Death by Denim (10 page)

The first thing I noticed as we crunched along the lonely road was that the dark clouds overhead seemed to be lower than they had been before. The second thing I noticed was that on this road, unlike the larger road we had just left, no streetlights lit the way. We literally had to stumble along through the dark.

And then it began to rain. The drops started out small and tentative as if they were scoping out the countryside before planning an assault with the bigger artillery. Sure enough, they grew bolder. Like the rain at the cemetery, big, fat drops soaked through our clothes and splashed up from the ground at our feet.

Ryan pointed to what looked to be a farming shed about one city block down the road. “Come on!”

I didn’t need any more encouragement than that. He grabbed my hand and we ran through the rain to the shed, only to find it closed up tight, with a padlock hanging from the door.

“Hold on.” Ryan pulled out the gun.

“Wait! Don’t
shoot
it.” I tried to grab his arm, but he shook me off.

“We’ll leave some money for repairs,” he said, and pointed the gun at the door. He fired and the lock fell open. Rolling the door back, he shooed me inside.

I couldn’t really see much of the place, but I could smell it. Fresh dirt, old hay, and very possibly natural fertilizer gave the place a pungent, very farm-y odor. Once my eyes adjusted, I could see a tractor with a miniature flatbed attached to it sitting in the middle of the shed. Stacks of hay bales lined one wall and an array of farm implements hung on the other.

I had to admit that I was glad Ryan had destroyed the lock so that we could duck inside. Not more than a minute after we did, the sky ripped open and water poured down in solid sheets. With the rain, the temperature dropped even more and sucked away what little heat I had left in my body. I shivered so hard my teeth chattered and my back ached.

Ryan stood in the doorway, his tall figure silhouetted black against the lesser black of the storm. “Why don’t you lie down and get some rest?” He said. “I’ll keep watch.”

Again, my sense of feminism bristled. I could stand watch just as well as he could. But I was tired. So very, very tired. And then there was my mom’s voice echoing in my head.
Sleep when you can. Sleep when you can
.

I let my eyes stray to the hay bales and considered that it wouldn’t hurt to close my eyes, just for a moment. Then I would trade places with Ryan and let him sleep. It seemed like an equitable arrangement to my tired mind. I drew Ryan’s jacket around me and curled up on the hay and before I knew it, I was out.

I
saw Seth in my dreams. I was sitting on the shore, watching the waves curl inland when he emerged from the sea like Poseidon’s warrior, sun glistening across his chest and on his wet, slicked-back hair. He strolled toward me purposefully. Water dripped from the hem of his board shorts, pooling at his feet, bringing the ocean with him.

He dropped to the sand beside me and pulled me into his arms. I snuggled up to him, curving my arm around his neck to draw him closer. He brushed the hair from my face and whispered my name.

“Aphra.”

But the voice wasn’t his.

All too soon I remembered where I was. Where
we
were.
Ryan, not Seth
, I thought, disappointed.

Ryan’s fingers whispered across my cheek as he brushed back a stray strand of hair. “Aphra, are you awake?”

I’m not sure why I didn’t answer him. I think it was something in his voice, like he was checking not to see if I was awake, but to make sure that I was asleep. I lay deathly still and waited to see why. Silence roared in my ears. And then Ryan’s footsteps creaked across the floor of the shed, moving away from me. The rollers softly protested when he opened the door. I heard the gravel crunch beneath his feet as he stepped outside.

I sat up, feeling like a heavy stone had just been dropped square in the middle of my chest. From outside the shed I heard the low register of Ryan’s voice. He was talking to someone. Talking in a furtive, don’t-let-the-girl-hear kind of way.

I leaned forward, straining to make out the words. What was he saying? Who was he talking to? I stared at the pale shaft of moonlight spilling across the floor from where the door had not completely shut.
The rain must have moved on
, I thought absently.

And then I caught the urgent tone of Ryan’s voice. I didn’t like the way it sounded. Slowly, carefully, I scooted to the edge of the hay bales and pushed myself to my feet. I tiptoed across the wooden floor and hovered just inside the door.

“. . . lucky to even find a signal. Yeah. We’re near Cassano Magnago, probably another hour or so to Varese.” He listened. “What? Are you ser—No, I know what you’re saying. Right. Yeah, she’s sleeping. . . . No, I’m not going to tell her. She’ll come along; she trusts me. . . . Right. We’ll see you in Milan.”

His phone snapped shut and I backed away from the crack in the door. I leaped for the bales just as I heard the door squeak open. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to pretend I was sleeping, but what I really wanted to do was to scream. I couldn’t believe that just hours before, I had felt safe and secure with Ryan, when all along he’d been lying to me. What wasn’t he going to tell me? That we were diverting to Milan? The secretive tone of his voice played over in my head and I could have slugged him.
She trusts me. . . .
Yeah, right. Not anymore.

Ryan’s footsteps drew nearer. He sat down beside me.

“Aphra,” he called softly.

It was all I could do not to rear up and slap him in the face. Instead I rolled over and squinted up at him. “Hnnnh?”

“It’s stopped raining.”

I sat up, smoothing back my hair. “What time is it?”

“Six o’clock.”

“Six?”
I hadn’t realized I had slept that long. I bolted off the bale of hay. “What time is the train?”

“Relax. We’re not far from the station. We still have about a half hour.”

Sure. If we wanted to catch the train to Milan. I pulled off Ryan’s jacket and shoved it at him. “Here. Thanks for letting me use it.”

He blinked at me. “Uh, okay. You sure you don’t need it anymore?”

I headed for the door. “I’m positive.”

