Page 24 of Protecting You
“If for some reason I’m not here when you wake up in the morning, then call your dad, tell him what’s going on, and ask him to get you out of town.”
The last thing she wanted was to run to her father for help. “Be careful.” She swiveled and went to her bedroom.
It was after midnight, three hours later, when she finally closed her laptop, her eyes as gritty as beach sand. But she’d found the name of the Russian. Once she passed it along, she’d be done with all this craziness.
Despite Callan’s so-called guarantee.
CHAPTERSIX
Callan was almost positive nobody had followed him.
Almost wasn’t good enough, though.
After he’d arrived at his Charlestown apartment, he’d taken his time packing a bag. He’d meandered to the bus stop and waited for ten minutes before the bus finally arrived. After a short ride to North Station, he’d hopped on the Green Line T into Boston.
All that time, he picked up no tail.
He exited at Park Street, aimed for the exit, then shifted to the underground corridor that led to Downtown Crossing.
It was late on a Wednesday night, and nobody else traversed the tunnel.
If there had been somebody watching, surely he’d have seen them behind him. Unless they monitored every T-stop in the city.
His own people could do that, if they had enough advance notice, but he was fairly certain Ghazi couldn’t.
He caught what was probably the last train headed north on the Red Line. He didn’t take it all the way to the Harvard stop, though, which was the nearest T-station to the hotel. Instead, he hopped off just north of the Charles River at MIT and met an Uber he’d ordered on the way.
If people had followed him on the subway—and he didn’t think anybody had—the car certainly would have thrown them off.
Altogether, it’d taken him an hour and a half to return to the fancy-shmancy hotel from his apartment, which was, as the crow flies, about two miles away.
But he’d gotten the things he’d need for a few days and confirmed that nobody was watching his apartment.
The door to the Rooming House opened as he approached.
“Good evening, Mr. Crenshaw,” the bellhop said.
“Good evening, Jeeves.”
The man’s lip quirked at the corner. “It’s William, sir.” He lowered his voice. “But you can call me Jeeves if you want.”
Callan stepped inside, giving the man a quick smile. “I was afraid you’d gone to bed, William.”
“There’ll always be someone here to let you in.” He flicked his gaze to Callan’s suitcase. “And collect anything you might need.”
“I appreciate that. Good night.” Callan headed for the elevator.
It only took him six minutes and two wrong turns to find his way back to the room.
Inside, everything was as he’d left it. No light shone beneath Alyssa’s door, so she’d finally gone to sleep.
Though her light had remained on for hours after she’d fled into the bedroom, and it'd still been on when he'd left to go to his apartment. She was probably still not convinced he wasn’t lying to her about everything.
Exasperating woman.
Callan closed his bedroom door and left a voicemail for his boss, giving him a quick rundown on what was going on. He didn’t know Malcolm Springer well enough to predict how he’d take the news.
He might be furious.
