Hotter Than Wildfire

by Lisa Marie Rice

  “Ellen Palmer. Look at your friend Kerry. She’s still alive but won’t be for long if you don’t get in touch with us. Send us a message with your location right now or we’ll keep on hurting her. Eventually she’ll die, but it will take her a while. Get in touch with us and we’ll take her to a hospital right now. If you don’t get in touch, you’re signing her death warrant. It’ll be on your head.” Piet sent the file with the stills and the digitized voiceover to the message board.

  It was in the lap of the gods now. Palmer would open it when she opened it. But when she did…they’d have her.

  Montez watched and didn’t speak until Piet powered the laptop down. “Now what? We need to be close to where she is when she opens the laptop. Where is she?”

  Piet thought about it.

  He’d had Montez take him to Palmer’s apartment and leave him alone in it for an hour. The human equivalent of giving a hunting dog the prey’s shirt to sniff.

  In an hour, he’d gotten her measure. No drugs, no alcohol beyond a dusty bottle of whiskey in a cupboard with half a glass missing. No fancy clothes, no fancy jewelry, very little makeup. Basic cable. Lots of music CDs, bought and not pirated. Lots of books, paperbacks.

  Montez said she hadn’t missed a day’s work in two years working for him.

  The singing was a surprise because she had apparently kept her talent hidden, which was interesting. She’d only put her voice out there when she needed the money. Otherwise it looked like she’d been perfectly happy being a waitress, earning minimum wage.

  She was a perfectly ordinary woman who’d been on the run for a year, who’d been flushed out of one safe haven, who’d found another in San Diego, and found a protector with it. She wasn’t a warrior or an operator. Protection would be welcome.

  She wouldn’t leave where she’d found it.

  “She’s still in San Diego,” Piet said. “I’d bet anything on it. Let’s bury this”—he flicked a thumb at the redly gleaming corpse on the chair—“and get down to San Diego fast. I have an idea.”

  In flight, over Sacramento, California

  A private jet is a good way to travel, Piet reflected. It beat military transport hands down. He’d been around very rich men for a long, long time now, but their luxuries still fascinated him.

  He was a man who’d been flown halfway around the world on retrofitted C-130s for personnel transport, sitting on canvas seats, strapped to webbing for thirty-hour flights. No food, no water, and you pissed in a bottle. If you had to shit, tough shit.

  The South African Armed Forces for a while had used beat-up Vietnam-era Hueys. The noise level penetrated even the cheap ear baffles. It had been like riding inside a huge, metal shaker with sharp edges designed to rip you to bits if you didn’t hang on.

  Miles and millions of dollars away from this Learjet 45. They’d flown in style and comfort from Georgia to Seattle and now were flying in style and comfort from Seattle to San Diego.

  The cabin smelled of new leather and lemon polish. The captain and his copilot had welcomed them aboard like royalty and they’d taken off from the General Aviation section of Sea-Tac ten minutes after they’d boarded.

  No waiting, no fuss, no inspections.

  Piet would never be this rich, and even if he were, he wouldn’t have a private plane. Keeping a plane like this meant leaving a huge footprint in the world. You had to hire pilots and maintenance crews, file flight plans, hire a hangar to keep the damned thing when you didn’t need it. It was a giant fist in the face of society—Look how fucking rich I am. Montez clearly needed to wave that fist, make the point.

  Piet didn’t.

  They sat across from each other in ergonomic seats covered in soft, butter-colored leather with a designer fiberglass table between them. Piet was peering into his computer monitor when Montez spoke.

  “So why the fuck are we heading back to San Diego?” Montez’s voice was sullen. He was still mad at having lost the girl before he could have his fun, the moron. “She could be anywhere by now.”

  “Mm.” Piet finished what he was doing before answering. Montez, being Montez, would find it a sign of disrespect, but he didn’t give a shit. “It’s a question of psychology. She’s been on the run for a year and she’ll be tired of that. She went across the country and settled in the last city you can be in before falling into the ocean and stayed there until you flushed her out.”

  And lost her.

