Page 24 of Talk to Me

The order did what coaxing wouldn’t have. She nodded. We plowed out into the water. It was cool against all of us. Soaked clothing might be heavy but right now, we needed to move.

In the distance, the rockets started firing again. Past the break, I got them in the inflatable, one after the other and then I was in with them.

The motor wasn’t designed for long term travel, but I had a compass and the stars. I also had a rough idea of the distance off shore to international waters and where a U.S. warship would be waiting.

When we were close enough, I pulled out a radio and checked the channels. As soon as we had acknowledgement, I passed it to the exhausted Mr. Maxwell. The kids were asleep, all of them except Jonathon. Exhaustion would do that.

“I was never here,” I told them.

“But—” Jonathon said and I shook my head. Weapons still secure, I threw myself over the side. The swim back was gonna take time.

“Never here. You never saw me. Go home—live good lives.” Then I was swimming. The current would help, but I needed to get back to land, then work my way out in a different direction.

The kids were safe. I saw the lights come into view when I was almost a mile away. It was another three days before I made it out of the war zone. I was tired, I was thirsty and I needed a fucking shower.

But I needed to check in with Patch.

Only problem.

She didn’t answer.

I left my gear for cleanup to deal with, took a go bag and headed to the airport. I’d shower in the lounge.

Patch let it slip once that she loved Colorado. She’d been worried about the wildfires and possible evacuation. A warning she’d given me in case the call dropped.

It never did.

I checked on the fire—the only one at the time just happened to be northwest of Denver, near Rocky Mountain National Park.

In Estes.

That was where I’d start.

Chapter

Eight

REMINGTON

Three days.

Three unnecessarily long and aggravating days were spent cashing in favors, currency, and intelligence to get a lead that turned out to be a VOIP line. My informant had been sweating when they handed it over because it didn’t seem like much.

The thing was, I didn’t need much. Find a thread, tug on it, and it usually led to the next thread. Then the next. My next stop was a data broker. For a flat fee of a half a million dollars, he pulled the packets apart, then traced the IP address of the last four calls.

I kept calling Patch. Every few hours. Not once had she answered.

The last call routed to a disconnected message with advice to reach out for a new handler.

She’d been excised from the chain.

My data broker hadn’t liked the disconnected message but it didn’t slow him down. After far too many hours and energy drinks, he handed me a location.

It was in Colorado.

Another thread to pull.

“Donnie,” I said as I headed for the door.