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“Yeah, let’s go,” Tristan called out to Lila, who parked her Firefly away from the dock door and Shirley’s work.
Lila took off her helmet, slipped on her hood, and trudged after the two men.
Tristan poured himself a whiskey as soon as they reached his apartment. “I want a copy of that data,” he demanded, filling a mug with Sangre for Lila. “Dixon?”
He pointed to Lila’s mug, and Tristan handed him the rest of the bottle.
Dixon tipped it back and breathed out slowly at the taste.
Lila had to agree with Dixon’s sentiment. She almost felt spoiled by a second round of Sangre in the same day. “I’ll give you the data I found on Teach, but it’s not going to help you any,” she said, removing her hood.
“You let me be the judge of that. We might find something that you didn’t, especially if we cross-reference it with the data we took from Slack & Roberts.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing that data myself.” Lila slid her star drive into the waiting computer on his coffee table. She uploaded Teach’s account history and sipped her wine while the files from the law office saved to her drive. “You should move everyone out of the city, especially after tonight.”
“Screw that. We live here. This is our home. We’re not going to run. No one saw our faces today.”
“What about the bombing?”
“They didn’t see them then, either.”
“Yeah, but my father—”
“I’ll think of something before Monday. I always do.”
What next? Dixon wrote on his notepad.
“I’m going to speak with Chairwoman Wilson tomorrow.”
“And if you don’t find out anything?” Tristan’s if sounded more like a when.
“It’s my business to find out things. Let me worry about that.”
“I’m not a man who’s fond of being handled. This is my job, remember? I brought it to you.”
“Yes, I’m assisting.”
“Assisting me or taking over? Do you even know the difference?”
Lila drained the rest of her mug and grabbed her satchel, ignoring his taunt. “May I change somewhere?”
Tristan waved his arm absently toward his bedroom.
His new room was very much like his old one back at the hotel. He owned very little, just a bed and a dresser. A dented filing cabinet tilted in the corner, rusted at the top. Papers poked out from several of the drawers. Weapons were strewn about: knives, bows, guns of various calibers, even a mace nailed to the wall, perhaps for decoration. The string of bottle caps hung on a peg near the window, all containing letters and numbers scribbled inside with permanent black marker. Lila had studied them once, trying to figure out Tristan’s code, but it was impossible to tell what they meant. She had her suspicions. Something so innocuous could contain valuable information, a way of passing information to Dixon or the rest of his people should something happen to him.
Lila didn’t like to think about it.
She changed clothes quickly and instantly felt more like herself. She wished she had grabbed her militia boots before she left that evening, but that small comfort would have to wait.
She emerged moments later with her bundled workborn clothes and stuffed them back into the satchel. She handed it to Tristan before sitting on the couch beside Dixon, who had poured her another glass of wine. “Last one, okay?”
Dixon offered her a small, mischievous smile.
“I mean it.”
“What is this?” Tristan said, holding her satchel awkwardly by the strap.
“I need someone to wash them”
