Page 21 of Exit Strategy

“There is no trail, no cellphone traffic, no smart vehicle tracking, no credit or debit cards, and most importantly, taking a detour away from the most direct, or most efficient exit strategies is the second to last thing that they should expect us to do.” She nodded thoughtfully.

“What is the last thing they should expect us to do?”

“Not make a play at all, to have stayed in Hollywood, or just Los Angeles in general.”

“If that was the last thing they would expect, why didn’t we do it?”

“Because you’re something of a celebrity and it would take Arik five minutes to get every paparazzi and celeb-stalker in the city looking for you. If they can catch that stalker who stole what’s her name’s Frenchies by recognizing the dogs, you would be easy to catch.”

“My hair?”

“Is beautiful and noticeable.” She clutched at it, her face screwing up into a scowl. “And there are plenty of women with red hair, so it’s not an issue.”

“It feels like itisan issue,” she said.

“We’re going to employ something that celebrities are awful at, urban camouflage. We’re going to make you look like a normal person, just any other woman, and they will be so busy looking for Calanthe Rex they won’t notice Callie—”

“I’ve never been normal,” she said.

“Don’t worry, the hardest part about it is that it’s boring.” I smiled.

“What would you know about pretending to be normal?” she asked.

“Callie,” I said. “How much do you know about me?”

“Some?” She shrugged.

“How about you hop into the tub and relax? I’ll get some room service heading this way. I’ve got a few emails to send and will find out what we can do to normalize you.”

* * *

There were onlya couple of emails to send through the crypto server. I needed a doc to take a look at Callie and had no way to get a hold of one of those underground operators, but I knew people who did. Hopefully by morning, I would have some answers on that front. RedRoan was an upright guy, and it would be worth owing my old captain again if it meant that I was sure that Callie was going to be okay.

Food and booze came quickly, but room service was a hit-or-miss affair. I had seen some hotels border on being psychic delivering food. There were other hotels that took hours to get mediocre microwave-level shit to a room even when they knew they were bringing it to one of the highest-grossing stars in the industry. The paparazzi camped in the parking lot, celeb stalkers in the hallways, security bogged down, and Mister Rex having booked the entire floor or even wing of the building, and still an hour for a shrimp cocktail.

That had been a truly epic rant.

He had sent his personal helicopter to fly to a beachfront bar, pick up a phoned-in order, and flew it back faster than the hotel could deliver the saddest five shrimp in a plastic wine glass cocktail to his room. He had screamed and then thrown the cocktail on the hotel manager.

Should have been a clue, really.

He had threatened violence, something about shoving the lemon wedges up the chef’s ass and fucking his wife and daughters so they would know what a real man was. The entire security detail had a laugh at that. It was easy to laugh. The non-celebrities were looking at three-to-four-hour waits, and most everyone at that point had decided it was better to send runners on foot to get food through the blockage of groupies and New Eden protesters.

Fucking Fallout, they were almost always around, with their picket signs and chanting. Half of our job in security was keeping them contained. At least I didn’t have to deal with them now. Praise fucking God.

“Room service is here,” I said, knocking on the bathroom door. There was nothing but silence. I knocked again and still no response. I shouldered the door open, adrenaline surging through my body as nightmare scenarios strobed in my head. She had fallen asleep, or had a convulsion. She was slipping under the water, drowning in steaming hot water. The door banged against the counter, and Callie startled in the tub hard enough to splash water everywhere.

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” I sputtered. She stared at me with huge eyes, her hands clutched over her shoulders, concealing her breasts under a cloud of bubbles and red skin. Bubble bath?

“Is… is everything… okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I just thought, fuck, I don’t know what I thought,” I said. “Room service is here. There’s a bottle of pinot and some food, and you didn’t answer when I knocked.

“Oh, I probably had my head underwater.” She gave me a smile.

“I’ll go. I’ve been in here too long.”

“It’s okay, Kurt. You’ve seen me nude before, haven’t you?”

---