The Brummie Con by Jeffrey A. Ballard

Author:Jeffrey A. Ballard [Ballard, Jeffrey A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: New Rochester Publishing
Published: 2017-10-22T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I CROSS THE multi-lane traffic at a stop light several streets over from the Brummie Co-op Artists building into a cobblestoned pedestrian area of restaurants and bars. The night is cold, cutting across my cheeks, which are still hot from my run-in with that ass-bag Ty. I scurry across into the area lit by streetlights and multi-colored signs.

The area is busy with patrons. Couples walk arm-in-arm hurrying to their destinations. Girls’ boot-heels clack on the cobblestone as they pass. Lone people stand outside either talking or messaging on their pocket tablets, many with thin coats or none at all. And out of them all rise up streams of hot white air.

How can they stand the cold waiting around like that? I search quickly for a half-empty pub (Fishy’s is several blocks northwest of here).

The goal of tonight was to set the stage for arousing Ty’s suspicion, to get him to dig into my concocted backstory. The evening had a few twists and turns, but ended decidedly well when Ty so graciously planted a tracker on me.

Except now I have a tracker with unknown capabilities on me (like possibly being able to intercept text) and I need to signal Puo, without alerting Ty, to send Winn out to meet me—I intend to use this to accelerate our plans and be days ahead of schedule.

The thought awakens the jackknives, floats my father’s image of a broken and bloodied face across my mind’s eye. My breath quickens. I can feel the jackknives rising, spreading. Blood races, throbs through my neck. Oh, God. I’m starting to feel like I did on the train trailing Shǐ back in November, when I had that panic attack.

I slow my pace and my breathing, take measured, deep breaths, fill my lungs with rich oxygen, hold it for a second and then imagine breathing away the jackknives. I feel my feet in my black winter boots connect to the cobblestone underneath me. The cold against my cheek. I hear the chatter of the pedestrian area, doors opening and closing, the sounds of the people gathered together. I smell the street, the cigarette smoke of a nearby patron. Breathe.

It works. The rising jackknives recede. They’re still there, but in the background. I let out another deep breath. Back to functional, which I’ll take at the moment. I look for an opportunity to alert Puo about this tracker, and turn it to our advantage.

The Gilded Crown fits the bill. No one is waiting outside and the pub looks subdued through the two front bay windows. I head straight for the long wooden bar towards the back, passing by the dining area filled with soft conversation and the rhythmic sounds of people eating.

I open the comm-link to Puo and cup it in my hand, as I walk up to the wooden bar.

The bartender, an old Englishman who’s bald like a friar and with a gut of stone, turns his attention from one of the float screens in the corner showing a soccer match.

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