Lost Contact (The Bridge Sequence Book One) by Nathan Hystad (ereader iphone .TXT) 📕

for any signs of the tinted vehicle, and when I didn’t see it, we jogged for Marcus’ car.

“What has you so worked up?” He started the engine.

“The cult… the one Madison was so ramped up about. One of them was with Klein.”

“You don’t think…”

“No, but I’m not sticking around to find out. Richard can take care of himself, but if I was to guess, they’re using him to get to me. Let’s see if we can’t book an earlier flight.” I glanced behind us, but the road was quiet, the streetlights casting unfamiliar shadows beyond the parked cars.

10

“I can’t believe that cult is after you.” Marcus entered my townhouse, shaking snow from his jacket. It had cooled down, a storm moving in with little warning.

“Us. They’re after us,” I reminded him.

He appeared to contemplate this but gave me a shrug of his shoulders. “Whatever. We’re a team. Don’t think for a second I’m going to let some old white cultists mess me up.”

I admired his confidence but didn’t mirror it. “Take the computer. We’re heading to the airport.” I hadn’t started to pack for our trip yet, and I pulled a duffel bag from the closet under my stairs. “We’ll stop at your place on the way.”

“No need. Already have my stuff in the car.” Marcus didn’t look away from the laptop. He was perched on my island, fingers quickly flying over his keyboard.

“Of course you do. Always prepared for anything.”

“Nah. I just saw how on edge you were lately and knew you’d want to leave early.” I heard him as I dashed up the stairs, heading to my bedroom.

I flicked the lights on and looked around the room. It was so plain, bland in its bachelor stylings. Everything was dark wood, gray paint and bedding. My closet was full of suit jackets and dress shirts, and I plucked a pair of cargo shorts, jeans, and short-sleeved plaid shirts, along with some plain tees. It was snowing here, but down in South America, it would be another story.

Once I had enough to carry me through a few days away, I added the toiletries and stopped, watching myself in the mirror. My eyes were heavy, tilted down in a way that only age and exhaustion could muster. I leaned into the sink, washing my face, and dabbed it dry on a hand towel. I had to do this. If I stayed, these lunatics could do something drastic.

But what if I came back empty-handed? I’d have to deal with them in some fashion. I contemplated going to the police, but that wouldn’t help, not now. Not when I needed to skip town and follow our one lead.

Why had Clayton left the coordinates on his grave marker? What were we going to find in the jungles of Venezuela? I had too many questions and none of the answers.

“You coming?” Marcus shouted from downstairs.

I didn’t reply, just zipped up the bag, hoisting it over my shoulder. Marcus was already by the front door, grinning at me.

“You changed the flights?” I asked.

“Done.”

“And we can leave soon?”

“We can.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” He was oddly quiet as we exited my place. I locked the door, hoping that no one would break in while I was gone. I should have added the security system Marcus suggested but hadn’t made time.

“There may be a couple of layovers,” he finally spouted as he lifted my bag, tossing it into his hatchback. He fired up his car, tires slipping on the wet pavement as we lurched forward.

I watched behind us but found nothing. “Take the long way,” I suggested, hoping it would throw off anyone watching.

Part of me thought I might have been fabricating danger: the fact my door was unlocked, even spotting the three-tipped tattoo across the room. Maybe I’d been seeing things, giving into the paranoia since Hunter Madison had revealed the truth about the Believers. He had a lot to gain from us acquiring the links to this Bridge he was so anxious to locate. Fueling my panic and fears was a tactic a man like him would use to get me on his side. I’d need his protection, his funding too. His friendship. I shook my head as we drove on, feeling like a fool who’d been had by a man far more experienced in the game than I was.

I remembered what Marcus had said, and circled back. “A couple of layovers?”

He flashed me a grin. “We’ll be there in no time.”

____________

Dust covered every inch of my body, sticking to my sweaty skin. I wiped my face with my bandana and glanced at the ever-present sweltering sun.

“Did someone forget to tell them it was December?” Marcus asked. His words came out like a man on his last breath, and I passed him my canteen. He took a greedy swig, water dripping down his chin, and I did the same.

“This is a nightmare.” The bench in the back of the ancient pickup was uncomfortable on the main roads. Out here, in no man’s land, my spine protested every small bump and hop of the vehicle.

After connecting in Pittsburgh, then to Mexico City, we’d landed in Caracas on Saturday morning. It had taken three hours to vacate the airport, and finding someone to bring us south had proven more difficult than anticipated. This was our third local hire, and I suspected he was being paid a month’s salary just to drive the last hundred miles to our destination.

It was Sunday morning, and we’d been lucky enough to be dropped off in a village a few hours north of here the night prior. After sleeping on squeaky cots in what passed for a hotel, we were both a little on edge.

“How much longer?” Marcus asked me, and I stared ahead.

The driver was with his son, maybe twelve years old, and the kid kept staring at us in the truck bed. I knocked on the window, and he unlatched it. “Cuánto tiempo más?”

“Unos minutos,” the boy