Black Boots on a One Way Street
Chapter 2
The rain masks the tiny building from his sight, if he didn't have the street-view GPS, he might have missed it completely. He parks his black SUV between an ancient rusted pickup and a newer Ford F-150, his tires making deep tracks in the soggy mud beneath him. It is a hole-in-the-wall, a run down and dirty building fighting with the world's economy to stay in business. He thinks this rain is the first time its walls have been cleaned in years. He's probably right.
And then he notices in the Ace of Spades taped in a corner window, old and frayed at the edges like it is part of the building's original design.
Instinctively, he reaches for his hip, feeling the cool metal of his standard Government issued firearm that he's had since he joined the Service all those years ago. It calms him, reassures him that he is in charge and can and will do anything to get his way. The small piece of metal resting on his hip is the only backup he needs.
He exits the car and heads into the antique bar. It's nothing special, wooden walls, floors, and an ancient bartender to go with it. There are a few men in a corner, nursing broken noses and black eyes.
Yeah, he thinks, this is definitely the right place.
"We're closed," the bartender grumbles at him and he doesn't take it personally. She was here and apparently made a mess of things. The old man has had enough to deal with already. But that's never stopped Pete.
"I'm looking for Mark Johnson," he says matter-of-factly, keeping his eyes on the old man. He doesn't miss the recognition, fear, and then hatred flash through the man's eyes.
"You just missed him," he practically barks at Pete.
He nods in understanding. It's all part of the codes spoken to the ghosts. She got the case and left already. There's no other job that needs done here, so leave.
But he doesn't budge. Instead he turns his attention to the men cowering in a corner with cold beers resting against their fresh wounds.
"When did she leave?" He asks easily, making eye contact with the brown haired one that has been keeping his unswollen eye narrowed in suspicion throughout the conversation.
"You a friend of hers?" He grunts back, trying and failing to stand. He slouches back down but keeps his anger in full view.
"No," he says. The word rolls off his tongue without hesitation. Because friends don't go almost two years without a word to each other. Because friends don't run and hide. Because when he really sits down to think about it – and he hates doing that – friends are not what he and Myka are anymore.
The man across the bar, sitting in pain that he probably deserved from his not-friend-anymore stays silent for a few long seconds. Pete knows the man can't tell whether he's being lied to or not. The person standing calmly in the middle of the room has learned to bury his emotions, lock them in a box and throw the key into a raging river. Because emotions only leave you hurt. And in his job, he can't be hurt, he can't be emotional or he'll die or be maimed by an unimaginable artifact, or he'll run away.
And since he'd very much like to stay where he is, his face is blank and stoic and unreadable. But the wounded man across the bar must not care or just still be drunk enough to take his simple declaration of 'not friends' as enough. So he answers, "Couple hours ago. She was gone when I woke up at least."
Pete glances at the bartender and the old man nods his agreement. And with that, Pete leaves the battered patrons to lick their wounds and wish they never lay eyes on outsiders again.
Outside, the rain remains a torrential downpour, creating small streams on the muddy walkways and soaking him within seconds. Any trace of his former partner is long gone with the changing scenery. He only has his instincts to follow now.
Pete sits in the car silently; the sound of heavy water on metal pounds in his mind, over and over, a never-ending chaotic drum beat. He almost misses the achingly familiar buzzing of his Farnsworth.
"Lattimer," he answers as the black and white picture of his boss comes into focus.
"Anything?" Artie asks mechanically. To an outsider, his tone is something near clinical and emotionless and maybe a bit bored. But Pete has known this man for too long, knows him too well, to miss the subtle tells - the rapt attention on the screen in front of him, holding his breath for fear of missing a significant word, even the microscopic lilt at the end of the question. He's hiding his anxiety, hope, disappointment, and tension behind an indifferent face.
Pete looks away from his boss's pixelated gaze and shakes his head. "No, she's gone," he says with a touch of anger. It's not the first time they just missed her and he doubts it's their last. She's gotten better at staying off the radar; something she undoubtedly picked up from the other Drifter.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Artie slouch back in his plastic chair, gravity pulling his exhausted bones farther from the dimming hope of success. The man sighs loudly and rubs at his greying goatee. "Alright, keep in touch," he adds heavily.
"Kirk out," he says impassively and the screen goes black.
