PANIC

Chapter Thirty-Five - ROOK

Spencer drifts off some time after two AM. I know because I wake up around midnight, hoping they’ll be asleep already, but no such luck. Ford, on the other hand, lasts until almost four. And say what you will about Ford, but he takes his sentry duty very seriously. He sits in a chair in the pitch dark, no lights on in the house, no lights on outside the house, staring out the window for hours.

When he finally does drift off I creep downstairs, grab my backpack, and slip out the bedroom window. I only own one mode of transportation, my Shrike Rook. So I push it down the road so I can start it up without being heard and take off.

Because this whole thing is bullshit. And I’m tired of it.

Once I get back into FoCo I head east on the highway until I hit Sterling, then catch the 76 up to Julesburg and get on I-80.

And this road will take me straight to Illinois where I will stop running for good.

I’m so tired of waiting for things to go bad, for things to fall apart, for that stupid fucking rug to be pulled out from under me. I mean, they’re doing a pretty good job right now, right? Ronin’s in jail, the FBI has Wade tracking me down, and I just learned that my best friends are killers and maybe even traitors. I’m not sure what that remark was from Ford—I’m hoping a generic I hack into secret databases type of treason—because one needs to draw the line somewhere and betraying my country is pretty much where the Crayola comes out.

And a motorcycle is definitely not the best way to travel a thousand miles, but I’ve got no choice. I have the money to charter a jet—wouldn’t that’ve been awesome? But there’s the whole TSA thing and I can’t risk them knowing where I’m going until I get what I need.

Lincoln, Nebraska is about halfway to Chicago, so I pull into a Holiday Inn Express. I know from commercials that they have a free breakfast in the morning with one of those do-it-yourself waffle makers. Why this makes a difference to me when I have twenty thousand dollars in my backpack, I have no idea. It just does. I park the bike in the check-in carport, then duck into the restroom so I can shuffle out a few hundred-dollar bills. My gaze catches my reflection in the mirror and I wince.

Damn, I look tore up. There are dark circles under my eyes from riding the last eight hours, my hair is a rat’s nest even though I braided it before I left, and my face is pale white. I splash some cold water on my cheeks and then rub them with a scratchy paper towel to force some color back.

It almost works.

I get my money out and then go to the front desk.

“Can ah help ya?” the girl behind the desk says in a friendly Midwest accent.

“I just need a single room, no reservation.”

“OK, I can do tha-at.” Her drawl makes her words slower than normal and it’s almost comforting. “But check-in isn’t until three, so I’ll set it up and you can come back in then, will that be okaaaay?”

“Sure,” I mumble. Like I have a choice. “Is there an electronics store around here?”

“Ye-as, just down on Superior. Would you like me to print you out directions?”

“Yes, please. That’d be great.” And ten minutes later I’ve got my room reserved, a key card that will activate at three PM, and I’m on my way to the Super Wal-Mart. When I get there I wait around for a near front parking space because I suddenly have a bout of paranoia that someone will steal my bike. It is a custom Shrike, and those can’t be common around here.

I head right to the electronics section and pick up a pre-paid iPhone and some minutes, pay cash at the counter, then go get some cheap clothes and snacks to hold me over until I get back home.

Home. I shake my head at that internal slip. That place is not my home anymore and it repulses me to think of it like that.

I pay up front for the rest of my stuff, then sit in the attached Subway drinking a soda while I deal with my phone activation and by the time that’s taken care of, it’s almost three. I shove my purchases into my backpack and head over to the hotel and find my room.

It’s a room. King-sized bed, ugly-ass comforter that I remove immediately, a nightstand, a desk, microwave, and a table. I take a shower and watch TV from bed.

How long has it been since I was really alone somewhere? When I got to Denver I was pretty lost, but I found the homeless shelter. God, I don’t know how I did all that by myself. I was such a mess. I’d never been in a homeless shelter before so I had no idea that you had to get in line for a bed. I spent the first night at the bus station because there were no beds available. And that was so fucking scary and cold. It was late March and it snowed that night and even though the bus station had heat, the doors were constantly opening and closing, so it was never warm.

I learned my lesson. I got to the shelter early the next day, got a number for a bed, and was once again on the streets that night because I didn’t know you had to get there right at six PM to line up with your number or they’d give your bed away to someone else.

I think I cried the whole night. And one night in the bus station is forgiven by the Denver PD, but not two.

Two is a habit, the cop told me. But he let me stay because I was so upset. In fact, he almost called social services thinking I was a runaway. But I showed him my ID and told him a little bit of my story, so he never ran my name. He even bought me a cup of coffee from the vending machine.

By day three I had learned the ropes. I got my bed number, I got in line early, and I finally got the pleasure of sleeping on a cot in a smelly room filled with drunks, addicts, and criminals. And a couple weeks later I was still there, being robbed of all my clothes and trying my best not to get raped.

Just after I got robbed of my clothes, I met Ronin wearing my thrift store equivalent replacements and my whole life changed.

What if I had never met him? What if I hadn’t spent that last ten dollars on a ridiculous coffee at Starbucks? What if those models hadn’t sat next to me and what if I hadn’t been so upset and desperate that taking a chance on a test shoot with Antoine Chaput seemed reasonable?

It makes me so sick to think about that. How horrible my life would be if Ronin wasn’t in it. And not because of the money and the jobs, but because of him. I’ve never known love until him. He’s everything to me now. Everything. I do not care what he did in the past, and I know that’s probably wrong in all kinds of ways, but I can’t even muster up some righteous indignation to feel bad about it. Because life is not some cakewalk through the land of the straight and narrow. Life is a crazy, crooked, fucked-up road that sometimes requires a bit of cheating.

Sure, you gotta do your best to prepare for your luck to arrive, and you have to be ready for the opportunities, but in the end it always takes more than luck. And sometimes, skill isn’t enough either.

So if something is important—I’m not talking pre-algebra important, OK? I’m talking real life-or-death important shit—well, then you do what you gotta do.

When you want to win no matter what, you just get the job done and say fuck the straight-and-narrow. Karma can kiss my ass for this one, I earned it.

Life is not always fair, but it does present you with choices. I could’ve taken my ten bucks and bought food. I could’ve ignored that card and called myself delusional for even thinking I could be worthy of that kind of job. I could’ve walked out when I heard what the TRAGIC contract really was and I could’ve told Spencer Shrike no when he asked to paint my body.

Fate is fragile. Deviate from it just a tiny fraction and you end up somewhere else. And as scary as that sounds, what it really means is that I’m the one in control. I’ve always been the one in control, I just never saw it clearly before. I control my reactions to the things life throws at me, so I control my fate.

Ronin might not be perfect, but he’s close enough for me.

I want him, I love him, and he’s mine.

That’s why I’m on the road right now. I know Ford and Spencer are probably going crazy—and if I turned my phone on I’d have dozens of messages telling me how pissed off they are—but I do not care.

Ronin might be required to take the fall for them, but he will not take a fall for me.

No way.

I’d rather go down fighting than give up and slink away like a coward. I can fix this, I know what that FBI guy wants, and I’m gonna go chase it down and get Ronin out of that jail cell if it’s the last thing I do.