Chapter 30
Tyrone stood more or less hidden inside the sporting goods store, looking out at the food court. He'd cut classes to come to the mall. Bella was there, seated at a table in front of the Tor-tee-ah Mah-ree-aa, surrounded by half a dozen girlfriends and a couple of boys. The males weren't anybody Tyrone recognized as belonging to Bella, just some small moons orbiting her bright star. Bella laughed and they all laughed. When she talked, they listened. She was something.
He had mixed feelings about her. On the one hand, he hated her guts for how she had dropped him. No warning, blam! Right between the eyes, and hasta la vista Ty-rone-ee! She wasn't used to having guys tell her they didn't like how she was behaving, and he had sure done that. Just like that, it was end game, and don't bother to put another coin in, because you don't get a replay.
On the other hand, just look at her. She was so beautiful, the center of every room she entered, guys would line up just to kiss the ground she walked on. And, once upon a time, she had bestowed her favors on him. Kissed him, touched him, let him touch her, and the thought of being able to do that again, to walk around knowing he had her attention, well, that was something magic, no question, no Q. He'd once had his hand on that perfect breast, tangled tongues inside that perfect mouth. It was exciting to think about it, and lucky he was between two racks of ski clothes so nobody could see just how exciting it was.
She had practically invited him to the mall. He could walk out of this store, kinda amble over to where she sat, and see what was what. Would she smile and welcome him into the fold, have him sit next to her? Because, in the end, she respected him for telling her how it was? Or was it some kind of sicko-sticko where she'd dry ice him in front of her friends, embarrass the hell out of him, make him look like a total fool? He didn't think she'd do that. She could have done it a lot of times before now and why wait so long? But he wasn't sure.
Once upon a time not too long ago, he'd have run as fast as he could move and never worry about it for a nanosec. He had loved her. He thought she loved him, too. But that was then. Life changes a lot in a few months, no feek.
When he thought about Bella, he felt like he was a washcloth, twisted, wrung out, tossed onto the edge of the tub still in a knot without even being hung out to dry. This could be the time to find out where he stood, to know for sure.
Thing was, did he really want to know? Being dumped once was awful. Being humiliated in public on top of that would be zero cubed. He could hear Jimmy Joe and the rest of the geek patrol now: "Whoa, slip, I hear you got driced by The Belladonna (donna-donna-donna-wah-wah-wah-whaah) right in the middle of the mall! Count Zero, cold cut, got your card maxed. How you feel about that?"
Tyrone shook his head. He didn't want to play that scenario in RW or VR, thank you very fucking much.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. But nothing lost, either, right?
But if it got Bella back, got you to her house on the couch, got you another chance at putting your hands on that perfect body, those lips against yours, wouldn't that be worth the risk?
Oh, yeah.
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Took another. Worst-case scenario, he'd look like a big fool. Best case?
He had an imaginary flash of Bella, naked, hair spread out on a pillow. It was vivid enough that he forgot to breathe. He was fourteen, and that was an image to die for — never mind that it was also to go to jail for, even if she was older than he was. Bella. Naked…
Jesus Christ!
When he remembered how to breathe again, Tyrone headed for the door. Do or die, slip. Do or die.
John Howard stood outside the MI-6 building, watching his boss walk across the street and head toward him. He waved and saw Michaels see him and wave back.
"Colonel. How are you?"
"Pretty good, sir. All things considered."
"Anything new on the search for the assassin?"
"Yes and no," Howard said. "We know he was on a flight out of Seattle on Wednesday. We know he came here. We have confirmation via a scan of passengers going through customs. Fiorella pulled up arrivals from the U.S. early Thursday morning. We got a photographic match."
He tendered a hardcopy color print of a man strolling through the airport. A grid of fine lines had been superimposed over the photograph.
"You sure this is him?"
"It looks like him. Right place at the right time. Computer says the ears and hands match our reference. Unless he has a twin brother, it's him, all right."
Michaels nodded at the building. "Shall we go inside?"
As they passed the guards and headed along the hallway, Michaels said, "It's been almost a week. He could be anywhere by now."
"Yes, sir, that's true. He could have moved on before the travel computer systems all went south. We've got mainframe time on Baby Huey, and with British cooperation, Lieutenant Winthrop is back home using it to crunch flight and train and auto rental information, even boat rentals from London to anywhere else. Even a fake passport picture will have to look something like him."
"He could get one with a phony beard and a wig," Michaels said.
"We're redballing any male traveling alone who is anywhere close to the right height, weight, and age."
"He could hire an escort and travel with her."
"Yes, sir, and he might find a witch doctor who could turn him into a gorilla, too, sir. We've got to start somewhere."
Michaels smiled at that.
They arrived at the office where Howard had left Toni Fiorella.
Inside, Fiorella and a tall, striking, short-haired blonde stood and looked at an enlarged holoproj image of dozens of faces lined up in rows.
"Got the first run of photos from Jo Winthrop, Colonel," Toni said. "All with either ears that match our size specs or are covered by hair so we can't see them clearly. Hi, Alex. Have a good walk?"
"Yeah, thanks," Michaels said. He looked uncomfortable. Pale.
"Oh, excuse my manners," Toni said. "Colonel John Howard? This is Angela Cooper. She is our liaison to MI-6. Colonel Howard is the head of the Net Force Strike Teams."
The blonde extended her hand and smiled at Howard. "How do you do, Colonel. Pleased to meet you."
He shook her hand, returning the smile. He caught a glimpse of Michaels peripherally. The man had a sickly grin pasted in place, but he looked to Howard as if he was about to throw up.
Cooper released Howard's hand, and he caught her flick a quick gaze at Michaels. He followed it, and saw Michaels glance away, refusing to meet her look. It was nothing, no more than half a second's worth of what might be his imagination. But—
Oh, my.
Howard usually went to church on Sundays with his wife and son, but he didn't consider himself any kind of prophet, able to see more than everybody else could see. Then again, he'd been around the block a time or two, and he liked to think he was not too bad at reading people.
Something was there. Something in the glance that the good-looking dishwater blonde had thrown at Michaels, the way he had refused to engage her, something was going on here.
Howard, like most men away from home a lot, had been tempted by the possibility of extramarital liaisons from time to time. There had been more than a few women interested in getting to know him horizontally, and a couple of them had been attractive enough so the thought had started to cross his mind. Who would know? Who would be hurt by it? How did the old song go? If you couldn't be with the one you loved, couldn't you love the one you were with?