Crystal Whisperer (Spotless Series #3)

by Camilla Monk

  Someone who had access to a considerable amount of data on him, of course.

  Someone with a visceral, bone-deep hatred for the Lions.

  Someone who believed Dries was responsible for shooting down a private jet full of Egyptian officials six years prior, and killing a CIA agent and his wife in the process.

  I closed my eyes, fighting licks of pain beneath my temples. “Do you think he’s behind this?”

  There was neither anger nor smugness in March’s voice as he answered, “I have no doubt he is.”

  3

  The Batcave

  Have you ever tried Yaycupid? If you haven’t, don’t: that website is such a scam. They spam you with their e-mails and commercials about ordinary people finding love there, until you relent and give it a try. I’ll tell you what Yaycupid did for me. Here are my stats:

  Look at that chart. Look at it well, because that’s where Yaycupid got me!

  The worst decision among the ones I listed above was a guy with a week’s worth of stubble, the softest cinnamon eyes you’ve ever seen, and who, as it turned out, did not work in insurance. I guess every woman has her demons: Joy’s was a clingy senior accountant better known under the code name clown dick; mine was a young CIA agent whose parents the Lions had murdered and who had manipulated me in a bid to get revenge on Dries.

  Alexander Morgan: “Alex” during the two months I had dated him; “that nice boy from Washington,” according to my father; and “Mr. Morgan” for March, who didn’t like him much. Maybe because of all of the above. Or because the cinnamon eyes weren’t so sweet once I tried to break up with him and the guy turned Mr. Hyde on me, complete with manhandling, psycho threats, and a side of bruises. In any case, Alex had made it clear that “we were only getting started” and that he’d eventually get to Dries one way or another.

  Well, fate had just handed Agent Morgan the perfect astral configuration, and he had wasted no time putting it to good use.

  March had left the room to go fix himself a second cup of tea. For the first time in three days, I found myself itching to contact Alex, to know whether he was behind Dries’s outing and understand what was going on, even a little.

  Of course, using my phone would be suicide, whereas a message in his Yaycupid account, sent via a proxy . . . I checked the bedroom’s window and caught a flash of fiery gold. The sun was setting behind March, who stood on the patch of lawn surrounding his cubicle house, phone in hand. Probably Phyllis again. I already knew what he’d say if I came out to ask him whether it was a good idea to contact Alex. I gulped down my shame as I grabbed my laptop and opened it.

  If this had been about hacking someone else’s computer and posting naked pictures of them wearing both a Nazi armband and a One Direction cap, I’d have hidden my ass behind seven proxies. This was, however, about messaging Alex. I added an eighth one just for safety. It would be a long while before anyone managed to track my connection to Yaycupid as I gleefully bounced around random servers all around the world.

  I was sort of pleased to see his account was still active, even if it meant he might prey on other unsuspecting girls. When it came to write the actual missive though, my fingers hovered over the keyboard in hesitation. Explicit accusations were out of the question, as was pleading Dries’s case—not even Bob Loblaw could have taken that one. I went for something curt and easy to decipher but that couldn’t be held against me, were I to end up in a pair of orange pj’s.

  I’ve seen the news. Good job, I guess.

  There. It’d trigger an instant notification in his e-mail account and right afterward, an alert on his phone—you simply don’t escape Yaycupid. An entire minute passed, during which I rapped on the touchpad to refresh until I feared it’d break. Then, in my inbox, a tiny pink label lit up, announcing a new message. I held my breath as I clicked to open it.

  I was about to call you. How’s the weather in Vienna?

  Excellent, thank you. Especially since my proxy there appeared to be working just fine. Time to skip the pleasantries.

  Nice media plan. Should I congratulate you? Or did someone else come up with this? Someone smarter?

  His reply came almost instantly.

  Bangui? You move fast! I’m actually glad you wrote, need to tell you stg.

  Something cold prickled down my spine. Needed to tell me what? I wasn’t sure I wanted to bait him any longer to find out. While I debated with myself whether to log out, a third message appeared.

  Are you in Cape St Francis?

