Surge: Bolt Saga Volume Five (Bolt Saga #13-15)

by Angel Payne

  This time, the heavy fuzz over Alex’s eyes dips low. “Why wouldn’t it be?” He flips his long black wig. “By figuring out your triggers for the fingertip fireworks, the team can work toward developing serums that’ll help you access or inhibit them better based on the need of your situations.”

  Narrowed gaze. “My…situations?”

  He nods, overflowing with too much sagacity for the getup. I’m not sure whether to be intrigued or creeped out. “It’d be like the difference between hauling around a lamp with frayed wires or one with a secured cord. You get to plug in and turn on when you want to and adjust the brightness for the purpose you need.”

  Now I’m neither intrigued or freaked. I’m damn sure I’m simply entertained. “Trestle, did you just compare me to a floor model at Lamps Plus?”

  “Of course not.” He takes a swig of his Cacaolat without breaking eye contact. “You’re way more Neon City.”

  I laugh. I don’t want to, but I do. Leaning over with both elbows on the table, I return his easygoing scrutiny. “That’s really the secret hypothesis behind why I got to be Grandpa Joe-meets-Quackmore Duck?”

  “More or less.” He shrugs while sneaking a glance around the room. “Well, that and the fact that we’re all enjoying the poetic justice for a few weeks.”

  Intrigue pops back onto my mental plate. “Poetic huh? Or do I even want to know?”

  “Do you even have to ask?” He gestures at my head. “I had the chance to turn the Heir with the Hair into Chrome Dome Dexter for a little while. Can anyone say hell to the yes, please?”

  “Fuck.” I dip in toward my fifty-first coffee, glad for the distraction from my itchy scalp and the lingering memories from the lifeguard stand, joining Alex to take in the atmosphere of the iconic Barcelona granja. Stepping into the historic café is like diving inside a churro, the air sugary and warm and fragrant, with conversation flying around us in the city’s musical mix of Castilian Spanish and the Catalan dialect. Patrons bustle in and out, many of them opting to take their drinks and baked specialties out into the late-summer sunshine. The rest of the café’s customers, either standing in line to be served or gathered at one of the small tables surrounded by framed vintage photos and war medals, have kept their dark sunglasses on.

  Which, of course, makes our casual-but-not-casual surveillance an even more difficult challenge.

  Anyone in here could be the contact we’ve arrived to meet.

  The man who’s promised he can get us inside the Scorpio cartel—and one step closer to discovering exactly where those bastards are hiding the Consortium’s hive of torture.

  Not that we couldn’t accomplish the exact same thing if we’d quietly spread the word that Reece Richards and one of his team members were in town and looking for an audience with anyone bearing a distinctive scorpion tattoo. But our friend Kane, former Spec Ops stud and a walking testimony to calm and careful, came here four months ago with the exact same game plan. Back home on the ridge, there’s now a memorial marker bearing his name.

  I’ve come to accept the fact that my eventual fate may be the same—and I know Alex shares that grim credence—but if I can help it, I don’t plan on making my wife into a widow before we’ve even enjoyed our honeymoon.

  So onward with the itchy head, the nonstop coffee, and sneaking fast glances around the café.

  After my third perusal of still not spying anyone even remotely resembling a guy named “Saber,” I look back over to Alex. “You sure he said his name is Saber?”

  Alex ticks out a fast nod. “Confirmed it myself. Twice. He even said it’s the name his madre gave him. When I asked him if it fit, he just said I’d find out for myself. He also said we’d definitely know him when we saw him.” He narrows an irked glare back down to his drink. “What he didn’t say is that he’d be over thirty minutes late, unless ‘Saber’ is Catalan for ‘toothless old lady flirting with the dude in the café corner.’”

  I chuff. “She likes the way you’re handling all that hair, man.” I pick up the spoon from my plate and pretend the molasses-texture stuff in my cup needs to be stirred. “Makes her think you know what you’re doing with the ’stache, as well. Or what she wants you to do with it.”

  “Fuck you,” Alex grumbles.