Short words, quick conversations, straight to the point. His ritual farewell the only thing that lets Artie know he's all right. That he doesn't have a gun to his head or is bleeding out and needs medical attention. That he's still emotionally and physically fit to continue on his mission.
Minutes later, Pete starts the car and turns onto the narrow and desolate road; his eyes scanning what little distance he can see through the wall of rain for any clue of his former partner.
.:.
A few miles down the road, blue and red neon lights on a large vacancy sign slice through the downpour like a beacon to catch his eye. He pulls into one of the many empty parking spaces in front of the one story motel and cuts the engine. His headlights illuminate a red scratched door with the number 4 hanging crookedly by a nail and for some reason, he thinks here. She was here, for one night or a week, he can't be sure but she was here.
He braves the rain once more and stands in front of the door. As he rights the number with a pointed finger, a thought floats on the edges of his mind to ask at the desk for the key but it's so small and insignificant that it fades into non-existence before he even realizes it was there. Unclipping his gun from the holster, he tries the doorknob and it twists slowly without resistance.
He pushes open the door and raises his gun in one fluid, practiced motion. The light from his car seeps through the open door, casting hard shadows around the Spartan furniture and along the papered walls. He searches the room and its tiny bathroom within seconds, finding it bare and empty. Lowering his gun, Pete takes a breath and searches the room again, this time more thoroughly.
It's a routine he goes through every time, searching and not finding. Not a hair, nor piece of clothing, not even a map that says "I'm going here, next." And in the dim, flickering overhead light, he almost misses it. Almost.
On one of the old pillows, there's a hair. Long, dark, curly and thanks to a familiar feeling rushing through his body, tightening his muscles and coiling around his stomach within seconds, he knows it's definitely Myka's. For the first time in months, the corners of his lips curl upwards. He is finally on the right track. Stashing the hair in a small baggie to send to the warehouse for official DNA analysis, Pete leaves the small room behind.
He marches the short distance toward the motel office, eyes set on the silhouette of a man dozing in his chair with a lit cigarette hanging off the end of his lip.
There's a small, rusted bell sitting uselessly on the desk in front of the man that Pete overlooks in favor of plucking the cigarette from the old man's lip. But before he can even lift his arm, the old clerk chuckles.
"Bit late for a booty call," he rasps. His voice is wet and cracked, that of a lifetime subscriber to Marlboro.
"You saw her then?" Pete asks skeptically. The clerk has yet to open his eyes.
"I see everything, boy." His mouth warps into a smug smile.
"Sure," Pete says, rolling his eyes. He's tempted to challenge him with why the man didn't say anything when he just waltzed into her room, but in all honesty, he just doesn't care. "Which way did she go?"
The man makes a noise that Pete thinks is supposed to be humming but sounds more like a gurgle. "What's it to you?"
Holding in his frustrated sigh, Pete draws his gun and places it easily on the desk, his annoyance more than clear.
"Just tell me where she went," Pete nearly growls out, tired of these games he's been playing for the past few months.
The clerk finally cracks open his eyes and it takes him a long second to spot the weapon pointed directly at him. The old man sputters out a cough and his cigarette falls to the floor when Pete's intentions finally set in. "I don't – I don't know what you mean, boy," the clerk rasps out nervously. "What did that girl ever do to you?"
"I won't ask again," the younger man states, his finger moving from the safety position to the trigger.
The clerk watches with wide eyes and Pete can see the rusty wheels turning in his head. The choice of who gets to live: the girl the younger man's after for an unknown reason – who he has never met – or himself.
"West," the clerk gurgles before clearing his throat. "She went west. Towards the border. Few hours ago, back before the storm hit."
Pete backs off instantly. He knows the man is telling the truth because he knows deep down, people are selfish.
.:.
It isn't until the sky lightens and the dark red orb reflects off his rear view mirror that he realizes he hasn't slept all night. It doesn't feel like it, he feels fine actually, but he's smart enough to know that it's probably adrenaline; that for once he's sure the tip Artie got last night was valid and he's now only a few hours behind his former partner is what's keeping him awake. But he also knows he'll crash soon. He needs some shut eye.
He pulls over onto the dirt shoulder and cuts the engine. If not the most comfortable place to sleep, his large nondescript SUV is where he feels safest. So he unbuckles his seatbelt, shifts a little and closes his eyes.
What might as well be seconds later, his Farnsworth startles him awake.
"Lattimer," he answers without even looking at the screen because it's Artie. It's always Artie.