  Panic sizzled through me as I rechecked the list of servers my connection had jumped through. Bratislava, Vienna, Ulan Bator, Bangui, Beijing, Lanzhou, Sucre . . . could he possibly know about the cubicle house? I typed my answer with trembling fingers.

  What do you want from me?

  Only to help you. Dries is going down, and I don’t want you to be part of the purge.

  Wait, wait, wait . . . what purge?

  What are you talking about?

  His answer took a little longer this time. Was he trying to locate me? At last, a single line blinked on the screen.

  Island. Get away. Now.

  Okay, things were getting way too creepy for the amateur spy I prided myself to have recently become. My hands jerked to close the browser and all connections.

  The blood pounding in my ears covered the noise at first, but after a few seconds, it became clearer. The low thrum of a rotor in the distance. I looked through the window, where the dark shape of a helicopter seemed to undulate against the flaming sunset. Narrow, with straight lines and sharp angles. Goose bumps rose on my forearms as I mentally flipped through a zillion Wikipedia pages and B movies to stop on a specific entry: Attack helicopter. Machine gun + rockets + antitank missiles = Large flying nope. The stain against the horizon was getting larger, its buzz ominously louder, but I couldn’t move a muscle. The vision felt so unreal that I couldn’t believe it was really happening. I just stared in fascinated horror.

  Until it occurred to me that March was no longer in the garden, at the same time that I heard his voice shout, “Island, under the bed!”

  That’s when the true rush of panic came, and my heartbeat picked up until it hurt. I rolled under the bed. There, cheek pressed to a floor where there wasn’t a single dust bunny to be found, I had a good thirty seconds to go through the terrifying list of possibilities. Machine gun? A mattress wouldn’t stop those. Missiles? Okay. I’d die a virgin and become a martyr for all nerds in the world. Then, something—someone?—crashed through the living room, and moments after, I felt the wooden floor shake under me.

  It happened almost at the same time—me screaming as I fell down into March’s arms, through a heavy hatch I had no idea was there and then . . . whoosh. A deafening, heart-stopping blast, carrying powerful flames I saw lick at the steel door right before March closed it behind us. Okay. Definitely some sort of missile, what with everything blowing up in the bedroom. My feet met the cold concrete of the basement floor as he helped me up. My back felt a little hot, but there was no roast-chicken smell, so I assumed I was good—well, medium rare at worst. My knees wouldn’t stop shaking, and confused thoughts clanked around my skull like coins in a piggy bank as I held on to March’s arm. That or my ears were still ringing from the explosion.

  I had landed in the magic basement. Kind of the same as the magic suitcase that he always took with him for “work”: a mystical place where he stored gardening tools and heavy artillery alike—yes, the pruners were for gardening. I refused to believe otherwise. I already knew there was a hatch leading to it under the rug in the living room, but I guess you can never be too cautious.

  March smoothed hair away from my cheeks with his palms. His breath was a little short as it breezed over my face. “Biscuit. Are you all right?”

  I looked down. My legs were still wobbling. “I don’t know . . . Who are those guys?”

  “Lions.”

  What? Was that the purge Alex had been threatening me with? “March, I n
eed to tell you something!”

  He squeezed my hands in his. “So do I, but it’ll have to wait. We have less than a minute. All that matters is whether you’re all right.”

  “Yes,” I said reluctantly.

  “Good.” He turned to grab a brown fleece jacket hanging from a hook on the wall. When he dropped it on my shoulders, I gauged its unusual weight and stiff lining.

  “You keep a bulletproof jacket for gardening?” I asked, zipping it up. I rolled the sleeves. Way too big.

  “Interpersonal violence and gardening accidents rank among the leading causes of death in South Africa. Now, get in the truck.”

  I shook my head to dispel a vision of March getting shot while watering his plants of society garlic. The truck. Of course. A renewed surge of adrenaline steadied my legs. I stared at the long black Toyota pickup parked between a sleek motorbike and a lawnmower. Behind me, March had shrugged into his own impeccably cut bulletproof jacket, and he was already loading the back seat.

