9. Snooze Button
Logan sighed and rubbed his eyes. He shuffled through the damp and green-tinged papers. There was nothing substantive in Eva's secret file. Everything was written in a vague shorthand that had doubtless made perfect sense to Eva Vadas. He, on the other hand, was getting bogged down. She hadn't intended to get killed, obviously, but she knew that she was sitting on a powder keg. She had been smart enough to leave a trail, but not organized enough to make sure the trail made sense. He hated to think ill of the recently murdered, but no wonder she'd been A.B.D.
There were careful, hand-copied diagrams, featuring odd and ominous symbols. There were pages of data, but Logan was no scientist. In any event, there didn't seem to be a point of reference to decrypt any of it.
Then there were her handwritten notes. What did "Pacific/Stronghold" mean? Or "Smalton-Sandeman-Sandoval?" Logan wasn't making any headway, and the disappointment was rich and painful on top of the day's gory events. He went into the kitchen, to make himself some coffee. At the counter, he bowed his head, giving in to his fatigue. The adventure with Asha had used up a considerable amount of his energy.
He had sneaked into the warehouse, and found her being held at knife point by an incoherent, sweaty thug. Crime lords flourished under the current regime. Asha had set up a meeting with a low level foot soldier to get info on one of Seattle's underworld figures. Logan hadn't pressed for details. It was none of his business.
Asha's backup had lost his nerve, and taken off. Logan was not by nature a violent man, but when he found that kid, he was going to split him in two. At least he'd called Logan for help, or who knows what god awful thing might have happened. Logan's arrival had interrupted the nasty vibe of pending sexual violence. Luckily he was the only one who actually had a gun. This time.
He took off his glasses. He felt worn out and weak. A year ago, his spinal cord had been blown out in a fire fight. He was technically a paraplegic. Without the exoskeleton, he was useless. He suddenly wanted to see Max. Where the hell was she? What was she up to? What was she doing with Alec? Alec, who was strong and handsome, genetically enhanced and physically her equal?
"Wake up, dummy!" Max slapped him again.
The rent-a-cops were on the way and they had to get the hell out. She could only assume that the pedestal had been booby-trapped with gas. Alec was out cold, and a faint, sour smell hung in the air. Glass was everywhere.
Max grabbed a vase, pulled out the colorful flowers, and tossed them aside. She dashed fetid water in Alec's face. "Alec! Wake up!"
She felt like kicking him, so she did. He stirred, eyelids fluttering. "Alec!" she cried, pulling on him. "We have to get out of here!"
He groaned and propped himself up on his elbows. "I'm all right," he said fuzzily. "What happened?"
"Never mind. On your feet! Now!" She stalked to the display, glass crunching underfoot. She grabbed a shoe in either hand. They were small and sparkly. There was a descriptive card, which she glanced at before putting it in her pocket.
Alec got to his feet, woozy.
She tucked a shoe in either of his pockets. "We're leaving. Are you able?"
"Yeah," he grunted.
"Then back the way we came," she said. She stepped into his arms.
Two and a half minutes later, the private security firm of Rourke and Rabbit Arms and Ammunition broke down the door of one Francis Sullivan, wealthy contractor, collector and suspected Irish mobster. The R and R Security Force found Mr. Sullivan unconscious on the second floor, obviously the victim of foul play. Some time after that, Mrs. Sullivan was discovered to be missing, causing tremendous alarm. When the police arrived a day later, they concluded that the house had been expertly tossed. The insurance report would eventually include a long list of stolen and very valuable items.