Page 28 of O'Mega's Revenge
I traded out my boots for a pair of over-sized, generic, work boots. If someone found my tracks, there would be a million other pairs of shoes like this that would foul a match. I added two pairs of socks to keep them from sliding around. Then, very carefully, I walked the fence line.
Twice I was forced off by terrain. So, I found a likely game trail and slipped under the fence. That dumped me near the back of the farm. There was an attempt at a garden, but it was overgrown. The gate was hanging off its hinges, and it seemed out of place with a multi-million-dollar facility just a couple hundred yards away. The farmhouse was lit up. The barn was as well. I checked the location of my tag and slipped around a smaller pole barn. The van was right there. I reached under the bumper and pulled the tag off. Then took a photo of the plate. From there, I worked around the lot and took pictures of any other vehicle I found. There were almost a dozen. Some shitty, like the van, and some fancy as fuck. A light flipped on, and I tucked behind a utility vehicle.
The guard walked around the lot, checking on the cars, jiggling locks on the outbuildings, shining his flashlight into nooks and crannies. He worked his way closer to me. I wedged under the little truck and found a good spot to tuck my body into any cranny I could. I balanced on one hand and a knee, hoping he wouldn’t shine the light directly under the vehicle. He swung the beam by the tires. The shadows stretched out on the dirt. He moved on, not noticing anything amiss. I didn’t dare breathe, let alone let anything relax, until he moved on to the horse barn. My foot got caught in the wedged space I’d tucked it into. That cost me precious minutes working it loose without making noise. Eventually, I slipped my foot out of the shoe, then retrieved the fucking thing.
Once it was back on, I fought for calm, taking careful, slow breaths.
The yard light flicked off, and I closed my eyes to readjust my vision. I blinked a bit to make things move faster. Finally, I listened to the night. Nothing. Just normal noises.
I was much more careful returning to where I’d stashed my bike. Even then, I was reluctant to fire it up. As I debated whether I should or shouldn’t make noise, I checked my phone.
The number icon next to my message app stated I had forty voice mails. Those could wait. I switched to my text message list and ignored any from a sister.
Danielle left me a message. It was sweet of her to ask if I was okay.
Nothing from Wolf.Damn.
Fuck it.
I tucked the phone into a secured pocket and fired my beast up. I tore out of there and straight to the interstate.
The ride sucked. Traffic sucked. Going south sucked. Waffle House didn’t suck. Pecan Waffles with a side of maple bacon and sweet tea at four A.M. was the stuff that heaven wished it could be. I was about twenty minutes from the farm and stalling. That counter badge next to my voice mail was much higher now. Instead of reading my text messages, I deleted them.
I loaded the license plates into the search app I used for my job repossessing cars. Took notes on the owners listed, addresses, and any other detail I could glean from the information.
Three were attached to businesses in the region. Two had private addresses, and the van wasn’t in the database at all. That was strange. I chewed on a bite of waffle I was too stuffed to swallow and wrote a note by the plate numbers I’d scribbled in my journal.
“You going to eat that?”
Missile slipped into the booth opposite me.
I shoved the plate toward her. The waitress stopped by to take her order for another side of bacon and a coffee.
“Mmm, pecans. Best shit ever.” Her mouth was full, and she poured more syrup on the half I hadn’t eaten.
It was a moot point to ask how she found me. My bike was distinctive, and the restaurant a must-stop after a long ride. The whole chapter ate here at least once a week.
“What ‘cha working on?”
“Repo.”
“Oh.” She shoved more sticky food into her mouth. Why was I lying to her? I had no clue, except for the invisible wedge that lay between us.
“So, I talked to Trot.” She paused to take a sip of her coffee.
I kept reading my notes and looking at the photos I’d taken. I worked out the rough outline of my trail tonight and sketched the image of the farm boundaries I found online.
“She says you’re right.”
I set my pen down to give her my attention.
“Well, you know. I uh… wanna say some shit, and you know how it is.”
“No, I don’t know. What do you want to say?”
“The stuff Trot said.”
Missile was a horrible conversationalist. “What did Trot say?”