"Where are you?" His boss asks, noticing the static scenery behind his best agent.
"Just inside Colorado," Pete answers, staring out at the barren landscape through hazy eyes and absently wondering when it got so bright out.
"Good. Myka's popped up on the grid." He says it so easily that Pete nearly shrugs it off as a horrible joke. But then the words make their way through the guarded walls of his mind and he thinks it's too good to be true. After months of searching to finally find a hair and then this?
"Where?" He asks when his voice comes to him. He clutches the steering wheel in front of him in a vain attempt to slow his rapid, excited pulse.
Artie lets a knowing smile grace his features because he is feeling the same nervous excitement miles away. He almost couldn't believe it when his computer beeped at him this morning to issue a facial recognition match – 96 percent positive – of one Myka Bering walking the streets of Denver, Colorado.
"She's in Denver, Pete" he replies and nearly chuckles as Pete hastily puts his truck in gear and pulls off. "Keep in touch and be careful."
Pete nods, his eyes narrowed in rapt determination. "Kirk out," he replies before the screen goes black.
.:.
The more she thinks about it, the more she wants to smack her head on the faux retro table in front of her.
This was stupid. You are stupid-pathetic-careless.
This is a trap. Of course it's a trap. They lured you here with a few words and you grabbed at it like a starving fish. No, you're a moth drawn to the flame. Hoping that light at the end of the tunnel isn't an oncoming train until SPLAT.
They got you. They're probably outside right now making a perimeter if they aren't laughing their pants off at your stupidity and their brilliance. How easily you walked into the diner. Just like that.
Just like –
She jumps out of her self-hatred when her order is placed in front of her. Cheeseburger and fries. Not original nor her usual healthy choice but she's starved and it was the only way to get a booth seat in the crowded diner – by promising to buy their famous burger.
She stares at it for a minute, her appetite melting away like the goopy cheese on the crispy brown meat. But despite her self-loathing, her stomach grumbles in the anticipation of a filling meal and she gives in.
And God, it really is all it's cracked up to be. Myka's eyes flutter shut involuntarily and she has to fight to remember why that's a bad idea. Forcing them open she inspects the changing patrons around her burger. There are families swarming the booths, couples holding hands and a few stragglers busily chowing down on their own burgers at the bar. Everyone looks normal but she knows better. Her instincts tell her to watch the singles on the bar stools; the middle class worker, the man in a suit, even the aged man styling a plaid shirt. Any one of them could be a Regent.
Finishing her burger faster than her taste buds prefer, she glances at the clock. She's slightly – completely – vexed that her contact is a no show. Well, it's only ten minutes past the meeting time which a few years ago would have meant traffic or waiting on Pete to get his hands out of the cookie jar. But now every minute counts. Every second she spends stationary doubles her chances of being spotted, of being ID'd by cameras, of running into a Warehouse agent.
She's spent too much time sitting here, out in the open, in the middle of a crowded diner where everyone is a suspect. All for an off the wall tiny chance that there actually is a way to save Hel-
The cheery old waitress places a slice of warm pie in front of Myka, effectively halting most of her rapid thoughts.
"Here you go, honey. One slice of our homemade apple pie," the waitress informs the younger woman with a genuine smile. "And here's your bill, whenever you get the chance."
She hands over a single sheet of paper and Myka reflexively reaches out for it even as her mind tries in vain to remember if she ordered the pie or not.
"Have a good day, dear." Myka stares after the woman for a few seconds before turning her gaze to the dessert in front of her. Just like the rest of the food here, it looks amazing. But she snaps out of her momentary stupor and quickly stands to leave.
As she digs into her pockets for what little cash she has, she glances at the bill. The small scrawl on the paper seems somehow unfitting to the older waitress but before she can think anymore on it, she notices the total amount. There's no way a burger, fries and apple pie cost that much, she thinks even as she registers what she is paying for.
502 Wallas Way
An address. And the total is the time. There's a millisecond of confusion before all hell breaks loose in her mind.
The new address. There's still hope.
The apple pie. I smell apples.
The no show. There's a threat nearby.
The bell above the diner's front door dings just loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the crowds. But it's enough for Myka to snap her head up in attention and then stare in disbelief.
Right there in the doorway, not thirty feet from her, stands Pete Lattimer. His gaze quickly jumping from one patron to the next in a military fashion. He's searching for her.