  I figured whoever caught us would be sorry: freed from the many racks lining the basement walls and waltzing before my eyes were various types of rifles with their long suppressors, guns, more guns, and a fricking grenade launcher. Several tubes of mints joined this Prévert inventory, and my mouth fell open when I saw him lift a voluminous case into the cargo bed with a grunt. The Twitter bazooka. So, things were that bad. The magic suitcase itself landed last, next to a magazine of grenades.

  March slammed the rear door shut and jumped behind the wheel; my knees jerked in response, and that was my cue to climb into the passenger seat. Above us, ominous creaking followed by loud crashing sounds suggested that nothing would be left of the little cubicle house at dawn. I fastened my seat belt with shaky hands, pondering whether there’d be anything left of us either.

  “No, don’t.”

  I stared at March with wide eyes as the engine started. For Mr. Clean to ask me to skip the seat belt was . . . unheard of.

  He jerked his chin toward the cramped space under the dashboard. “Do you think you can fit under there?”

  “Yeah.” I slid down my seat and curled up in this improvised shelter. Outside, I caught the whirring sound of an electric garage door opening.

  “Hold on; we’re going out.”

  It was only when the truck’s acceleration propelled me forward and I bumped my forehead against the seat that I caught on to the obvious. Out? Of the basement? There was a rollup door at the other end of the room, but I was pretty sure I hadn’t seen any garage entrance near the house. So how? Where?

  And yet we were already racing down a tunnel, and looking up through the window, I could glimpse fluorescent lights flashing by. After a minute or so, the ground under the pickup started to feel uneven. Darkness enveloped us, and I registered splashing noises, like the wheels were struggling through rocky ground and deep puddles. Then, I finally caught a glimpse of the cloudy night sky, and foamy waves crashed against the vehicle, sending a splatter of crystalline droplets on my window.

  We were on the beach. Bits of our surfing session flashed in my mind, completing the puzzle. I had spotted a cave entrance, nested in the rocks. Upon my asking about it, March had made a passing comment that later he’d show me what was inside. I’d thought he meant more rocks and possibly some sort of hostile wildlife—never turn your back on a mantis shrimp, by the way. It was, however, becoming obvious that while he had kept his investment minimal when it came to his four-hundred-square-foot cubicle, March had otherwise built a goddamn Batcave underneath it.

  The pickup took a series of sharp turns among the rocks, punctuated by my squeaks each time my head hit the underside of the dashboard and March’s apologies. I held my breath until we were finally driving fast on a flat expanse of sand. I regretted my sigh of relief almost instantly though, because over the clatter of pebbles hitting the bumper, I could hear the terrifying thrum of the helicopter’s rotor. Of course they could see us. The Bat Tunnel had earned us some temporary reprieve, but we were less than two hundred yards away from the remains of the house, and we made for a perfect target from above.

  No need to tell March that: with the threatening droning above our heads growing ever louder and closer, the truck took another sharp turn and shook as we sped up through a tangle of coastal thicket. He was trying to get us back on the sinewy trail leading away from the beach and toward Saint Francis Bay. There was less than a mile to the road, but then what? Would they give up once we were driving among shops and villas? Doubtful, if the engine roar ahead of us was any indication. Another car? From my position, curled between the seat and the dashboard, I couldn’t see anything.

  “There’s something on the trail! What’s going on?” I shrieked.

  Above the gearshift, March’s hand froze, hovering like he was waiting for something. “It’s nothing, biscuit. Stay down. It’s going to be fine.”

  “You said we wouldn’t lie to each other!”

  A rictus tugged at the corner of his lips. “Modified Jeep, three passengers. Not from the neighborhood.”

  This last suspicion was confirmed when a first round of bullets crackled in the distance, simultaneously clanging against the magic pickup’s sides. Those guys were trying to trap us in some sort of deadly sandwich.

  “Island.” My head jerked up. I didn’t like March’s expression; that seemed a lot like fear in his eyes. “I’m afraid those gentlemen above are getting ready to engage us.”