  The words were unspoken, but a dull flush appeared under Montez’s dark skin. “For some reason she goes straight to San Diego. And it turns out that the reason she’s there is because she’s got a protector of some kind. Girl’s not ex military, doesn’t have a martial arts background. Near as I can tell, she’s just an accountant who sings. She’s got someone—I think she’ll keep him. As long as he’s around, she’ll stay.”

  “Even if you’re right, San Diego’s a big town. We’re looking at three million people in an area that’s almost four hundred square miles in size. And that’s not counting Tijuana just across the border.” Montez slapped the expensive leather of the seat. “Shit! We’d know where she was now if that bitch hadn’t offed herself!”

  Piet doubted that. But whatever. The woman was dead and indulging in theatrical outbursts wasn’t going to bring her back to life, and more important, it wasn’t going to help them find Ellen Palmer. Cool, calm logic would do that.

  “Look at this.” Piet turned the laptop so that both of them could see the monitor. It was a map of a section of Seattle. Red lines connected dots of different sizes. It was the same map with the same data points that had helped them find Kerry Robinson.

  Montez’s jaw muscles clenched. “Yeah, so? We found her friend and now she’s dead. How’s this going to help us?”

  Piet didn’t sigh, but he did want to punch that childish pout off Montez’s face. “Look at these routes.” Piet ran his finger from the Blue Moon to where Ellen Palmer had been living to Kerry Robinson’s apartment. The lines made huge dog legs. “What do you see?”

  Montez fixed him with a hard, black stare. “I don’t like guessing games, Van der Boeke.”

  Geeste bul, Piet thought. Damned idiot.

  “This,” he indicated with his finger, following the dogleg routes, “is how she got to work and how she went to visit her friend Kerry.”

  Montez stared at the monitor, scowling.

  “And this,” Piet continued, pulling up another online map, “is a map of the bus routes in Seattle.” He manipulated the images until he found the section of town on the first map. The bus routes followed the doglegs exactly.

  Montez wasn’t getting it, and that made him angry. “Get to the point,” he growled.

  “I think Palmer ditched her car before she arrived in Seattle or else ditched it in Seattle. I don’t think she had access to a car. I think she took the bus everywhere she went. And look at this…”

  He brought up another map, a tangle of streets. Montez leaned forward, staring at the map with narrowed eyes. “So? What am I looking at?”

  “A map of San Diego.” Piet tapped two points. “This is the hotel she booked and this is the Greyhound bus station.” The two were a block apart. “I think she took the bus from Seattle to San Diego and checked in to the first hotel she found.”

  “Okay, okay.” Montez sat back. “I get it. She’s without a car. How does that help us?”

  “When she came back to the hotel where your men were waiting for her, how did she get there?”

  Montez was paying attention now. “The last word I had from my men was she was getting out of a cab.”

  “Exactly. I hacked into taxi company records. There are fifteen cab companies in San Diego, and in the fourth company, I found a record of a fare being dropped off at that hotel at 11:52 on the fourth of April. He picked the fare up on Birch Street, which has a lot of fancy high rises. It’s in the heart of the business district. And the security cameras there worked just fine. Here she is. Coming out of the Morrison Building.” />
  Piet clicked and brought up the file. No grainy photogram-per-second film for that street, no sir. Top-of-the-line cameras with high-definition digital film that showed everything clearly. And it clearly showed Ellen Palmer running, hailing a cab and taking off. A white script in the bottom right-hand corner showed the time in digital display: 11:34.

  “Fuck,” Montez breathed. “That’s her.”

  “Yes.” Piet realized that this was the first time Montez had seen Ellen Palmer in over a year, and it was taking him a minute to process her image on the screen. His eyes were wide with surprise.

  Christ, how had this guy ever become a soldier? Real soldiers process new intel instantly, no matter how surprising; otherwise they’re dead. Green-haired Martians could appear in front of him, and he’d have his weapon up and firing in a second.

  Montez blinked, coming back to the here and now. “So what’s in there?”

