The Grid (A Jon Cantrell Thriller Book 3) by Harry Hunsicker

Author:Harry Hunsicker
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Mystery, Thrillers & Suspense, Spies & Politics, Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers, Police Procedurals, Terrorism, Espionage
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2015-08-25T07:00:00+00:00

- CHAPTER THIRTY -

The sunlight hits Sarah’s eyes as she leaves the bar.

It’s the noon hour.

She squints and puts on a pair of Dior sunglasses, not the cheap ones she uses when she meets a horndog.

Her head buzzes from the Bloody Marys, eyes half blind from the light.

She staggers into the parking lot, holding her cell phone.

Someone is accessing RockyRoad’s account.

The voice of her grandfather rings in her skull: They’re looking for you, girlie.

The phone feels hot against her palm, like all of the sun’s energy is being directed into that tiny chunk of plastic.

You really think you could kill a lawman and get away with it?

“Shut. Up.” Sarah squeezes her temples with one hand.

Even I never shot a damn cop. In Texas, at least. The old man cackles. Louisiana, now that was a different story.

“Please, just be quiet.” Sarah wanders across the parking lot to the sidewalk by the street.

The bar is behind her, the hospital across Gaston Avenue. Traffic whizzes by.

A homeless guy with a grocery cart stares at her. He pushes the cart into the gutter to avoid an encounter.

How’s your letter to Dylan coming?

Sarah sinks to her knees, the dirty concrete pressing against the artfully faded material of her True Religion jeans.

You’re telling her all about me, aren’t you? About her great-grandpappy?

“What do you want?” Tears stream down Sarah’s face.

I want to keep you out of prison. What the hell do you think I want? One grandkid going to the joint is enough, dontcha think?

She stares at the screen. Her profile page is being accessed again, this time by someone called “Admin.”

“The phone.” Sarah jumps up, frantic. “They can track me through the phone.”

“You okay, lady?” The homeless guy is still staring at her. He’s a few feet away, a concerned expression on his face underneath all the grime.

She realizes how she looks. She’s wearing a white silk blouse, $300 jeans, and Jimmy Choo pumps. An Hermès purse that costs as much as a used car hangs over one shoulder.

And she’s crying in front of a bar so sleazy even the cockroaches are on parole.

“I’m fine, thank you. Everything’s okay.” She sniffles, backs away from the homeless guy.

A store that loans money on car titles is on one side of the bar. A taco stand is on the other. Between the taco stand and the bar is a strip of asphalt leading to an alley.

Sarah dashes away from the street, toward the anonymity of the alley.

The area behind the bar is shaded with trees and smells like old garbage, rancid grease, and human feces. It’s full of overflowing Dumpsters, split trash sacks, and eight zillion crushed beer cans.

But no people. And she’s not visible from the street.

Sarah heads to the nearest Dumpster. She smashes the cell phone against the corner of the trash receptacle.

Nothing happens. The screen doesn’t break. The website is still visible.

She drops the phone on the pavement. Stamps it with her foot.

The device remains in one piece, screen still illuminated. The thin pumps she’s wearing pack very little punch.

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