 

He was right; the station wasn’t far at all. Just down the road, past the hay fields and over a gentle rise. In the early morning light and with the mist left from the rain, the farmland we were hiking through looked like a pastoral painting. But I was much too angry to enjoy the scenery. He lied to me. He
was lying
to me. My mom was right; you can’t trust anyone.

We’d only been walking for maybe fifteen minutes before I could see the tracks curve ahead and not long after that, the hipped roof of the station.

I did a lot of thinking in those fifteen minutes, and although I ended up with more questions than answers, one thing I knew for sure was that there was no way I was going to Milan. Not with the remaining threat against Seth and his family. I could only assume Ryan had been talking to the Agency, and no matter what they said, I wasn’t going to abandon the Mulos.

How I was going to escape from Ryan was another matter. He wasn’t going to let me just walk away. I thought of how he’d chased me the night before and I knew I wasn’t going to outrun him, either. He’d said I needed to work on my evasion technique. Fine. That’s exactly what I’d do.

As Ryan bought our tickets, I studied the schedule on the wall. It was six twenty-two. The train to Milan headed south from track four in six minutes. The train we
should
be taking curved north to Porto Ceresio, stopping in Varese. It left in twelve minutes. What made him think I would be stupid enough not to know the difference? Because I trusted him? Wrong.

I pretended not to notice the destination clearly posted next to the door and allowed him to lead me onto the deception train.

We found two empty seats together and Ryan stepped aside so I could take the one by the window. Or, more likely, so that he could box me in. I closed my eyes, resting my head against the back of the seat.

“You still tired?” Ryan asked.

“Sì.”
I answered, without looking at him. Tired of being lied to.

Soon, the voice on the train’s intercom announced our imminent departure. I stood. “Excuse me,” I said.

Ryan glanced up, startled. “Where are you going?”

I gave him a pained look. “I need to . . . you know.” I jerked my head toward the restrooms at the end of the car.

“Oh.”

I climbed over him and hurried down the aisle, feeling his eyes on my back the entire time. I glanced at my watch. The train should leave in less than a minute. I reached the doors to the bathroom. Thirty seconds. Paused. Twenty seconds. I kept walking to the vestibule. Ten seconds. Ryan bolted out of his chair and started charging down the aisle toward me. The chime sounded overhead. Five seconds. I slipped out the doors just before they closed.

Standing on the platform, I watched as the train sighed and shuddered forward. Inside, Ryan slammed his fist against the window, yelling something I couldn’t understand.

I cupped my hand to my ear and mouthed, “I can’t hear you.” The car passed and Ryan was gone.

 

According to what the schedule had said, I had six minutes before the train for Varese departed. I scurried into the station and bought a non-reserved ticket to Varese and then rushed back to track number one where the train idled, its engine harnessed and humming. Passing up the line of reserved-seating cars, I found one with a non-reserved sign toward the rear of the train and climbed on board.

There were only five other people scattered throughout the car. Three of them were sleeping—one snoring loudly—one man was reading the newspaper, and a guy with a huge backpack in the seat next to him was holding his cell phone in both hands, thumbs moving at lightning speed. None of them looked up.

I chose a seat two rows back from the snorer—far enough away that I had a little space, but close enough that I wouldn’t stand out as the lone person if anyone glanced into the car.

It wasn’t until the train had left the station that I started having second thoughts about ditching Ryan. Once the adrenaline wore off, I had to admit that I didn’t actually know what I was going to do once I reached Varese. Besides find Seth, I mean. But being bait didn’t seem like such a smart idea if there were no longer a trap. If the Agency had withdrawn its support—which I had to assume was true since Ryan was supposed to divert me to Milan—then we would be on our own.

What I didn’t understand was
why
they would have diverted. When Caraday had spoken to me, she’d sounded so intent on carrying out the mission. Like it was as personal to her as it was to me. I couldn’t imagine her changing her mind in less than six hours. Unless . . . I flopped back against my seat and groaned. My mom. She probably pitched a fit when she found out where I had gone. I could just see her demanding that they yank me from the job. I didn’t know what kind of pull she had with the Agency, but given her top secret status, it was probably substantial.

I had one of those heart-dragging, gut-sinking feelings you get when you’re waiting for the next shoe to drop. I was going to be in major trouble when she caught up with me. But how could that be worse than not doing anything and knowing that I would never have a normal life? Even if the Agency happened to warn the Mulos this time, unless they caught The Mole, the cycle would just continue again and again and again. Couldn’t they see that by now?

All they had to do was look at how he had chased the Mulos over the years. Everywhere they had run, the Mole had come after them. He found them in California and Michigan, he found them on our island, he found them when they split up and now he’d found them in Italy. What would stop him from finding them again? Or finding my mom and me?

Plus there was the way he had managed to infiltrate their own Agency. Weren’t they the least bit worried about that? He had been able to embed a spy in my mom’s operation in Seattle and he’d known exactly where we were in Paris. There was no reason to believe he would quit stalking any of us . . . unless he was caught.

Caraday was right; to catch The Mole, the Agency had to flush him out. Why weren’t they doing that?

I probably would have dwelled on that particular point a bit longer, but my attention was drawn to the conductor in his dark blue suit, making his way through the car, punching tickets with a distinct
kachink, kachink
. I fidgeted and waited until he reached my seat and asked for my ticket.

I handed it to him and he started to punch it, but then he stopped. He looked at me, then at my ticket, then at me again.

“You are English?” he said with a heavy accent.

My stomach dropped. Had Ryan alerted the train already? How was that possible? They were going to stop me. They were going to make me get off. They—