Lost Contact (The Bridge Sequence Book One), Nathan Hystad [primary phonics books .TXT] 📗

far, and the airport was growing extremely busy, with long, slow-moving lines at every corner. “What if they had them and they’re gone now?” Marcus asked as we sat on a bench, the endless cycle of stressed-out fliers walking by, the noise of luggage rollers a main part of the soundtrack.

A man mopped the floor, whistling as he wrung the bucket lever. “I have an idea.”

Marcus followed me as I approached the older man. He wore headphones, his hips swaying as he cleaned the tiles. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he seemed surprised someone had noticed him.

“Yes. Can I help you?” he asked in his native tongue.

I told him that we were looking for a locker, and that they must have stored them somewhere on the grounds.

I translated his words as he spoke them. “Yes. We remodeled a few years ago. I think they’re stowed away.”

“How can I get to them?” I asked, and he glanced around, as if searching for signs of a superior in the area.

“You don’t.” He started to mop again, placing an earpiece back in.

I set a hand on the mop handle. “We can pay you. Do you know where they are?”

“I don’t want to lose my job,” he said in Spanish. “It’s not allowed.”

“Are they on the premises?”

He shrugged, playing it casual. “I might know where they are.”

“Maybe your mop bucket has a faulty spring. What if you were looking for a spare…”

He smacked his lips and glanced at Marcus suspiciously. “How much?”

Marcus grabbed my arm and leaned in. “Rex. We give this guy a few bucks, he’ll go to the break room and call security on us.”

“What choice do we have?”

The man was getting tired of this charade, and he started to drift away from us. I named the price, casually saying it, and he stopped in his tracks, turning with a grin on his face. “Show me the money.”

I had some on me, in case a situation arose like this. Money speaks, and this man was listening. I passed it over discreetly, and to his credit, he didn’t even look at it, just folded it into his shirt pocket. I reasoned counting money in public would be a mistake you only made once.

“What locker number?”

I hated giving him my only copy but didn’t have a choice. “3B19.”

The number was stamped on the key, and he slid it into his pants. “Espera aquí.” Wait here.

We watched him take off, rolling his bucket of murky water, and I felt like we’d never see him again. Marcus bought us coffees, and I picked at a muffin while we waited. My duffel bag was between my feet, and I kept glancing at it, wondering if customs would give me any issues with the cube we’d acquired. I’d been through enough security stations around the world to know that the level of scrutiny varied. This didn’t look valuable, and I doubted it would end up being a dilemma.

An hour later, Marcus started to grow restless. “Check out the line. It’s getting out of hand, and this guy hasn’t come back. I bet he’s laughing about the gullible tourists and drinking a beer with his pals.”

He was probably right, but I didn’t want to give up quite yet. The second I started to consider joining the security queue, I saw the janitor strolling across the tiled floor, pushing a cart with cleaning supplies on it. He whistled, his eyebrows lifting as he spotted us.

“Did you find it?” I asked him in Spanish.

“Si.”

“Well?”

He returned the key first, and I shoved it away shakily. What had he found? The janitor pulled out his phone, flipping it toward us. The first image showed a locker, stacked in the corner of a dark room, and I noticed the embedded number on the open door. 3B19.

He flipped to another but pulled the phone away. “I think you’ll pay more for this.”

Marcus didn’t speak Spanish, but he seemed to pick up the man’s tone. “Tell this guy to show us already. We’re running low on time. And patience.”

“Show us and I’ll pay, if it’s what we’re after.”

He shrugged, offering the picture. The locker was empty.

“Damn it.” My shoulders slumped, and Marcus snatched the man’s phone before he could react.

“Wait.” He zoomed in, and I leaned closer. There were numbers scratched into the door. Coordinates.

The janitor reached for his phone, but Marcus sidestepped. A minute later, he tossed it to the man and pulled a few bucks from his pocket, handing it over. “I’ve taken a copy and removed it from your cloud. Go to the locker and scratch those details from the door. Lock the door and chuck the key.” I translated for Marcus, and the guy stared at the money and nodded, licking his lips. He took off as Marcus reached for his own phone, clicking the new message. “I wiped my deets from his phone too. We were never here.” He glanced at the ceiling. “You know, unless someone has access to their surveillance.”

“These are coordinates,” I whispered, staring at the phone.

He clicked it off and started for the line-up. “They are. And there are six of them.”

My heart pounded as we maneuvered through the airport. I couldn’t wait to return home and see what we learned from a blurry photo taken in a dark storage room.

____________

I glanced at the clock, realizing only ten minutes had passed since I’d checked. I’d made it home in time for Tuesday’s final exams, so I’d decided to offer my services to Jessica. She’d been angry with me, and the last thing I needed was an irate boss.

Plus, Marcus was struggling at my place to locate the sixth destination. The first five had been simple, the numbers clearly identified by Marta’s father’s crisp knifework on the inside of the locker. The lowest one had been the sloppiest, whether he was rushed, or whether he couldn’t find the proper angle from a standing position. Either way, we didn’t have the coordinates for the