Free The Fugitive by Pittacus Lore Page A

Soda for me, diet soda for her.
    But I can’t let my excitement about any of this cause me to make some kind of idiotic move that gives away my location. I take a deep breath, try to focus, and then pull up a map of Huntsville, the closest big city. I find a Waffle House on what looks like a busy intersection based on the size of the streets and email the address to Sarah.
    Can we meet here? I’ll have to make sure you don’t have a tail or anything. I’m kind of wanted by a bunch of different bad guys. Come every day at 2 p.m. I’ll be watching. When I’m sure everything’s okay, I’ll take you back to my base.
    Ten minutes pass. I wonder if she’s thinking about whether or not she wants to come. Or if she’s arguing with John about what to do.
    Whatever it is, she finally responds.
    I’ll be there. I’ll head that way tonight.
    I laugh, grinning to myself in the back room of the cabin out in the middle of nowhere.
    Sarah’s still alive and fighting. She’s okay.
    And she’s coming to Alabama.
    I know I told her she’d have to come to the Waffle House a few times before I took her back to home base, but as soon as I see her getting out of the taxi the next day, I know that’s not going to happen. It takes everything I have not to burst out of my truck—which I’ve parked in a grocery store parking lot across the street—and cross six lanes of traffic to get to her. Instead, I try to play it cool, because I know I can’t jump into this. We need to play everything as safe as possible.
    But I can’t just watch her leave the restaurant when she’s done eating. I won’t let her slip away again.
    So I wait ten minutes and then call the diner. I describe Sarah to the woman who answers and manage to sweet-talk her into handing the phone over.
    “Hello?” Sarah’s voice comes out of the receiver, and it’s glorious.
    “Hey,” I say.
    “Mark, where are you?”
    “What’s the nickname those asswipes in Helena gave you?” I ask. I have to be sure.
    “Huh?”
    “I think they were from your bio class.”
    “Oh,” she says. “Sarah Bleeding Hart?”
    I grin.
    “There’s a parking garage two blocks north of here. I’ll be on the second floor. Look for a blue truck.”
    “Can’t you just . . .” But she must know how important it is to stay underground. To be incognito. If she’s been with John since she left Dulce, she has to have caught on by now. “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”
    I hang up and jet over to the parking garage—the one I scoped out after Sarah finally emailed me back. There I wait, texting GUARD to let him know she’s shown up.
    The waiting is terrible. I’ve been trying to rescue, find or even just be in contact with Sarah for weeks—ever since she disappeared—but the minutes it takes for her to walk from the Waffle House to the parking garage feel like years. With every second that ticks by, I can’t help but imagine some terrible scenario that keeps her from getting to me, or some way that I’ve screwed up and doomed us both.
    Finally, I see her wandering up the ramp and onto the second floor of thegarage. I flash my lights, and she hurries towards me.
    And then I’m out of the truck and running. It’s like my body is operating outside of my brain’s control. Everything in my head is saying Get in the truck. Get both of you to safety. Keep your heads down and don’t even talk until you’re back at the base . But my legs are moving, pumping on their own accord and bringing me sailing towards Sarah.
    We practically collide in the middle of the parking garage, wrapping our arms around each other.
    Finally. I’m not alone in this anymore. It’s not just me and GUARD’s messages.
    “Mark,” she says into my shoulder.
    The way she squeezes me makes my arm hurt like hell, but I ignore it. I feel like some huge weight has been lifted off me.
    “Jesus, Mark,” she says again, her arms still around me. “What have you been doing?”
    “You’d think I was joking