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The last leg of the bike ride home burns my calves and quads. Dried salt rubs below my eyes and along the edge of my hairline. The California sun beats down on my back, and a light, crisp breeze dries the light layer of perspiration. Out on the beach, running in the sand, I’d been sweating. The chill of the Pacific had been welcoming.
I forgot how great life in Southern California can be. I used to have this in San Diego. Trevor and Ryan picked a great place to live. Jack, too. He moved to San Diego to be near his daughter once he and his first wife split, but he mentioned more than once he had no intentions of leaving. Sure, California has its problems, but the palm trees, blue sky, mild temperatures, and ocean create paradise.
The stretch of drive up to the top hits a near vertical, and I push off my seat, digging my heels down, and drive through the burn. The house is quiet, and the garage doors are down. I disengage my shoes from the pedals and walk Trevor’s bike up to the house. There are no bike racks inside the garage. I rest it up against the side of the house. I might need to buy a car bike rack to return it to him later today. Adding a bike rack in a temporary garage doesn’t make sense. I could lean it against a wall in the garage, but the space is tight. I wouldn’t want to risk one of us dinging his bike. It’s an expensive, high-end, lightweight model. Trev invests in his toys.
That thought has me scanning the grounds. Yes, this house is at the top of the hill. It’s pretty safe. But to be safe, I should probably put it in the garage until I get it back to Trevor.
Outside the front door, I bend to remove my bike shoes before entering the house. My calf muscle tightens and my back cracks as I stand. Damn, getting old sucks. There was a time when I could follow up a three-hour workout with a few beers. Now I need to stretch in the shower.
Shoes hanging on two fingers, I twist the front door handle. It’s locked. I rap my knuckle against the door and wait. Kick an ankle out and lean over, stretching my quads that are getting tighter by the second.
I listen, but I don’t hear any movement inside. Maybe she went to the grocery. Or decided to visit her Aunt Alex. Ryan didn’t join Trevor and me this morning. Something about a kid’s soccer game. Maybe she joined them?
I scrounge through my backpack, searching for the key, find it, and unlock the door.
“Sophia?”
Silence greets me. I move down the side hallway, set my dusty bike shoes down, dig out my running shoes, and set them down too. I open the door that leads to the garage. Both cars are parked inside.
Alex and Ryan wouldn’t pick her up from our house, would they? Maybe she went for a walk and they picked her up on another street?
“Sophia?” I call again, scanning the back yard through the open windows that overlook the hillside and the distant ocean.
A piece of paper lies on the counter.
Gemma? She went with Gemma somewhere?
A sense of unease hits. I open the fridge, grab a bottle of water, and drink it down to flush any excess electrolytes. On the way to the bedroom, I check her office. It’s in order. Her Venn diagram is covered. Doesn’t look like she did any work before heading out.
I pull out the phone I’m using for Damian Garcia, and call Sophia. It goes to voicemail. I shoot off a text, peel off my socks, and stare at the phone. I attempt to track her phone, but nothing comes up. It’s the first time I’ve tried to track the Sophia Garcia phone. She may not have remembered to approve me as one of her friends tracking her. I’m getting uneasy for no reason.
I locate my personal phone, turn it on, and call Erik. It’s Saturday. There’s no need to bother Ryan or Trevor when I know they’ll just turn around and call Erik, Arrow’s tech guy. There’s a woman who he works with, but her domain is cybercrime. Erik is the surveillance contact.
As I dial his number, it occurs to me there’s probably someone on the CalTan team I should call, but calling Erik is easier.
“Fisher. How goes it?”
“Can you track Sophia for me? Let me know where she is?”
“Sophia?” he lets her name drag like he’s asking for more information.
“Sophia Sullivan. She’s working the CalTan op. She has a CIA tracker on her. Can you just—can you have someone on your team locate her? She left a note that she left with the target, but she didn’t say where.” I pace the room. The cool wood floor grounds me. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I was out with Trevor, and when I got back, she was gone. I’m just—”
“Wouldn’t she have checked in with someone on the team? Oh, never mind. I see a notation. Let me call you back.”
The line goes dead. I set the phone on the bathroom counter, turn the shower on, and begin to stretch, letting the cool water warm.
Five minutes later, the phone vibrates.
“Where is she?” Steam coats the bathroom mirror.
“Last known location was at a helipad near you.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No. I assume you tried calling her?”
“Voice mail.”
