by Meg Gardiner
“Don’t.” The man raised his pistol and centered it on Coates’s chest. “Hands behind your head.”
4
The limo pulled off the freeway into a sketchy industrial area of warehouses and machine shops. Autumn saw cracked asphalt, rusting cars, trash, men in dirty clothes. They passed a vast parking depot for empty big rigs: truck after truck after truck.
“So not five-star,” she said.
Kyle glanced in the rearview mirror. “This ain’t the destination.”
His voice twanged around the limo. It had an unpleasant echo. I’m driving, and that’s that. Peyton took another swig of champagne. Grier turned up the stereo. Sinatra, “Come Fly with Me”—he was taking the Rat Pack theme to extremes.
Autumn knew the contours of the game. Terry Coates had outlined it and sent her forms to fill out, on everything from medical conditions to nut allergies. She’d had to sign on every dotted line. She hadn’t been told that adulthood would involve so much paperwork. She didn’t like it.
But she did like the crime spree scenario: She was the head of an international criminal enterprise that trafficked in pleasure. She was on the run after breaking out of prison. Running with her were Lark, her enforcer; Grier, her consigliere; and Dustin, her deputy and prime piece of beef. They would attempt to escape Peyton and Noah, the federal agents hunting her down.
And she wasn’t just going to escape from federal custody. She was going to take down the enemies who had betrayed her and sent her to prison. She was going to destroy their centers of power, rob them blind, and collect booty. Loot, swag, pillage. Because it was her birthday.
She felt nervous and excited and—hungry. She couldn’t wait to get going.
But she didn’t know why the scenario had to start in such a dismal neighborhood. The Hummer sped by a huge parking lot, a sloping black prairie of asphalt, and she saw stadium lights. Candlestick Park came into view. It was a grimy concrete Frisbee plastered with billboards for the ’49ers. An endless line of aqua blue Porta-Potties bordered the whole empty, sagging affair.
Then Autumn spotted golden fields dotted with stubby pines and caught the sparkle of sunlight off the bay. Kyle swung the Hummer through a gate. He gunned it through a long, empty parking lot and stopped sideways across four slots. The engine coughed and hacked until he shut it down.
He turned. “Okay, kiddies. We’re here. Sack up.”
Dustin squinted against the sunlight. “This is Candlestick Point?”
Kyle got out, opened the passenger door, and beckoned the group out. Noah held out his hand for Lark. She shook her head. “Opposite teams, Noah. I let you grab my hand, next thing you’re slapping a pair of cuffs on me.”
“You take that risk.” Smiling, he gripped her hand and got out.
Peyton followed, tugging Grier along. “Hey, I’m a U.S. Marshal. If anybody plays with handcuffs, it’ll be me.” She tucked a finger under Grier’s belt. “And I’m talking to you.”
Grier popped the collar of his shirt. “You won’t get me. I pay people off. That’s my job. If I can’t, I run.”
Kyle looked like he was trying to keep a straight face. “If you like shackling prisoners, Miss Mackie, shouldn’t you be wearing a police uniform?”
She smiled, patently coy. “You like handcuffs?”
He smirked and poked up the brim of his cap. “Knots are more my style.”
Autumn pushed Peyton forward and climbed out. “Move, Mackie.” Before you start doing a pole dance.
Candlestick Point State Recreation Area was virtually deserted. The grass was unmown. The trees were gnarled by the wind. On the sand at the water’s edge, a man was performing tai chi. In the distance an elderly couple ambled along, pushing a baby stroller that held their tiny white poodle.
Past the glittering water, on a spit of land that protruded into the bay, giant loading gantries and cranes stood idle at the abandoned Hunters Point Naval Shipyard. On the bay, a container ship steamed toward Oakland, its wake as white and frothy as cake icing. The wind battered Autumn’s hair away from her face. She pulled on a Marine Corps utility cap and smoothed down her gold cashmere sweater.
She inhaled the strong sea air and shivered. All at once she felt great.
Dustin came up behind her and nuzzled her neck. “Last kiss before battle?”
She leaned her head back. “Last kiss till one of us takes the other as a prize.”
On the asphalt next to the limo, Grier and Noah shadowboxed. Lark’s phone rang, and she answered, “Reiniger Cartel World Headquarters, Sobieski the Assassin speaking. How may I direct your call?” Then, giggling, “Hi, Mom.”
Kyle scanned the parking lot, one hand steepled over his brow. After a minute he reached inside the Hummer and took out a walkie-talkie.
“Ritter calling base.”
Static.
“Ritter calling base, come in.”
