Page 10 of Consumed
Park glared but picked up the phone, and a few minutes later a very junior agent—Con couldn’t remember her name—emerged from the elevator with a manila envelope. She had that sort of eager expression all newbies brought to everything, until their experiences jaded them and toughened them up. She trotted over and handed the envelope to Molina and, after what may have been an aborted salute, hurried off again.
“Man, they’re recruiting babies nowadays,” said Molina as if he were ancient. He, like Con, was probably in his midthirties. “Okay, let’s go find some wheels.”
“Shouldn’t we read the packet first?”
“I’ll take the first shift driving, and you can read as we go.”
That displeased Con, but Molina was already marching away, envelope in hand.
Since different missions had different vehicle requirements, the Bureau’s garage housed a varied fleet. Con had never paid much attention to any of them, but when he caught up, Molina was looking them over and rubbing his hands eagerly. “God, I’d love to get behind the wheel of that Porsche. Probably not real practical, though.” He sighed and looked at Con. “Which one doyouwant?”
“I, uh… I dunno.” Cars were not really Con’s thing, other than making sure that his was maintained as needed.
“Hmm. We don’t need space for gear, but I don’t know what kind of roads we’ll be on, so maybe four-wheel drive is a good idea.”
Con refrained from pointing out that if they’d read the packet, they likelywouldknow what terrain to expect.
But then Molina gave him a considering look. “Is an SUV gonna be a pain in the ass for you to climb in and out of? Or maybe it’s easier than a sedan.”
Well, that was a surprise. Con hadn’t expected Molina to even think about his mobility issues in this way, let alone care. “I’m fine with anything as long as it’s not super low-slung.”
“Cool. 4-Runner it is.”
Molina dashed off into the depths of the garage, returning moments later with a duffel slung over his shoulder. He moved so easily, so gracefully, as if he and the world were perfectly suited to one another. Con hadn’t been that nimble even before the orcs.
They ended up in a black SUV with an interior that smelled strongly of leather upholstery. The passenger seat was comfortable, but Con was acutely aware of being confined in a small space only inches from another man. A very handsome man who wore a cologne with cedar and citrus notes, whose big hand cradled the gear shift in a way that made Con blush and look away.
Clearing his throat, Con started to open the envelope.
“Hang on a sec,” Molina said. “We have a decision to make. Which route do we take?”
“I MapQuested it out last night, but since I didn’t know where in Arizona we’d be going—”
“I know the basics. Depending where we’re headed, the 10’s probably a little shorter, but not much, and I’ve never been out on the 40. Wouldn’t mind a change of scenery since we’ve got plenty of time.”
They should probably take the quickest way. But Molina was grinning like a mischievous schoolboy, and Con had never taken a true road trip. “I guess the 40’s fine.”
Molina whooped and gunned the accelerator.
By the time Con had carefully made his way through all the paperwork, they were heading north over the mountains on I-15. Molina had turned the radio on and was singing along, out of tune, with the loud music. He laughed when Con turned it down. “Not a Dead fan?”
“Huh?”
“Grateful Dead? My parents were big Deadheads, back in the day. I guess some of that rubbed off on me.”
Con had heard of the Grateful Dead—he hadn’t lived that far under a rock—and he knew that even the name of the band would have horrified his parents. “I’m not very familiar with them.”
“Well, it’s old-school for sure. When it’s your turn to drive, you can pick the tunes.”
“I should debrief you on the contents of the packet.”
That made Molina snort. “You talk like a training manual.” Before Con could protest, Molina raised a hand. “Tell you what. Wait until we have dinner, okay? Then you can give me all the details you want.”
How could the man not even be curious about the assignment? Maybe that was what happened after years in the field: the whole thing became as routine as clocking in for an assembly-line job. Anyway, Con wasn’t in the mood to argue. He turned his head to look out at the desert and, unable to do much else, listened to the music.
It wasn’t nearly as horrible as he’d assumed it would be. In fact, the melodies and harmonies were really pretty, and the lyrics weren’t remotely evil. Sure, some were about drugs and various other crimes, and sex was at least a subtext for others. But they weren’t filthy. There were far more explicit passages in the Bible.
Molina seemed content to tap his fingers on the steering wheel and sing a few words here and there, and he and Con didn’t speak until they pulled off the freeway and into the Barstow McDonald’s parking lot. Molina parked the SUV and unbuckled. “Man, I need to piss so bad. Too much coffee this morning.” Then he hopped out, leaving Con with a slight blush that he hoped Molina hadn’t seen.
