Beaufort, South Carolina
March 31
Milo Graves sat on the vinyl couch in his rental cottage and bit into a fast-food burger. He glanced at his laptop as he licked ketchup from his thumb. His little demon was working like a charm. His device had a long range, and, short of taking the computer apart, it was undetectable. He didn’t know why the big security operative had taken Charlotte Devlin to this backwoods dump, but according to his tracker, this is where they had pulled off the main highway.
Now that he knew her location, he needed information. People in small towns noticed newcomers. He’d ingratiate himself with the locals, ask around. While Milo himself was a forgettable visage, Charlotte was memorable.
He felt a frisson of delight at the thought she was moving to the remote area to escape him. He almost laughed; there would be no escape. He readjusted the pillow under his calf. Rather than risk a hospital visit, Milo had stitched the dog bite himself and taken the rest of an unfinished prescription of antibiotics. It seemed to be healing, but the throbbing pain continued, a drumbeat reminder of his failure. Purging his self-derision, he reminded himself that successes were built on failures. Mistakes were to be learned from and never repeated.
Milo pondered the little hacker’s change in location. Frustration bloomed as he imagined beginning the process of observing her from scratch. Then, as if the clouds had parted and a beam of sunlight had broken through, Milo had an epiphany. The remoteness of the location provided all sorts of opportunities for creativity. He finished his lunch, tossed the wrapper on the floor, and opened a search engine on the computer.
A plan formed in his mind, the pieces falling into place like Tetris blocks. Yes, he’d track beautiful Charlotte, and then he would kill her, closing the circle on his perfect, unsolvable equation.