my courage and brace myself for her answer, as I’d learned Amelia didn’t pull her punches once she decided to say something. “Yes. I do.”

“I think you’re a long-lived species. I think you’re the equivalent of a teenager, all hormones and feelings, and that everyone has forced you to be an adult long before you should have been forced into those shoes. You’re like one of those little kid geniuses, the kind people treat as full-grown adults without realizing they’re still dealing with a kid. I think you’re about to stop being that kid, but you’re just that: a hormonal teenager who doesn’t mature at the same rate Fenerec do. We mature early. I was ahead of most human adults by thirteen. I underwent the ritual at age eight—which is early for us, but it was a shit situation. The assholes involved with that are long dead and gone, but my point stands. You remind me of a young Fenerec who hasn’t quite hit adulthood yet. But human society aged you based on their standards, and Fenerec did the same. You’re older than anyone expects to be going through adolescence. But that’s exactly what I think is going on. And you were stable for so long because you hadn’t hit adolescence yet. And right now? You’re worse than most teenagers because you have some serious trauma to go with the hormones. Add in the fact you’re also a fox? You probably are just one ball of raging hormones, and there’s only one person who has calmed that for you, and that’s your mate.”

I flinched.