Game of Dust and Ashes (Book Two in the Covert Operations series)

Twelve

The Lazy Dayz Motel, the Bronx, New York. January 29, 2021, 1:56 p.m.

A frigid cold had seeped into the city during the night. The temperatures had dropped well sub-zero and tunnels of wind had been created between the city's buildings. Yet I was happier bracing the cold than I had been stuck within the confines of the hotel room.

It was hard being there with my friends. Especially since I was unsure if I could still call them all such a thing. Carmichael's words had continued echoing throughout my head.

Keep an eye on your friends keep an eye on your friends keep an eye on your friends.

A never ending stream through my subconscious. It had set me on edge all morning and perhaps that had been his goal. There was, of course, the possibility that he'd been lying to me. The devoted actions of my friends surely were pointing in that direction. None of them seemed as if they were trying to kill me or extort me to find my father.

Yet...That had been pure truth and honesty in Carmichael's eyes. In his voice.

The decision on who to trust rested solely in my hands.

It was driving me insane. Had driven me away from the hotel, even as Max had offered again to come with me. To watch my six.

Luckily, the CIA operatives had called Max and Lia in for a meeting. In the night, even without Carmichael there, another bank had been hit. No hostages this time, no major publicity stunts. It could very well be a copycat or standard bank robbery but to be safe, Neveah Jacobs and Kenneth Riley wanted to meet and review the facts again.

Tasha had been tapping away at her computer most of the night, hacking into any security camera she could find that faced the safe house locations Carmichael had given me. Armed with that knowledge, I had set out into the cold while Tasha collapsed into the bed for a much needed rest.

The houseboat Carmichael told me about had been anchored and set ablaze on the Hudson which told me enough about their trust in Carmichael. By the time I'd found it, the port authorities had too. They'd swarmed the boat, leaving me little chance of inspecting it closely.

A loss but not a significant one. Not if Carmichael's information held true.

The Kullman Diner was entirely empty and there was no sign that they'd been there at all. If they had been, they were good at covering their tracks for not a single fingerprint could be pulled from that place. It didn't smell like bleach or any kind of disinfectant – just mould and fecal droppings – so I suspected that if they'd stuck to their contingency plans, they'd be at the motel in the Bronx.

So that was where I went. It was easy to travel unnoticed in the blistering cold. With a hood drawn tight over my head, a scarf covering the bottom half of my face, and a bulky jacket, there was no way that I was getting recognized on any surveillance cameras. Plus the gloves helped to keep my fingerprints off of any surfaces.

It was hard to know who to be worried about. My gut told me that the CIA wouldn't be an issue. They weren't actively hunting me. If anything, I would be an arrest of convenience should they manage to apprehend me. Still, I wasn't trying to give them any incentive to restart that manhunt again.

Which meant that Scorpion was still the biggest fish in the pond. The second to largest contender was, of course, my own paranoia.

Keep an eye on your friends keep an eye on your friends keep an eye on your friends.