She opened the door and stood there in what looked to be her pajamas.
“Yeah?” she said brightly. She had dirty blond hair that spooled around her narrow shoulders. Her face was button cute and her eyes danced with both focus and merriment. She was in her late twenties, she had told him, but sometimes, like now, the woman still looked to be in her teens. She was too skinny, but otherwise appeared healthy to his eye. She had bunny slippers on her feet. Her room was a wreck. Devine had seen more orderly spaces after he’d tossed a grenade inside them.
The walls were covered in yellow and green Post-it notes. She had three large computer screens on her desk. There was a white-board that had revenue and profit projections, and a business flow chart along with a corporate organizational schematic.
He knew that Tapshaw had gone to MIT. Her undergrad degree had been in computer science. He’d also learned that she was a world-class gamer; in fact, she had used her winnings to start her company, she’d told him. She’d also won some prestigious international awards for her out-of-this-world computer skills and overall brilliance. Then she’d tacked on a fast-tracked MBA from Harvard. The burly, beer-chugging Russian downstairs knew his way around computers, Devine knew, but this shiny-faced skinny young woman trying to build an empire in the love and dating space might be in a totally different league.
“How you doing, Jill? Ever come up for air, or food?”
He really liked her. She was ambitious, but nice, and didn’t think too highly of herself. He didn’t run into too many people like that. And she had a tender smile and a kind, if na?ve, manner.
“Oh yeah, I had . . . breakfast, I think.” She looked unsure, and gazed back into her room, as though searching for evidence to back up her statement.
“It’s dinnertime.”
She looked stunned. “Wow. That went by fast. When I go to the office I usually at least have soup and some coffee, but I’ve been working here all day.” She fixed on his injuries. “My gosh, what happened to you? Did you fall off your motorcycle?”
“Slipped in the shower. Valentine has pizza downstairs. You might want to hurry before he finishes it.”
“Good idea. Hey, are you doing all right?”
She obviously knew nothing about his dilemma. Her entire world revolved around Hummingbird. But it was nice that she had asked.
“No complaints. Look, if you ever take a break, there’s a place nearby that has good tequila.”
“I love tequila.”
“Well, then.”
“How about next weekend? I know you work long hours.”
“Thanks for noticing.” He grinned. “I know you keep kind of busy, too.”
She looked at her note-clad walls. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? But it feels cool to be, I don’t know, building something. Particularly something that people need and could help them.”
“Beats what I do for a living. Now, go get the pizza. If he puts up a fight come get me.”
“Thanks.”
She fled down the stairs. A few moments later Devine heard Valentine cry out, “Hey, no, that’s . . . oh well, you already bite into it. So America. But hey, I am American now, so is all cool.”
Devine snagged his bike helmet and went out the back door.
CHAPTER
19
COWL’S SUBURBAN PALACE WAS QUIET tonight. Or so Devine thought as he sat on his bike and surveyed the place with a pair of night optics he’d brought back from the war. He figured the Army owed him that. Lights were on, people were moving around inside, and there were a couple of normal cars in the front, meaning a BMW Eight Series and a Maserati convertible. You could have bought at least ten of them each for the cash Cowl had dropped on the Bugatti.
Devine jogged across the road and took up position in the hook of a tree in a stand of oaks, which had been allowed to live when they had otherwise clear-cut this area. He could see into a fresh set of rooms from this vantage point. He hadn’t seen the bikini blonde yet and there was no sign of Cowl. But the place had eight garage bays, so the Bugatti could be in one of them.
Devine sat there for a few minutes. Remaining motionless for long periods seemed to be counterintuitive when thinking about what a soldier spent time doing. But the more intelligence you had beforehand, the better the eventual fight would go.
He shifted out of the tree, hustled over some open ground, and jumped up on the perimeter wall. Then, keeping his upper arms and elbows planted firmly against the wall, he slowly lifted the optics up to his eyes, adjusting the focus.