of cash and military-grade weapons at a moment’s notice.
GUARD notices that I haven’t responded.
GUARD: Are we cool?
Me: Yeah. Sure.
I close the netbook and carefully peel off my jacket. The left sleeve is stained with blood. Ruined, I’m guessing. But that’s okay. It’s not like Paradise High even exists anymore.
In the bathroom, I inspect the wound on my arm, cleaning it off using some cold water and a plastic hotel cup. There’s a two-inch gash just under my delt. A littlehigher and it would have totally screwed up my shoulder. It probably needs stitches, but the last thing I can do is go to a hospital right now. Not here, where the FBI is surely looking for me. So I tie a hotel towel around it and hope for the best.
At least it’s not your passing arm , a voice inside me says, as if that even matters now.
I sit on the bed. I should sleep. I need to get as much rest as possible. But all I can do is stare at the door, listening for the sounds of people who’ve tracked me down and have come to drag me away to some hell I’ll never be able to escape from.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I WAKE UP TO SOMEONE POUNDING ON MY HOTEL room door and am on my feet and throwing clothes on in record time, ready to fly out the bathroom window and disappear into the woods. I forget that I have a damned gunshot wound on my arm until I pull my bag over my shoulder and end up wincing in pain, grinding my teeth together to keep from shouting. I’m just about to make a dash towards the window in the bathroom when I notice that I’m still logged onto the blog’s chat client—I remembered to keep the computer plugged in this time—and that GUARD has sent me like a dozen messages telling me to expect someone, and to answer when they come knocking and to not use my real name or info when they ask for it.
Reluctantly, I look through the door’s peephole. There’s a man with a clipboard. He’s wearing the kind of shirt that has his name sewed onto a patch on hischest. I slowly open the door, keeping it chained.
“Hey,” I say through the few inches of space.
“You expecting a big delivery?” he asks. He smells like a cigar and is sweaty, even though it can’t be very hot outside.
“Uh . . . yeah?” This must be another one of GUARD’s care packages.
He holds the clipboard out in front of himself, obviously waiting for me to open up the door so that he can hand it to me. Instead, I squeeze my right hand out and grab it, sliding it in through the crack. The man sighs loudly and mutters something about what a pain in the ass this job has been today.
“I need you to sign the top one and fill out the one underneath,” he says.
“Okay. Give me a second.”
The top form on the clipboard is from some towing-and-cargo service that wants a signature as proof of delivery. The other page has something to do with a title, and wants my name and home address.
GUARD’s message suddenly makes sense.
Still trying to wrap my brain around what’s happening, I rely on the name GUARD used in his first package delivery and that I’ve been using at motels. I sign “Jolly Roger” on the forms. As for my address, I think of the dogs waiting for me at home: 182 Abby St. in Dozer, OH, with a random assortment of numbers as a zip code.
When I hand back the forms, I actually open the door. The man takes a look at the pages.
“Interesting name,” he says.
“It’s, uh, a family thing.” I shrug.
I’m expecting him to hand me a box, but instead he holds out a pair of keys.
“It’s gassed up,” he says as I take the keys and stare at them dumbly. “Per the instructions we received.”
“Instructions?” I ask, but the man’s already halfway to a big tow truck parked right in front of my room.
“Make sure you get her insured,” he calls back to me. “They’re not supposed to let you drive off without proof of insurance, but . . . hell, whatever you said on the phone to the boss at the dealership must have been pretty
GUARD notices that I haven’t responded.
GUARD: Are we cool?
Me: Yeah. Sure.
I close the netbook and carefully peel off my jacket. The left sleeve is stained with blood. Ruined, I’m guessing. But that’s okay. It’s not like Paradise High even exists anymore.
In the bathroom, I inspect the wound on my arm, cleaning it off using some cold water and a plastic hotel cup. There’s a two-inch gash just under my delt. A littlehigher and it would have totally screwed up my shoulder. It probably needs stitches, but the last thing I can do is go to a hospital right now. Not here, where the FBI is surely looking for me. So I tie a hotel towel around it and hope for the best.
At least it’s not your passing arm , a voice inside me says, as if that even matters now.
I sit on the bed. I should sleep. I need to get as much rest as possible. But all I can do is stare at the door, listening for the sounds of people who’ve tracked me down and have come to drag me away to some hell I’ll never be able to escape from.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I WAKE UP TO SOMEONE POUNDING ON MY HOTEL room door and am on my feet and throwing clothes on in record time, ready to fly out the bathroom window and disappear into the woods. I forget that I have a damned gunshot wound on my arm until I pull my bag over my shoulder and end up wincing in pain, grinding my teeth together to keep from shouting. I’m just about to make a dash towards the window in the bathroom when I notice that I’m still logged onto the blog’s chat client—I remembered to keep the computer plugged in this time—and that GUARD has sent me like a dozen messages telling me to expect someone, and to answer when they come knocking and to not use my real name or info when they ask for it.
Reluctantly, I look through the door’s peephole. There’s a man with a clipboard. He’s wearing the kind of shirt that has his name sewed onto a patch on hischest. I slowly open the door, keeping it chained.
“Hey,” I say through the few inches of space.
“You expecting a big delivery?” he asks. He smells like a cigar and is sweaty, even though it can’t be very hot outside.
“Uh . . . yeah?” This must be another one of GUARD’s care packages.
He holds the clipboard out in front of himself, obviously waiting for me to open up the door so that he can hand it to me. Instead, I squeeze my right hand out and grab it, sliding it in through the crack. The man sighs loudly and mutters something about what a pain in the ass this job has been today.
“I need you to sign the top one and fill out the one underneath,” he says.
“Okay. Give me a second.”
The top form on the clipboard is from some towing-and-cargo service that wants a signature as proof of delivery. The other page has something to do with a title, and wants my name and home address.
GUARD’s message suddenly makes sense.
Still trying to wrap my brain around what’s happening, I rely on the name GUARD used in his first package delivery and that I’ve been using at motels. I sign “Jolly Roger” on the forms. As for my address, I think of the dogs waiting for me at home: 182 Abby St. in Dozer, OH, with a random assortment of numbers as a zip code.
When I hand back the forms, I actually open the door. The man takes a look at the pages.
“Interesting name,” he says.
“It’s, uh, a family thing.” I shrug.
I’m expecting him to hand me a box, but instead he holds out a pair of keys.
“It’s gassed up,” he says as I take the keys and stare at them dumbly. “Per the instructions we received.”
“Instructions?” I ask, but the man’s already halfway to a big tow truck parked right in front of my room.
“Make sure you get her insured,” he calls back to me. “They’re not supposed to let you drive off without proof of insurance, but . . . hell, whatever you said on the phone to the boss at the dealership must have been pretty
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