  “What’s in the Morrison Building? It’s a big complex. There are almost a hundred different companies in the building.” Piet clicked on the print function and paper scrolled out of the small laser printer on a console built in to the bulkhead. He plucked the paper out of the printer and slid it across to Montez.

  He hoped the guy wouldn’t have the smarts to ask the obvious question—which office did she come out of—because the answer was, I don’t fucking know.

  It made him angry that he hadn’t been able to crack the building’s internal security cameras. Someone really good with computer security had made the building’s system almost hackproof. But nothing was completely hackproof. When Piet got back home he was going to crack the system, on principle. In the meantime, though, he had fuck-all.

  “There are fifteen private investigation services, eight security companies specializing in various areas, most international, and a shitload of lawyer’s offices. Many of them specializing in criminal law.”

  There, that would take Montez’s mind off wondering why Piet couldn’t hack his way into the building’s system.

  Montez scrutinized the paper. His hand was firm, but he was sweating. A drop of sweat trickled down from his forehead, over his temple and dripped down onto his white linen shirt. He ignored it.

  “We’re going to get a ping when she accesses that bulletin board she set up with the dead bird. I’ll triangulate from there. But she’ll be in San Diego, and I’m willing to bet good money she’ll get back to whoever she was dealing with in the Morrison Building on Monday morning.”

  The intercom came on and the pilot announced that they’d begun their descent into San Diego.

  Piet sat and buckled his seatbelt. He tapped his laptop screen before powering it down. “That’s our lead, right there. We’re going to stake out the Morrison Building during the day, sleep in a hotel across the street during the night, taking turns keeping watch. Sooner or later she’ll show up.”

  San Diego

  Turned out nagging didn’t work, but tears did.

  She started by dropping gentle hints, which Harry totally ignored. She even batted her eyelashes, to no avail. Harry stood firm, like a man.

  But when Ellen teared up a little, Harry broke. The tears weren’t fake. She yearned to go for a walk in the sunshine so badly her heart ached. She drew the line at pouting, but the tears were real.

  It took most of Sunday morning, but she did it.

  “No,” he said at first, and kept repeating it. No no no no.

  Seducing him softened him up for the kill. They had brunch in bed, and she was lying on his hard chest, listening to the deep vibrations of his voice as he patiently listed the reasons why going for a walk on the beach was a bad idea.

  Though he couldn’t know specifically where she was, presumably Montez realized she might still be in San Diego. Never underestimate the power of coincidence. They might be walking along and one of Montez’s thugs might be casing the beach at that exact moment. Montez wouldn’t have access to NSA satellites, thank God, so they didn’t have to worry about something Harry called Keyhole, some superspy satellite. But Montez could have a couple of ships at sea, men with binoculars lined up along the railing. And maybe one of those men might be looking through a scope of a rifle, on the lookout for her.

  That stopped her for a second, then she shook the thought away.

  “Harry. Listen to me.” She reached up to kiss that strong, firm mouth, and it turned down.

  He patted her behind. “I know you think you can get anything from me using sex, and it’s true, you can get more or less anything you want, just not this. Diamonds and rubies, yes. This, no.”

  “I don’t want diamonds or rubies.” Ellen drew a circle in his chest hair until hair swirled around her fingertip, then pulled.

  “Ouch.” His voice was mild. “And torture won’t work, either.”

  She’d been teasing, but now she sat up, covering her breasts.

  “Oh man.” Harry sighed in regret at seeing them disappear behind the sheet.

  Ellen looked him straight in the eyes and spoke to him from the heart.

  “I’ve been on the run for over a year now, and I’ve lived mostly in the dark all this time,” she said quietly. “I crossed the country sleeping in motels during the day and driving by night. When I waitressed I always chose the evening shift. In Seattle, too, I worked the evening shift and stayed inside during the day. And anyway, it rained most days. I haven’t gone for a walk in the sunshine in over a year.”

  She’d got out of bed at dawn to draw back the curtains, and now she gestured to what she could see through the large French windows: a blindingly white beach and an achingly blue sea that met a slightly lighter sky way off on the horizon. Buttery sunshine from the sun that hadn’t crossed the rooftops yet cast a gentle glow over everything. A soft, gentle breeze moved the curtains slightly. It was going to be a scorcher later, but right now the morning was fresh and cool. It felt like the first morning in the history of the world.