  “Not interested,” I counter—and am appreciative of how he drops the bravado for a few seconds of authentic sympathy.

  “Hey, I know it doesn’t help now, but what that bitch did to you and Emma, on your wedding day…”

  “Yeah.” I stir some more, though it’s really not helping the dregs in my cup. “Thanks.”

  “And the fuckery with your mother-in-law too?” He shakes his head and throws a frown across the room, only to regret it when the hair and the mustache get a new perusal from the sassy senior in the corner. “That was some weird-as-hell shit.”

  “Says the guy still being visually felt up by Hot Mama Barcelona?”

  Annnnd there’s a fine, fine example of a classic humor-as-deflection move, kids—except that my gut won’t let the escape stick. All too quickly, it’s back to reminding me of the crap oozing inside, as thick and dense and bitter as the coffee slag in my cup. But guilt and fury never earned their reputation from being as pretty as latte foam. Soon, I tell myself. It’ll be better soon.

  The second I can get my hands on Faline Garand again. And ensure she’s completely stopped from recruiting anyone else into her “Faline’s Angels” army.

  “Unnppff.” Alex’s rough grunt is actually a welcome slice into my brood. “I might have to go ask Mama what she has in mind for fun if this Saber fucker doesn’t show soon.”

  I take in the full scope of Trestle’s glowering profile. Other than the wig and added facial hair, his disguise is limited to long-wearing tanning pigments, meaning the strength of his actual features isn’t diminished. And they are formidable, with a broad forehead and bold nose balanced by a full mouth that likely got him called back for lots of roles like “Hot Hunk Number Three” during his stage career. But with an obscene intellect like Alex Trestle’s, I’m not shocked he got recruited for whatever uber-secret spy shit the government had him carrying out at Foley’s side. He’s a damn good asset to the team, and I feel fortunate to have him.

  “Nah,” I finally say. “I think you should hold out; wait for the really fine grandmas who come in around sundown.”

  “Yeah?” Alex slides into the deadpan without a flinch. “They’re cuter later on, eh? Even more captivating than my sweet girl in the corner? Look, she’s even showing me her gums.”

  “And what fine gums they are; however—”

  “You’re not even looking.”

  “You’re right. But trust me, the best things are worth waiting for.”

  Except, it seems, our friend Saber.

  Fuck.

  I push away my cup, saucer, and spoon, considering a trip up to the counter for a second serving. God knows I don’t need a single drop more of caffeine, but damn it, despite our witty revelry, Alex is nearly fed up with waiting for our tardy friend—and I’ll have no valid argument for sticking around other than my own stubbornness. Waiting around for another contact like Saber to appear will take more effort, money, and time. I’m willing to part with plenty of the first two—but the latter, when every second away from my wife feels like another gouge in my sanity?

  But Alex’s impatience gains more justification by the second. By now, with tautening nerves, I’m starting to commiserate. Thirty minutes is a stretch even by the relaxed standards of the region. Shit. Saber is a no-show, which means we’re back at square one. Maybe farther back than that.

  But the last laugh on this one belongs to fate.

  As a guy strolls in as if he just tumbled out of a club in nearby Poble-Sec, looking like he literally just partied the night away—but locking his lazy regard on to us after he’s one step inside the door. But that’s not what gives him away as Saber. Credit for that part goes to his animal-print jeans, Punisher T-shirt, leather arm gaunt
lets, and the mix of orange and yellow throughout a haircut clearly honoring Elvis Presley.

  Alex emits his trademark snort again. “Guess they’re serious about fashionably late around here.”

  “And keeping the vintage stores in business,” I add, though I don’t get time to crack my “Elvis and a nun walked into a bar” joke, since Saber makes it over to our table with shocking speed for a guy with such a lazy gait.

  “Wait five minutes and then leave separately.” His gritted instruction has me nearly double-taking. The guy is British, his accent cultured. I admit it, I was expecting street-smart Catalan or even a Jersey drawl—but I should know more than most that what one sees is not always what they get, especially with a worldwide cartel like the Scorpios involved. There’s more of the clipped London tone as he adds, “Take a right out the door and then left on Pintor Fortuny. In the Museo de las Ilusiones, find me at the roaring lion.”

