Page 88 of The Scout

Will.

Both of them were out there somewhere, and I was stuck here, helpless, waiting.

Then my phone rang.

The sudden sound made me jump, my heart stuttering against my ribs. I yanked it from my pocket, my pulse hammering as I stared at the screen.

Unknown Number.

I hesitated.

It was probably nothing. A telemarketer. A wrong number. I didn’t have time for this?—

But something in my gut told me to answer.

I swiped the screen. “Hello?”

There was a pause, then a man cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Hi. This is gonna sound weird, but I work at a rental car company out near the airport.”

My grip on the phone tightened. “Okay?”

He hesitated. “A guy came in a couple of days ago and prepaid for a car. Said he might not be able to return it himself and to call this number if I didn’t hear from him within forty-eight hours.”

My stomach plummeted.

I swallowed. “What was his name?”

“Didn’t leave one,” the man admitted. “Paid in cash, didn’t ask questions. Just said to deliver a message if I didn’t hear from him.”

The breath in my lungs turned sharp, tight. “What message?”

There was a rustling sound on the other end, like he was flipping through papers.

Then—

“Department 77.”

I blinked. “What? What does that mean—Department 77?”

“That’s what he said, ma’am. I have no idea.”

The words meant nothing to me. They could’ve been a street address, a government code, a phrase in a foreign language for all I knew. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

I parted my lips, about to ask something else, when the guy driving turned in his seat, his gaze locking onto me with laser focus.

“What did you just say?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a knife.

I blinked. “I—I don’t know. Some guy just called and told me to pass along a message.”

The guy in the passenger seat stiffened. “Say it again.”

I swallowed, the hairs on the back of my neck rising. “Department 77.”

The shift in the car was immediate.

The driver reached for his radio, pressing a button on his vest. “Say again?”

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