Page 36 of The Vigilante's Lover
“Still can’t handle those newfangled reading devices,” he says. He thumbs at a pile of papers in his corner. “I figure I’ve got enough old news to keep me occupied till I keel over.”
“Indeed you do.” Quite the fire hazard as well, I want to say, but simply grab three bottles of water from a cooler.
He smacks the back of his hand against a headline. “Really funny to read a decade later about how we’re all going to die of swine flu,” he says. “I love this stuff.”
I wait for his laughter to subside, trying not to sweat the time passing. I drop several dollars on the counter for the water.
“Where’s your car?” he asks.
I down one entire bottle of water before answering. “A few miles back. I need to make a phone call, if I may,” I say. “Cell phone’s dead.”
“All righty.” He passes over his own cell. “I’d have kept my pay-phone box, but those dern workers came one night and hauled it off! Then they told me I couldn’t have no landline neither. Weren’t worth fixing the cables anymore.” He picks up his newspaper. “Damn progress.”
His phone is at least ten years old, an ancient Motorola flip. I pop it open and dial The Cure.
The voice is unhappy and harsh. “Who gave you this number?” The Cure barks.
“You did. Just before I scooped up a fighter’s girlfriend who’d been abducted in Vegas.” I hold my breath that he won’t say my name aloud. If Sutherland has gone all-points with a kill order, they could be monitoring anyone I’ve ever contacted.
“James, my golden boy!” The Cure says. “I haven’t seen you since you left the ring.”
I release my breath. He gets it. “I’m outside Vegas and I need a ride.”
“Give me the coordinates, and I’m on it.”
Damn. I don’t have any tech to give me my latitude and longitude. I could take a guess. I glance around the gas station. This Luddite is bound to have maps around.
Sure enough, there’s a rack of faded crinkled road maps by the door. I pull one out and dust falls from the creases. It barely holds together as I unfold it.
“Searching,” I tell The Cure. I find the highway I’m on and approximate the run from Grandma Marty’s. “Latitude 36.206653, longitude -114.053843.”
“I’ll send a helicopter,” The Cure says.
“I like subtlety,” I tell him.
He pauses. “I’ll scramble a fleet so it’s not obvious.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Anything for a fighter boy.” He hangs up.
I set the man’s phone back on the counter and glance out the doors. This place won’t be too hard to defend if I have to, but I hate having a civilian involved.
“Not much around these parts, is there?” I ask.
He looks up from his paper. “Only gas for fifty miles. You stranded?”
“My friend is picking me up.” I spot the door to the restroom. “I’m going to make a little use of that.”
“Help yourself.”
In the tiny room I strip down and wash off the sweat and dust from the travels.
There’s probably no point in even stopping by any of my homes in New York, LA, or Detroit.
A sniper would spot me before I got to the front door.
There is no costume that hides a heat signature, and even Sam has never come up with a way to fake that.
When I come back out, I finish off the second bottle of water while I look out the window. It will take The Cure close to two hours to get here from LA. I need to find a defendable place and figure out what I can use as weapons, since I don’t have a thing on me.
The man resumes reading his paper. I spot cigarette lighters and motor oil. If he has some twine — yes, there’s a coil of it — I can oil it to be lit. Run it into the gas line.
That’s all a last resort. I’m not keen on blowing up this poor man’s livelihood.
I’m about to pick up the supplies when the unquestionable thrum of helicopter propellers drowns out all sound.
“That your ride?” the man asks, jumping up to look.
I peer out the window. When the dust settles, I see Colt McClure, The Cure’s son, waving from the open door.
“It is. Thank you,” I tell the gaping man and run toward the helicopter.
“I was in Vegas with Pop’s chopper,” Colt yells.
“Perfect,” I say and climb into the cabin.
The pilot gives a half salute and fires the helicopter back up.
Colt leans forward in his seat. He’s got on a UFC ball cap and a blue sweatshirt for some gym. I have to hope if this helicopter is suspected, the Vigilantes won’t do anything drastic with two civilians on board.
“We sent six choppers in random directions,” Colt says. “Good to see you again.”
“How is that lovely girl of yours?” I ask. “I didn’t get to meet her in Vegas but I’ve seen her in the ring with you after matches.” MMA fighting was popular in the viewing room at Ridley Prison.
“She’s good. We’re good,” Colt says. “So what sort of tangle have you gotten yourself into?”
“You can’t even imagine,” I say, scanning the sky. A helicopter in such close proximity to that safe house and its power outage is going to be noticed. Too bad civilian copters can’t be cloaked. I have to hope The Cure’s idea of scrambling six of them will be effective.
I don’t see any imminent danger. The skies are clear.
“Where are we headed?” Colt asks.
“I’m hoping you can tell me that,” I say. “I’m trying to find a woman who was at an MMA fight in Vegas on July 28.”
“Just as a spectator or does she know a fighter?”
“I’m not sure. But there was an altercation that got caught on a lot of cell phones.”
“Not sure I recall that,” Colt says. “But let’s see what we can track down.” He opens a compartment next to his seat and lifts up a computer. “Okay, that night the lead fight was Hendrickson vs. Jones. Opener was Peters vs. Lukov.”
“Lukov?” Jovana’s last name is Lukova, the female version of the surname.
“Yup. He actually won that one. He was a non-UFC contender and got in on that fight.”
“What’s he done since then?”
“Prepared for a big match that’s coming up,” Colt pauses. “In two days. In Nashville.”
“Can you pull up that footage from the July fight?”
“Oh, yeah, tons of hits on that if you search. It went a little viral.” Colt brings up a video. The video opens with a title slide that reads “CUTE RUSSIAN GIRL SLAMS DUDE AT MMA FIGHT.”
The footage starts on a fight. Some lean, muscular boy is being declared a winner. The Jumbotron above him shows his face and he points into the crowd. Whoever’s filming follows his finger and there she is, Jovana, jumping up and down. Her face shows up on the giant screen.
An arm comes around her neck. I see a flash of blond hair. The image blurs, then comes back into focus as a man tries to drag Jovana from the stands.
Hell. It’s Klaus. He looks rather healthy for someone who died three months prior.
The Jumbotron goes back to the fighter, but the man with his shaky phone footage stays on Jovana and Klaus. She tries to stay by her seat, but Klaus yanks on her arm. She executes a perfect judo throw, flipping him over so that he lands on his back on the stairs.
The crowd reacts, and a man’s voice, probably the one making the video, says, “That had to hurt.”
I bet. I was on the receiving end of one of those that last time I saw Jovana, the night I killed Singer. Despite all those months together, I didn’t know she was combat trained until then.
The video ends.
“Did the woman go to other fights of his?” I ask.
“No way to tell,” Colt says. He does some quick searches, but nothing else comes up. “You want to go to his fight in Nashville? I can get you tickets.”
I settle back in the seat. “I’ll get in,” I say. Forging a ticket is something I can do without any need for tech and I don’t want Colt tied to me if anything goes south. “This chopper can’t get as far as Nashville.”
“I’ve made it to Albuquerque before,” Colt says. “I can arrange for a car for you there, or another chopper.”
“A car will do,” I say. I’ve got two days to get to this fight, and a car is much lower profile. “Especially if you have something not in your name.”
“One of those deals,” he says. “I’ll tell Pop.” He taps out a message on his phone. “You must be in a real jam.”
“Dangerous one at that. Should we drop you off?” I’m feeling concerned about defending a chopper if we’re attacked in the air by Vigilantes.
“I’m all in,” Colt says.
I watch out the window. Skies are still clear. Hopefully we’ll make it without incident.