Free Storm Front: NA Fantasy/Time Travel (Tesla Time Travelers Book 3) by Jen Greyson

men. I need that paper.
    I think hard about those moments in Nikola’s room. Taking the paper from his pocket, smelling the snap of a man freshly shaved and dressed for a meeting, the stale air and musty rent of birdseed that’s been sitting on ledges for too long. I inhale and hold the breath, close my eyes and replay each tick of the second hand. I was so consumed by every other piece of paper in the room, of finding what held me in the alteration.  
    My eyes fly open and I gasp. My pocket! I jammed it in the front of my jeans!
    My heart pounds as I crest the mountain and start down the backside into the valley.
    Those jeans were at the top of the stairs when I tripped the bomb.

C HAPTER 22

    G EHLEN AND S KORZENI , secret service (from the paper in Tesla’s pocket — THIS was the paper JP was looking for. He sent an idiot.—not JP, though. PENYA sent him (how can Evy discover this? Steinaman.). She told the guy to tell anyone who asked that JP Morgan sent him. Morgan was never involved past that night at the museum. He just wanted to get rich.
    NOT the US secret service. Russian? German?
    Tesla had a meeting with them on January 6 th , 2pm
    NO. I’m thinking about this the wrong way. Where the hell is that paper?  

    No. Wait.
    I clear my mind. I inhale the snap of ozone, the pine scent of the forest on either side of the road, the oil and grease thrumming through the beast between my legs. The lightning may have heightened everything I was capable of, but it was a part of me. Without it, I am still me, still the woman who could figure things out on my own. I’ve used it as a crutch, believed that it was the best of me, but without it, I am still me.
    At the base of the canyon a wide parking lot beckons and I pull in and downshift, then roll to a stop and kill the engine. Lightning forks overhead and the sun is completely obscured behind the roiling clouds. Thunder rumbles, shaking the ground and air.
    I think back through that night after I got home. I was headed to Papi’s to stay the night after dinner—before we got sidetracked with the math and the warehouse. I had heels and nice pants on.  
    Memories bombard me and I curl forward, clutching my head.
    Camaria as a little girl, learning to fly a hovercraft, sailing over glass pods that must be houses. Her excitement flutters in my stomach.
    One from Nikola. A simple set of tasks as he readies himself for the meeting. He makes a deliberate point of writing the information on a crisp, new sheet of paper, then stares at it, like he’s taking a snapshot.
    For me to see.
    I try to memorize the details on the page. I don’t have a damn thing to write with. I hold the memory, kick the engine alive and race to Papi’s since his place is closer.
    I try to think of nothing other than holding that image. It wobbles.
    This wasn’t a meeting reminder. It’s a clue. Like the coordinates hidden in the equations. I don’t know how I know that but I do.
    There’s something here. I just have to get to Papi’s so I can write it down.
    Lightning flashes and the scent of rain drenches the air. I’ll never make it. I pull into the gas station, the one where this all started. Devon’s working and I hop off the bike and race inside, waving for him to give me a pen and paper.
    “Wow. Haven’t seen you in—”
    “Paper. Now.  
    “Still so personable, I see.” He grumbles and prints a long stream of receipt paper and hands it over. I grab the pen that’s chained to the corner and start scribbling. “Fuck.” The pen is out of ink. “Give me something to write with.” I’m losing the image and repeat the details under my breath so I don’t forget. January 6, 2:00 p.m., Misters Gehlen and Skorzeni, Secret Service, Patrina Diner.
    “What are you talking about?” he asks, squinting. I’m sure he thinks I’m losing my mind. Maybe I am. I repeat the phrase. The image vanishes.
    I shake my head and hold my palm toward him, urging him to hurry.
    Outside, raindrops