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She ran to the great house, scrambled up the staircase, and burst into her room, tugging her boots off before the door had even closed. The slam matched the splat of her blackcoat and her militia uniform falling on the floor, and she dug into her secret compartment for servant’s c
lothes. She put on whatever her hand touched first: a pair of black trousers, a white tank, a gray sweater, and her old, worn boots. After slipping her unmarked motorcycle jacket over her sore shoulder, she replaced the panel and patted her militia garb, searching for the two palms.
“Come on, come on, come on,” she chanted, her hands lighting on the devices at last.
Tapping the screen of her palm, she checked her messages. Tristan had not yet replied. It wasn’t a good sign, but she didn’t have time to wait.
Lila shoved both palms and a few supplies into her satchel, and thrust her Colt into her pocket and her knife into her boot. Then she rushed to the garage and hopped in her Cruz sedan, quickly waving her palm across the car and connecting it to the car’s computer.
Thankfully, she found no bugs and no evidence of GPS tapping.
Passing quickly through the gatehouse, Lila sped toward Shippers Lane, jogging toward the shop after parking her car in a garage nearby.
Dixon hopped up from the stool near the dock door. He cocked his head at her frantic pace and rumpled hood. She had told them she’d be over soon, but soon usually meant an hour. This time, she’d only employed a few twists and turns to ensure she wasn’t being followed.
There just wasn’t time to care about spies.
Dixon opened the shop door and ushered her in. He climbed the stairs two at a time, trying to catch up with her as she burst through the apartment door.
A slightly pale Tristan stood aimlessly in the middle of the room, bootless, staring at the knot on the living room floor. He looked up as the door shot open, startled when she hurried into the room. “That was faster than I—”
“Natalie’s a genius,” Lila blurted as she crossed the room, throwing her hood and coat on the counter. “Sort of. I mean, she’s an idiot, but a genius, too.”
“Your message was about Natalie?”
“Of course it was about Natalie. Why else do you think I’d come over here again?” She dug into his trouser pockets for his palm. When she found it missing, she turned around, studying the room. “Where’s your palm? I need it. I need as many as you have.”
Tristan only stared in confusion.
Lila ignored him and turned to Dixon. “Go get his palm, will you? Yours too. We have to hurry.”
Dixon didn’t budge either.
“No.”
“If this is about last night, Tristan, put it away. We have more important things—”
“It’s not about last night. We can’t make plans if you don’t clue us in, and for the love of the gods, sit down! You’re making me nervous.”
Dixon grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the couch, putting far too much pressure on her injured shoulder.
“Oracle’s light!”
Dixon threw his hands in the air and backed away, his mouth in a little O of surprise.
“What happened to your shoulder?”
“A lamppost hit me.” She pouted, rubbing the bone. Dixon retrieved a bag of peas from the freezer and sat beside her on the couch, holding the bag in place. “Give me your palm, Tristan. I’ll explain as I work.”
Tristan finally slid the device across the coffee table while she dug the spare from her satchel. He reclined in the oversized chair, sitting as far away from her as possible.
“We were idiots to think Natalie didn’t have something bigger up her sleeve. Oskar wasn’t the point of her last deal at all. He was bait for a much bigger prize.” Lila connected both palms with a cable and scrolled through screen after screen as she talked.
“What prize?”
“The tracer system. That’s why we found tracers in her blood and the blood of her guards. She used her people and herself as vessels. There’s no telling how many palms she brought to that meet, hoping to hack into and download the tracer program. She knew exactly what to steal.”
“The game is the tracer program?”