  Sweet Raptor Jesus. “Any good news?”

  “One.” His fingers closed around the gearshift with a white-knuckled grip. “I believe their rockets”—he brutally shifted down two gears and pulled the handbrake. Dirt screeched under the wheels as the pickup drifted to a brutal stop in the middle of the trail—“are unguided.”

  That’s the exact moment I saw myself die. Because, staring up in panic at my window, I saw the helicopter right behind us. A flash of light illuminated the night: they’d fired a pair of rockets at us. I physically felt my heart stop, like it had turned to stone inside my rib cage and crushed everything in there. Yet the fireworks barreled past us, even as I could have sworn they’d grazed our roof. I guess it was only a side effect of the—literal—heat of the moment, since basic spatial geometry contradicts this version of events: according to my calculations, the rockets swooped a comfortable six feet above our heads.

  On the other hand, I regret to say that they did more than just graze the evil Jeep. There was the blast of a huge explosion. I curled up and shielded my head as the shock wave shook the truck’s solid frame and rippled through my body. When I felt the pickup steer away and resume its race down the trail, I summoned the courage to take a peek, only for March to shove my head down again at once. There wasn’t much to see anyway—only the charred carcass of a vehicle engulfed in flames and a column of acrid black smoke rising in the air, permeating everything, even the inside of our own truck.

  The trail was a small blessing: it zigzagged around rocks, rolled up and down between trees and bushes, making it difficult for the helicopter to accomplish much, save for following us. Still, the ever-present thrumming above us served as a reminder that it was only a matter of time before they got a firing window. That’s where guided weapons would have made a difference, but fortunately, those guys had chosen the cheaper option, meaning they needed better terrain in order to lock down on us. They did make a couple of attempts with a machine gun—and I did come close to wetting myself—but the rounds missed us by several yards.

  March drove us north, staying on the trail as long as possible. All too soon, however, a smooth surface under the pickup’s wheels announced the start of a nightmare. Miles and miles of a straight road crossing through Saint Francis Bay on the east side. Nowhere to hide, and a potential collateral damage list that looked like Michael Bay’s: slums, bungalows . . . Also, left-hand driving, but I don’t think it was our most immediate issue here.

  Those guys in the helicopter wasted no time. The machine gun crackled again behin
d us; March swerved right to avoid it, but we were now an easy target. I couldn’t hold back a scream when a series of huge bumps appeared on the truck’s roof, like we were being hammered by giant hailstones.

  “Fifty BMG,” March commented through gritted teeth.

  Okay. Whatever that truck was made of had just stopped .50-caliber armor-piercing ammo. I was therefore driving in the closest thing to a tank I had ever seen. That was the good news. The bad news? Tears in the fabric lining the roof revealed some serious damage to the various layers of steel and composite material making up the armor.

  “Can it take a second round?” I asked, contorting to peek up at my window, all the while staying hidden.

  March’s eyes darted to the mirror, and his reply came with a sharp exhale. “Barely. And certainly not a third.”

  Outside us, the thrumming suddenly changed, becoming more distant. March checked his side mirror and cursed under his breath before hitting the gas pedal hard. I had no idea what this could mean, until the noise returned, this time much louder and . . . ahead of us?

  “Island, stay down!”

  For the first time since the beginning of this hellish race, I registered undisguised fear in March’s shout. Terror spilled through me in response, seeping into every pore of my body. My lungs struggled to pump air in rapid pants, tears of helplessness blurring my vision. The truck swerved left and right to avoid an enemy I couldn’t see, to save us from a fate I couldn’t even imagine. I gripped the passenger seat and dug my nails into the synthetic fabric, searching for something to anchor me.

  I should have never done that. Because in a split second, I nearly lost my left hand. I knew the roof was no longer the problem. Just as I knew what the ear-splitting rattle above us meant. By the time my brain had formed the word windshield and I recoiled in horrified realization, diamonds were raining everywhere around me, and there was this loud buzzing sound in my ears, covering everything. All that was left of the seat I had been holding on to was an indiscernible mess of yellow foam and shredded black fabric.