  “The roaring lion,” Alex mutters as soon as the guy seems to disappear through the back of the café. “Of course. Why not?”

  I push to my feet, already antsy about getting the fuck out of here. “I’m taking it as a good sign. If the guy’s making us jump through hoops already, he’s likely got the intel.”

  Though good sign or not, the next five minutes will be some of the longest of my life. It feels like centuries since I was last holding Emmalina on that beach, raining goodbye kisses all over her breathtaking face. I’d demanded those moments be our official farewell, knowing that if she came with me to the airport, I’d have likely caved to every selfish desire in my being and hauled her onto the jet with me.

  I wish she’d come to the airport with me.

  The Museo is just a couple of blocks away from the granja, about a five-minute walk under normal circumstances. My trip takes me about double that, due to making sure I don’t get near Alex, as well as making a few stops to scan for possible tails. When it’s clear nobody on this boulevard cares about the Heir with Little Hair and his nifty pocket protector, I enter the place and plunk down the modest fee to get in.

  Walking around, I’m a little perplexed as to why nobody in America has riffed off this concept yet. The space is a vast and quirky collection of wall paintings for Instagram addicts, from the silly to the fantastical to the strange. On my way to find Alex, I pass a group of teenagers pretending to swim away from a great white shark, a couple smooching at each other as hearts “fly” between them, and a geek boy dressed as Luke Skywalker, wielding a lightsaber against a looming Darth Vader.

  I find Alex in front of a wall adorned with giant white and silver wings, attempting to selfie himself with the things sprouting out of his back. His dorky expression doesn’t make me feel so weird about being Chrome Dome Dexter anymore; nevertheless, I murmur, “Just keeping up pretenses, Trestle, or is there a purpose for that?”

  Thank God I didn’t blink, or I’d have missed the guy’s furious blush. “Killing time,” he rushes out. “But the wings reminded me of Neeta.”

  So now I blink. Between the graduated widening of my stare. “Neeta?”

  The guy kicks at the floor. “She mentioned being into this writer, Angel something. The wings are a thing with the woman’s readers—who are all pretty damn cute, I might add, though—”

  “Not as cute as Neeta?” Unbelievably, I keep the tone from being smarmy. Not so much luck with my smirk, which brings three seconds’ worth of a great distraction, considering the tense circumstances. “You going to hashtag it too? How about hashtag-Neeta-my-Angel? Better yet, hashtag-Neeta-Angelita?”

  “Fuck off.” Alex stuffs his device into his back pocket and turns away. “Where’s that goddamned lion?”

  It’s too much fun to pepper my snicker in his wake. “Now that’s what Chrome Dome calls a proper piece of comic relief.”

  “And if you’re done, maybe we can go over a few contingency plans?” he snaps.

  I jam my hands into my Dockers pockets and pretend he’s said something extraordinarily interesting about the faux castle bridge we’ve just passed. “Just in case this really is a trap, an ambush, or just a schmuck nicknamed Saber ready to take twenty-five thousand off my hands without even offering to blow me?”

  “Something like that.” He stops to tie his bootlace. “Only I wouldn’t let that dude’s mouth near my johnson if we were the last two people left on earth.”

  “Decent point.” Because for all his trendy touches, nothing’s a stronger ode to Saber’s tag than the guy’s teeth, filed into weapon-like triangles.

  As if the universe knows we’re talking about the guy like a couple of reality TV gossips, we round the next corner and nearly run Saber down. But if he’s unnerved, he doesn’t show it. With his same I’m-bored-but-not-really mien, he shifts his weight and swipes the Candy Crush off his cell’s screen. In its place is a more official image, resembling the login screen for something like a bank. I’d bet my right testicle that’s exactly what it is, especially when he flashes a full and jagged grin our way.

  “You found it. ’Grats,” he says, nudging his chin out at both of us. “You having fun? Want to look around a little more? We’re all settled up”—he toggles his phone against the air—“so right now, my time is yours, mates.”

