BACKTRACKER by Milo Fowler (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

andsqueezed the tension in his lower back. It had been a long day, and workingthese night jobs was definitely starting to catch up with him. But there was noexcuse for this lapse. Inwardly, he cursed himself. How could he have been socareless? "Can I help you, ma'am?"

"I certainly hope so."

But that was all she said, regarding him warily from behind herveil. She wasn't bad to look at, that was for sure. Italian roots, maybe, witha figure women half her age would have been more than content to call theirown. He faced her, giving her his full attention. And she seemed to appreciateit, like a woman does when she's got a man right where she wants him.

"I want you to leave," she said. "Right now."

Must think I'm an undesirable.

Plenty of them crawling around the streets these days, but hedoubted many managed to grab any winks in this place. For one thing, thebenches were spotless. Undesirables tended to leave a telltale layer of residuebehind, wherever they went.

He reached into his coat, and she took a step back in alarm.

"No, look—my ticket." He held up the flimsy strip ofplastic, illuminated by his train number and departure time in holographicprint. "I'm not spending the night here," he reassured her.

"You need to leave." Adamant now.

What's she going to do? Call security? That wouldn't be good. Theymight not let me back in. When would another chance like this presentitself? He'd had the place to himself, and he'd squandered it by flying underthe radar. Why hadn't he gone straight for the locker—security be damned? He'dtalked himself out of plenty an awkward situation with law enforcement in thepast. He shouldn't have tried to play it safe tonight. Look where my littlecharade's got me now.

"Okay." He held up one hand as he returned the uselessticket to his pocket. "I'll go."

He rose to his feet under her watchful eye. She took another stepback, her bag close to her midsection. Who was she? Some wealthy investor withstock in the commuter train division? Did she think he was dangerous?

He glanced down at his attire. A little disheveled, but heobviously wasn't a vagrant. His car had parked itself right across the street,for crying out loud.

"Just need to get my stuff." He gestured up toward thethird tier.

The item. Sitting alone in locker #316. Waiting for him.

"Leave it."

He parted his lips to reply, but she came close all of a sudden, her dark eyes widebehind the veil as she pressed against him.

"They know," she whispered.

He stiffened. Only his eyes moved, rotating to the side, then up.Security? There wasn't a single officer in sight. Only this strange womanseeming to know a lot more than she should. Was she just another player on thescene, attempting to sway him off course?

He replaced his fedora, tipping it to her out of some obsolete chivalrous habit,and left without a glance back, hands thrust deep into his pockets. Tensiongripped his gut and wrung it tighter with every step. The short hairs on the back ofhis neck stood at attention. They wouldn't relax until he was far away atexcessive velocities.

He could feel them watching him: the woman, the security cameras.Had the police already been Linked? Were they on the way?

The Peddler set me up.

His fingers closed on the keycard in his pocket, and the echoingrhythm of his steps slowed to a stop. He half-turned to glance back, the brimof his hat casting a shadow across his eyes. The woman stood between rows ofpews like one of the lonely faithful, clutching that handbag of hers as if herlife depended on it. She returned his gaze.

Maybe she was right. Maybe the authorities knew what he'd comefor, and they were on their way to stop him. But in the silence, only onethought emerged that really mattered:

They're not here yet.

He broke into a run—not out of the building, as common sense wouldhave dictated, but straight for the stairs leading to the third tier and locker#316.

Muldoon's coat flailed behind him, his arms pumping as he mountedthe steps two at a time. The clatter of his footfalls echoed from every wallwith a rhythm that demanded attention, like a man standing atop a twelve-storybuilding, prepared to throw himself down—but first he's got to draw a crowd.

This is suicide. The lengths a detectivewould go to for the Holy Grail. The last will and testament of one HarryMuldoon—

He shook his head to clear it. The odds stacked against him werehigh enough to collapse at any second, but he clung to a thread of hope that hecould still pull this off. His plans had already unraveled, and theintroduction of this new player on the scene—Madame Mystery—wasn't helpingmatters any. But he couldn't leave without the item. He was closer now thanhe'd ever been before. It was in the building. He just had to get to it beforethe authorities arrived.

Even if police showed up en masse and cornered him between therows of lockers, cuffed him and carted him off to the gulag on smugglingcharges, if the item turned out to be what it was supposed to be...thenthere was really nothing they could do to stop him. Not for long,anyhow—assuming he could figure out how to use it.

He glanced mid-stride down at the main floor of the plaza. Thewoman was nowhere in sight.

The glass-walled surveillance center sat at the top of the stairs.Heheaded straighttoward it with the audacity of a fully wiredterrorist. He half-expected to see a pair of security officers crammed into uniforms long past their expiration date comebarging out of the sliding doors with batons swinging and shrill whistlesblaring. You there! Stop!

But there was no commotion. Instead, a cold silence welcomedhim.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe they hadn't seen anything out of theordinary. Muldoon was just your average commuter who'd overslept, after all,and he'd climbed up here to collect his belongings. Nothing amiss. Theydidn't know anything at all about the item in locker #316, and the woman inblack had just been blowing smoke—sent to scare him off-target.

But sent by whom?

He slowed to a stop, eventhough he wasn't close to the lockers. He stood outsidethe