Page 100 of Kyle

“We need to stop at a gas station and get a map.”

Emerson nodded and Harry broke out into raucous laughter.

“You brought the duct tape, right?”

“Yeah.”

“When we stop, tape his mouth shut. I don’t want to listen to him.”

Harry continued to snicker. I did my best to ignore him and come up with a plan to get us out of this mess.

* * *

Twenty minutes later we pulled up at a gas station. Emerson had parked in the farthest corner, hoping not to draw attention. She’d waited until I returned with a map and a burner phone, hoping it got service in the mountains, then got out of the car so we could speak in private.

“Good thinking.” She gestured to the phone.

“Hear me out,” I started. “Maryland will be a seven hour drive if we take the back roads to avoid tolls and cameras. But we could go north and get to Lewis, New York, in three.”

“What’s in Lewis?”

“Zane owns property there. It’s an old missile silo. Kyle and Declan told me about it.”

“I don’t know—”

“Listen, we need to get somewhere safe and we need to do it fast. If Harry tracked your phone, who knows what else he’s done? What if he put some device on the car before he killed Jeremy? What if he has one on him and he has his people tracking him?”

“Shit, shit, shit. You’re right. Do you know where the silo is? The address?”

“No. But how hard can it be to find a decommissioned missile silo? I know it’s in Lewis, hundred percent because I thought it was funny the town was the same as his last name. Let’s just get there and we can ask around. Someone will know.”

“But you know Zane is crazy about security—it won’t be left open. What if we get there and can’t get in?”

Damn.

She was not wrong, Zane was a little over the top, but that was exactly what we needed.

I ripped open the package and pulled out the phone, hoping there was a partial charge. What felt like five hundred hours later, the phone booted up and the screen displayed five percent battery life.

“Do you know the office number?”

“We have to turn my phone on for a second to get the number. Or should we call four-one-one?”

“Is that still a thing?” Emerson’s face scrunched up.

“Fuck if I know.”

“Power up your phone. It will be faster.”

After waiting another five hundred hours, my phone was on and I scrolled to the number I needed, punched it into the burner, and handed Emerson my phone.

One ring, then to voicemail. Damn.

It took five calls back-to-back before a very angry voice answered.

“I know the IRS isn’t after me, dickweed, and I’m not a dumbass so I’m not—”

“Zane,” I snapped.