Page 121 of Wyatt
She accessed the internet and logged into her email program and sent RJ a quick note.Where are you? I’m worried.
Then, yes, she sent a note to her father.
Then, because she didn’t quite want to leave, she opened up her cloud storage.
The files from Gustov were still there—so he hadn’t yet been able to hack in. She hesitated a moment, then opened the spam folder of dating emails.
So strange. A man like Gustov enrolled in a dating site. She opened a new tab on her browser and accessed the site, MyAmore.com.
The website opened to a dozen pictures of happy couples and a sign-up page, followed by a questionnaire. She didn’t even want to imagine what he might have filled out.
She opened the folder. Seventeen total emails. She opened one.
Dear Morpheus. I’d love to meet. Foley Square. April 4, 9 am.
KeiferLuv24
She clicked on the email and opened the inspector to examine the server information. A quick search of the ISP led her to New York City, but she’d have to dig further to find an address.
She opened another.
Morpheus. When can we meet? How about Boylston Street? I’ll run by you. Wearing red, number 249.
Tammer21
The ISP address posted to a server in Rhode Island. So, apparently Gustov was a player of some sort.
Had a number of dates on the Eastern seaboard. She’d ask York about it later. Or maybe RJ could dig deeper with her CIA access.
She closed the files, reset her password, and logged out.
The coffee was still beckoning her so she headed into the café. The barista was just wrestling in a stuffed animal display. A teddy bear fell off. Coco picked it up and helped the woman bring it inside.
“We close at 10:00 p.m. You just made it,” the barista said, a woman with a nose piercing and green hair, kind eyes. “What can I get you?”
Coco ordered a decaf chocolate mocha, then reached for her money. Rubles. “Sorry. Do you have an ATM around here?”
“No problem. It’s down the hallway toward the emergency room entrance, in a little alcove by a side door.”
“Thanks.” Coco quick-walked down the hall, pulling out her credit card.
The ATM was parked in an indent off an alcove for taxis and other pickups. The area was dark, the door light probably activated by movement. She stepped into the privacy of the alcove and inserted her card.
The door opened behind her, the spill of fresh night air finding her skin. She didn’t get a look at who had exited or entered.
In a moment, the machine was spitting out money. She took it, shoved it into her wallet, and grabbed her card.
The hand came around her so fast she didn’t have time to scream. And couldn’t, really, not with the grip clamping a cloth over her nose and mouth, his other arm pulling her against a hard, unyielding male body.
The chemical smells of the cloth turned her instantly woozy, and overwhelming toxins seeped into her brain, shunting her struggle.
No—help!
The man picked her up, off her feet, and dragged her outside, into the darkness of the pickup spot.
The light didn’t switch on.
She tried to kick, her mind fracturing, her world spinning as she flailed against him. She formed a scream, but he had a death grip on her mouth, digging her lips into her teeth. She’d gone light-headed, her limbs turning to rubber.