Page 70 of I’ll Be Watching You

“Good luck,” I said, pulled out my phone, and ordered up an Uber.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Margo Angelhart

We borrowed Jack’s truck and Luisa explained her plan to me on our short drive to the VA.

“You can do that?” I asked. I didn’t want to admit I didn’t quite understand what she planned to do. She lost me at “installing a worm.”

“Yep, but I need a distraction, and that’s you.”

Her idea was wild, but I thought it could work. Maybe. At least, it was worth a try. And even if we were caught, I figured we’d be able to talk our way out of it and not end up in prison. I hoped.

We locked our guns in the secure box in the cab of Jack’s truck because there were metal detectors at every public entrance, then walked across the parking lot to the nonemergency entrance.

Like every building in Arizona, it was too cold. Even now, in November, I walked out of a perfect 75-degree fall day into a freezer, making me irritable.

I wrinkled my nose at the stench of antiseptic. I had practically been raised in this hospital, considering my father had been a doctor here for most of my life, but I never got used to the smell.

I hoped my dressed down appearance with the addition of my worn Army jacket that I’d grabbed from my Jeep before leaving it with Nate would help me blend in with all the other vets who were waiting for their appointments.

Luisa walked a step behind me, hoodie up, face lowered like a teenager sneaking into a movie theater. Except she had steely nerves and a thumb drive loaded with some questionable firmware.

“You sure about this?” I whispered.

“Yes,” she said. “Just do what I said.”

Basically, bullshit my way into distracting the gatekeeper and the guard.

“You know where you’re going?” I asked her.

She gave me that look, the one that said she knew more about what she was doing than I did and to not ask questions.

Yeah, Luisa, my brilliant hacker sister, learned all her skills courtesy of the Marines. Gotta love it.

“Don’t get caught,” I told her as she stood at the elevator.

I squared my shoulders and walked toward the check-in window like I had a purpose, which was half the battle. If you acted like you should be here, people thought you should be here.

The woman behind the glass wore reader glasses and a sour expression that screamed Too many years, not enough gratitude. She looked up at me with a frown.

“Name.”

“Margaret Angelhart.”

I hated that all my official documents had my full name. No one called me Margaret and lived to tell about it.

“Birth date.”

I told her.

“Do you have an appointment?”

She had the voice of Roz from Monsters, Inc., but with less charm.

“Dr. Levinson.” She had done my physical when I separated from the Army nine years ago. I haven’t been back since, but I’d checked before coming in and knew she still worked here.

Roz typed rapidly. Stopped. Typed. Stopped. Said, “I have no appointment for you today. I have no appointment for you scheduled at all.”