I needed a few things, so I stopped at a convenience store.
“Wait,” I said, when Milan went to follow me.
She tilted her head but didn’t speak, and I glanced up at the security cameras that covered the store’s front door.
“I’ll be in there less than five minutes, but I don’t want to risk us on camera together. Just stay put,” I said.
Again, I could see her desire to protest, but she eventually gave in and nodded. I walked quickly toward the store, trying to give off an air of impatience, not desperation, and as I’d promised, I was back in under five minutes, the supplies I needed in hand.
A half hour later, I stopped across the street from a hotel. Not cheap, not fancy, and one that had interior doors, which gave us a least some veneer of safety.
“Here. Rent the room with this,” I said to Milan as I handed her a credit card.
She peered at it and then back at me. “Who’s D. Stott?” she asked.
“You. You’re D. Stott. You’re just staying over for the night.”
“Priest, is this a stolen credit card?”
“No. It’s prepaid, fake name. People get suspicious when you flash cash,” I said.
“I don’t have an ID,” she said.
“Make something up. You have a trustworthy face,” I said, turning her toward the hotel’s entrance. “Use it.”
Twenty-Two
Milan
I’d cranked the air conditioner to high and jumped into what I hoped was a clean bed.
I was in no position to care, because my heart was still beating a mile a minute, my entire body shaking from the remnants of jittery nerves. I’d been shot at today, yet somehow, I’d still been nervous when I’d lied to the clerk at the front desk.
When she’d finally swiped the credit card and given me the key, I’d been so relieved my knees had gotten weak. Priest’s pleased nod when I’d come back to get him had been worth it, though.
“Can you believe—”
I cut off short when I sat up and saw Priest. He’d taken off his shirt and jacket and was now unbuttoning his pants.
A sight I would have welcomed were it not for the expression on his face. I’d so rarely seen a crack in his facade and never in a moment as seemingly calm as this.
I saw one now.
It was almost imperceptible. I’d almost missed it, and I’d spent an inordinate amount of time watching his face, learning every millimeter of it. But I saw it, the slight wrinkle between his brows, the even slighter tic in his jaw.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. I had no idea what, but we’d handle it together like we had everything thus far. Assuming I could convince him to tell me what it was.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he took off his pants, neatly folded them, and then grabbed the bag from the drugstore.
“Stay here,” he said.
Then he strode into the bathroom without looking at me. He probably expected me to stay put, and if I’d had any sense of all I would have, but I didn’t. The last three days had proven that, so after a few moments, I stood and followed.
I knocked on the bathroom door, and when he didn’t answer I turned the knob and pushed it open.
He sat on the edge of the counter, one leg on the floor, the other inside the sink. And in one hand, he held a knife, long, sharp-looking, dangerous.
“What are you—”
My words died in my throat when he buried the knife in his calf.
Twenty-Three
Priest
Milan and I would have to discuss her bad habit of defying me.
Later, though, once I found what I was looking for.
I clenched my teeth hard, so hard I thought they might break, and then pushed the tip of the knife deeper.
The surgeon had been smart, placing the device shallowly enough it could be retrieved but deep enough that getting it out would be a most unpleasant task, one that would require a steady hand and a high tolerance for pain.
Fortunately, I had both, so I ignored the pain and dug deeper. At first I only felt flesh, some scar tissue from the original implantation. Then the tip of the knife hit something that wasn’t me.
That was it.
I kept my knife hand still, applying pressure to the device, and then reached for the tweezers. I slid them into the incision, right next to the knife. Then, ignoring the sweat that now beaded on my forehead, I slid the knife out and pushed the tweezers in deeper.
When I hit that tiny piece of metal, I clamped down quickly but steadily, closed the tweezers, and then pulled them out.
I held them up in the dim light of the bathroom and then looked at Milan.
Her mouth was open, shock etched on her features, and that expression only got stronger when I smiled.
“I found it,” I said.
She looked to my leg and then back to me, her expression wavering somewhere between amusement and disgust. “You just cut… You’re fucking crazy,” she said.