  I draw in a deep enough breath to reasonably feign some calm. “Thanks, but I can find plenty of this back at home.” But take advantage of the Dexter façade to let my fingers drum against my thighs. As long as I yank back any telltale sparks from the tips, everything’s good. Needless to say, I might be an Oscar contender by the time this afternoon is through.

  Alex sidles a little closer. “I think what Mr. Dobster is trying to say”—because the bastard couldn’t give Dexter anything normal for a last name—“is that we’re anxious to move on with things.”

  “We have clients waiting.” My addition feeds our cover story about representing a tech firm wanting to get hard-drive components—and a few other illegal “parts”—on the cheap.

  “Well then…” Another shark-toothed grin. “Today’s your lucky day.”

  I know better than to look directly at Alex but catch the curious tick of his head in my periphery. “What do you mean?” he presses.

  “I mean that what I said in our first conversation is true,” Saber drawls. “You pay and I deliver, mate.”

  “Here and now?”

  I pivot, rephrasing Alex in even clearer verbiage. “Are you telling us the contact is ready to meet immediately?”

  “Ready as a lion ready for new blood.” Blatantly pleased with himself for the theming, Saber adds a small flourish of his hand before pushing it at the painted wildcat’s muzzle. At once, one edge of the wall slides away into a hidden recess, revealing the warm light of a separate room beyond. Another hand swoop later, Saber’s missing everything but a top hat and one of those little lion tamer chairs—and sure enough proclaims, “Step right up, folks. Your adventure has begun.”

  Though even to a guy like “Dexter Dobster,” comparing this plain back office to an “adventure” is a mighty strained stretch. Not that we’re here for the décor, which consists of a utilitarian desk, three office chairs with worn cushions, a filing cabinet, and a multi-armed floor lamp that was last popular when John Hughes films were. If I’d known, I would’ve ordered Alex to let me be one of those cool guys from one of those movies, with a loose pastel tie, a Members Only jacket, and badass shades.

  But now’s not the time for what-ifs.

  As the wall slides shut behind me, I’m focused only on the things that should matter. Detecting any hidden security cameras. Or unusual movements from the room’s edges. Or other walls that start moving unexpectedly.

  Though that’s not really necessary, since there’s actually a visible door located behind the desk, at which Alex and I direct most of our attention after ruling out that the shadows aren’t moving or watching us. Reason dictates that our mystery insider will be making their grand entrance through the stained and worn portal…

  And reas
on doesn’t let me down.

  At least for another couple of seconds.

  Until the meeting for which I’ve paid a shit ton of pennies begins…

  And becomes an immediate shit storm.

  No.

  This isn’t a “storm.” It’s a goddamned typhoon, raining sheets of freezing shock and blasting winds of breath-stealing rage. But neither of those are why I force myself to move, even if only by one scuffling step, and lift a trembling hand, flexing my fingers and even igniting the tips with dim blue blasts.

  I need to know this is all still real.

  Some vague part of me wants to laugh about that. Ironic, right? I’m firing up the electricity in my hands as a validation of reality. It’s fucked up. It’s insane. But it’s true. I need to confirm that I didn’t just walk past that wall and into another dimension where right has suddenly flipped into wrong and death has become the new life.

  Because that would explain everything, wouldn’t it?

  But I don’t want everything explained.

  I sure as fuck don’t want this explained.

  The atrocity more bizarre than me. The reality stranger than the shit running wild through my blood. The insanity I force myself to face, and to voice, past the shock-shrunken tube of my throat.

  “Dad?”

  Chapter Five

  Emma

  “Call me Daddy.”

  As I expect, my dictate is met by nothing but a bunch of grunts from Sawyer—who still hasn’t accepted the fact that my knee is parked in the middle of his spine and I’ve got his arm bent so far back, I could break it. Okay, so he knows I won’t—and my head agrees with the assessment—but at the moment, I’m not exactly thinking with my head.

  I’m not totally sure what I’m thinking with.