  Ellen actually ached to be outside, to feel the sun on her skin, warm wind against her face.

  She kissed his cheek, his mouth, pulled back and looked at him. “This past year, I’ve been indoors, alone and afraid. Gerald has taken everything from me—my job, my home, my life. My freedom.”

  She knew he’d spent the past year indoors, too, wounded and alone. Surely he’d understand.

  “I’m not stupid. I understand there’s a slight risk he could have tracked me down, though I can’t see how.” Now for the big guns. She reached out, lightly placed her hand on his chest, right over his heart. “Harry, if I have to spend the rest of my life in hiding, in the dark, it’s not a life. Nicole told me a little about your past, and I think you understand what it’s like to feel deep despair. To feel like you’re condemned to the darkness forever.”

  Her eyes grew wet. She wasn’t faking it, not much. Most of it was real.

  Harry closed his eyes, swallowed convulsively, placed his big hand over hers. She could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart under her palm, and the strength and warmth of his hand over hers. Strong and steady, the two attributes of Harry.

  He swallowed again.

  “Honey…I can’t stand the thought of you being hurt. And the thought of you falling into Montez’s hands…it drives me a little crazy.”

  “Yes,” she said. She could see that. “I know what I’m asking you. But I need to feel the sun on my face. Even for just half an hour.”

  His jaw muscles worked as he processed this. Ellen simply waited. She had no way to make him do something. If he wanted to keep her indoors, she certainly couldn’t wrestle him to the ground and escape, or trick him. And she didn’t have any more words to sway him with, because they stuck in her throat, tight with longing. She’d told him how she felt and now it was up to him.

  Harry opened his eyes and looked down at her, his golden gaze fierce and penetrating. “You will never be more than a foot away from me at any time. You stick to my side like glue. Is that understood?”

  Her heart took a
delighted leap. “Yes, of course.”

  “I’m taking Sam and Mike with me, and we’ll be armed. Is that clear?”

  Oh God, she was going to wreck their Sunday. Was it worth it? She consulted her inner compass and decided yes, yes, it was worth it. She felt starved of fresh air. Inside she was already pumping her fist in victory.

  “We stay out half an hour, tops.”

  Half an hour wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. His gaze never wavered from hers. There was only one possible answer.

  “Yes, Harry.”

  He reached across to the bedside table, keeping his eyes on hers as he flipped opened his cell phone and dialed a number on speed dial.

  “Harry, yeah. Listen, Ellen wants to walk on the beach. I’m against it, but the thing is, she hasn’t had a walk in the sunshine for a year, and I know exactly what that feels like. I don’t like it, but I can understand it. Half an hour. Can you and Mike—” He expelled a breath in relief as he listened. “Yeah, thanks. See you downstairs in fifteen minutes.” He flipped the cell closed, turning to her with a half smile. “So what are you waiting for? Get dressed. We’re going for a walk on the beach.”

  Yes!

  Ellen was waiting at the door two minutes later, hopping from one foot to another with excitement, waiting for Harry to get ready.

  Downstairs, to her dismay, Nicole was waiting with Sam and Mike.

  Ellen turned to Sam to protest Nicole’s presence, but before she could speak, Nicole smiled at her and winked. “Ellen, hi. What a great idea to go for a walk. It’s such a beautiful day, isn’t it, Sam? Come on, let’s go.” She gave her husband a sharp look that told Ellen that they’d argued over this. Sam grumbled something and Nicole ignored him, taking Ellen by the arm and walking out.

  The men scrambled to create a security cordon around them. Ellen and Nicole strolled down the walkway to the beach like two Hollywood divas surrounded by bodyguards.

  Ellen would have felt shame, but oh God, it felt so good to be outdoors! She lifted her face into the sunshine and inhaled deeply, eyes closed. So many scents, all of them good. The brine of the ocean, traces of the juniper that lined the walkway, the scent of pine.