Larger Than Life by Alison Kent (bill gates books recommendations .TXT) 📗

A pretty damn empty compartment considering the items that would've been stored inside were they not now the property of the clone brothers. He grabbed the text-messaging unit, closed up the Rover, and walked out into the field behind Neva's house. The portable unit made more sense to use than the cargo-hold computer, considering the traffic coming and going through here the last couple of days.

FM lumbered on up ahead as Mick cut beneath the pecan trees, adjusting the sport strap holding his sunglasses in place, brittle fried grass crunching beneath his boots. Neva's place was flatter than the plot of land over the border where he'd taken his tumble and ride. And her view wasn't obscured by rocky arroyos and rolling hills sliced off on one side into sharp abutments.

It was a strange place for this interesting woman to live. A place that just didn't fit. One of these days he would figure out what the hell she was doing all the way out here. What it was she was running from. In the meantime, he needed to work his spy magic.

Far enough away now that no one would be sneaking up while his back was turned, he flipped open the unit's two side wings, turned it on, and extended the antenna. Connection made, he used his thumbs on the miniature keyboard to type his password at the prompt. He doubted Harry would still be monitoring communications this time of day, but he was.

>Rabbit here.

>Savin checking in.

>What's new?

>A name. Holden Wagner.

>Spectra?

>Negative. Lawyer. Big shot.

>What gives?

>Checkered past? Look into it?

>Will do. That it?

Unfortunately, it wasn't. Mick gave Rabbit a brief rundown of Neva's network, the checkpoints, the transfer stations, the safe houses.

>Need to plug a leak.

>I'll find the hole.

>Also need a hack.

This time Mick explained the setup of Neva's satellite dish and Internet connection, along with her system's specs. The rest would be up to Kelly John Beach.

>I'll pass it to K.J.

>Tell him to set up for a possible wipe.

>Will do.

>Thanks, mate. And pack a bag,

Mick could almost hear the other man groan.

>You want me to bring hard copy?

>No. I need you to catch the train.

>When?

>Stand by. I'll check back.

>Right. Rabbit out.

Mick shut down the handheld, tucked it into his pocket. That was about all he could do remotely. He'd have to get with Rabbit in person before going into detail. But the ball was picking up speed, and Mick felt damn good about doing that much at least.

Squinting behind his shades, he looked toward the horizon where the sun was dropping in a big splash of Kool-Aid colors, watched the dog trot a few meters one direction, sniff the ground and the air, trot a few meters in another. Stupid mutt, thinking he was doing anything but blowing in the wind, losing interest in one scent, chasing down another.

If Neva'd been standing here, she would've crossed her arms, raised a brow, and wondered about the rudderless similarities between master and beast. And then he would've reached over and pulled that mass of red hair out of the band she always had it tied back in.

He wanted to ruffle her up, to see that hair fly. To get back to talking about her cause and her life. He didn't want to talk about his family, what he'd done in his thirty-three years, who he'd met along the way, who he'd killed. That shite he'd told her in the kitchen last night? That was nothing. A bit of where he'd been, what he'd seen.

He didn't want her knowing that he had no plan. That he went where Hank Smithson sent him, did what Hank assigned him to do. That when he looked five years down the road there was nothing there to see. His cause had been about taking lives, not saving them. About ruining futures, not salvaging them. And now he had no cause at all.

Which wouldn't have been a problem for the man he'd been last week. The one who pulled on his boxers when he got up in the morning, pulled them off at night, who lay there naked and sweating during the long hours between, wondering when the blood he'd shed would take its toll.

The bloody hell of it was that he'd changed since meeting Neva. He felt more. He wanted more. He wanted her, a woman hog-tied to a cause. Go after one and he'd get them both whether or not he was ready. Whether or not he was man enough. He had a feeling he was going to need Neva to help him figure that out.

Twelve

Jeanne wasn't sure if she should've called first. She hated impropriety. Showing up to talk to Neva about Candy and Spencer seemed like the worst sort of gossip. Going behind her son's back, her husband's back. She felt like she couldn't possibly sink any lower.

But when Spencer had come home early this afternoon, she'd known something was seriously wrong. He'd banged through the kitchen without stopping to eat, without saying a word. He'd just thundered up the stairs like his life depended on getting to his room and slamming the door behind him.

He had, and so she'd finished cleaning out from beneath the stovetop, peeled off her rubber gloves, and set about making him a late lunch. He hadn't wanted it. Not a bite. Not even the cookies she'd baked that morning. She'd left the tray on his desk, left him flopped on his bed.

On her way out his door she'd asked him if he was feeling ill. He'd said no. She'd asked if he'd heard bad news about his friend Jase. He'd said no. So she'd asked him if anything had happened to Candy. His reply was a simple two words.

Candy who?

So now here she was, coming to find out what, if anything, Neva might know because making things right for ; her family, cleaning up after them and for them, was the only way Jeanne knew to survive.

Pulling her ten-year-old Buick Century up to