“Not until you pull over. For safety purposes, texting and driving isn’t—”
“Gary, send the damn address!”
Her phone vibrated.
The words popped onscreen and her eyes went wide. No. Nonono.
Hanging up without a word, Waggs quickly dialed Zig’s number. “C’mon, Ziggy, pick up . . .”
No answer. Of course. At Grandma’s Pantry, they blocked all cells. Still, if Zig was already there . . . and if Nola was headed there, too . . .
Waggs hit the gas, and the car took off. Up on the windshield, the beetle hadn’t moved.
Right in front of her the entire time.
92
Nola didn’t like being back here.
Tugging the steering wheel hand over hand, she felt that familiar shift in her stomach—that same sense of dread from when she was little and would come home from school, grab a snack in the kitchen, and spot a newly emptied bottle of scotch in the trash.
Even at nine years old, it’s not hard to know when trouble’s coming.
Tonight, as her car rounded the corner, Nola rode the brakes, taking it slow. There were no other cars around, no one in sight. At 9:00 p.m., the block was quiet, but it looked darker than she remembered. There. On her left. A bulb out in one of the streetlights.
Mongol . . . Faber . . . She never got through it, never got to the names of the other pencils that her art teacher, Ms. Sable, had given her as a gift and that meant so much to her all those years ago. Just being here—being back here—this place was an echo, vibrating through her, vibrating through time, old memories tugging her down in their undertow.
Years ago, during her first visit, Nola came here to do good, to set things right. But like any decision you look back on through the lens of time, what you marvel at most is how na?ve you were.
Halfway up the block, Nola parked on the street. Better to approach by foot, so no one would see her coming. For a moment, she just sat there, wrists resting on the steering wheel, the undertow still tugging. She hated that feeling of old wounds throbbing like new wounds—but what she hated most of all was that old version of herself, the one who allowed her to get hurt in the first place.
Kicking open the car door, she could see Mint on that first day, could still hear his corny speech that everyone said he gave at the start of every investigation. Humans are born with two fears: falling and loud noises. Every other fear is learned.
He was right—though that didn’t make your fears any less real. Only way to do that was to tackle them head-on.
Speed-walking up the block, Nola stuck to the shadows. The cars out front told her who was already there—and who wasn’t. At just the sight of her destination, the undertow was overwhelming.
It didn’t slow her down.
At the front entrance, she took a final glance over her shoulder and gave the doorknob a twist. To her surprise, there was a click. Unlocked.
Never a good sign.
If she were still in the Army, this was when she was supposed to call the ops center for cover.
Instead, Nola reached into the back of her waistband and pulled her gun.
Without a word, she elbowed open the front door—and disappeared inside.
93
As Zig shoved a handcuffed Elijah into the warehouse, the first thing he noticed was the flag.
He saw it the moment he stepped inside, hanging from the vaulted ceiling. The warehouse itself was wider than a Costco and BJ’s side by side. Throughout its nearly seventy aisles, the words Grandma’s Pantry weren’t written anywhere. Outside, there was no sign for Strategic National Stockpile. Yet as Zig stared up at the nearly football-field-sized American flag, there was no mistaking the message: this place belonged to Uncle Sam.