Page 52 of PSYCHOlogical

Chapter Eighteen

Val

Ifound it ironic that my life was cradled in the hands of a man whose resume included manipulation and murder as his most notable skillsets. Working alone, however, I’d likely find myself face up on a stainless-steel slab in a morgue. The coroner would dig a military-issue bullet out of the parietal lobe of my brain and label it the cause of death.

I didn’t like thinking about it, but thoughts of being hunted by one of DNI’s men bounced around in my head like a pachinko ball. Regardless of which scenario I entertained, they all ended the same way.

With my body stuffed into a zippered black bag, drained of all its fluids.

I stared at my burner phone. The $39.00 Kyocera flip phone looked like something from the turn of the century. With 100 minutes of prepaid service, no contract, and no required identification to activate, the phone’s mere existence reeked of criminal activity.

I nearly leaped from my seat when it rang. I flipped it open. “Hello?”

“What time does your phone say right now?” Vincent asked.

“Huh?”

“The time on your phone,” he said. “What time is it?”

I lowered the phone and looked at the screen. “5:21.”

“Exactly?”

I looked at it again. “5:22 and five seconds.”

“At 1737, I need you to pick me up in the 1300 block of River Road. Northbound lane. I’ll be in a silver BMW sedan. You can be a minute or two early but don’t be late. If there’s anyone gathered around or on the road, don’t stop. If the road is clear, pull alongside the BMW, unlock the passenger door, and wait.”

“Where will you be?” I asked. “I’m not familiar with what’s—”

“I’ll be easy to find,” he responded. “It’ll be the only BMW on River Road smashed into a telephone pole.”