More static. He got his phone, made a call, and frowned. Autumn knew that look. It was the one she got when she called her father. Voice mail.
She tugged on Dustin’s sleeve. “All that crap from my dad about getting here on time, and we have to stand around waiting for the game to start?”
Dustin shrugged. His smile was slippery, like it had been oiled. “They’re going to spring things on us. It’s cool.”
“Ask the driver what’s going on.” She pinched him. “Dustin. This is boring.”
Dustin raised his hands in submission and walked toward Kyle. “Hey, man, thought your team was supposed to be waiting for us here. What’s going on?”
Kyle looked up, sheepish behind his sunglasses. “Coordinating with HQ.” He frowned again at his phone. “It’s just . . .” His lips, full and red, had constricted. He looked baffled.
Autumn crossed her arms. “Where are the other game runners?”
Ritter raised his hands, a mollifying gesture. “Guys, I’m as new to this as you. Let’s just ride it and see what happens.”
“New?” Autumn said.
He smiled, greasy and uncertain, trying to play it. “I’m Edge’s most recent addition to the team.”
“You’re brand-new on the gig?” Dustin said.
“First time for everybody, man. It’s no biggie. And I’m sure this delay is just a glitch.” Kyle gave one more beseeching glance at his silent cell phone.
“Are you telling us we came to the wrong place?” Dustin looked around, weaving.
Autumn’s voice rose. “This has been planned for months. And you came in at the last minute?”
The others stopped horsing around and walked over. Noah said, “What’s going on?”
Autumn pointed at Kyle. “Did you screw up? Because if you did, my dad will have your ass on a skewer.”
Kyle’s expression dried, like a chunk of Sheetrock. “I did not screw up. We changed plans at the last second, thanks to a specific request by your father for Edge to provide this limo. My boss called me at seven A.M. We had to scramble to get this Hummer and pick you all up,” he said. “So no offense, Miss Reiniger, but if there’s a problem, it’s your dad . . .”
Autumn stiffened, but Kyle caught himself.
“Let’s all cool down.” He forced a smile. “It’s just a hiccup. I’m sure the rest of the team will be right along.”
Peyton grabbed the champagne bottle from Dustin. She took Grier’s hand and pulled him toward the Hummer.
“Knock on the window if anybody shows up,” she said.
Autumn swallowed. The hot pellet in her stomach had returned. How could this turn bad, so quick? It was her day.
Lark looked around: at the empty, wind-bitten park, the flying saucer stadium, the bay. Then she stood straighter. “Oh. Look.”
Dustin’s gaze swerved around. “Whoa.”
Lark jogged toward the bay. Noah ran after her. “All right.”
Autumn blinked, fighting the sting in her eyes. On the water, arcing around the abandoned cranes at Hunters Point, was a white speedboat.
Kyle let out a br
eath, half laugh, half sigh. “There you go.”
“That’s them?”
He waved her forward. “Let’s hit it.” He banged on the window of the Hummer. “Peyton. Grier. Out. We got bogeys incoming.”
Autumn’s anger let go and a bright stripe of excitement painted the view. She grabbed Dustin’s hand and pulled him toward the beach.
5
The speedboat razored through the chop past the cranes at Hunters Point and skipped across the bay toward Candlestick Point. Dane Haugen held the throttle wide open.
“Masks on,” he said.
Von Nordlinger pulled a black ski mask over his face. Haugen did likewise. Over the mask he put on the wraparound sunglasses he had purchased that morning. His hands were already covered by black calfskin gloves.
He picked up his walkie-talkie and clicked Transmit. “This is Viking. We are three hundred meters from the beach and closing.”
The boat bounced on the whitecapped water. Over the walkie-talkie, a woman’s voice scratched at him.
“This is Ran. We are thirty seconds from the rec area parking lot.”
Haugen smirked. Ran. How apropos of Sabine to employ a Norse goddess as a cover name, one that meant theft. “Masks on. Hold position.”
“Roger,” she said.
He had to wear the mask. He was fair, tall, well built, and so handsome that a Hollywood producer had once told him that he could have opened feature films. The word chiseled, he had decided, fit him best. And his presence was magnetic—almost bewitching to women. He saw himself as a classic figure, perhaps Spartan. Nobody who saw him could forget him. He was too striking.
He raised his binoculars from the strap that hung around his neck. At Candlestick Point, the trees bent beneath the wind. The park’s sad picnic tables were empty. On the muddy beach, a group of young people jogged into sight.
“It’s them.”
Von slipped the pistol from the small of his back and chambered a round. Behind the ski mask, his watery blue eyes were eager.
“Clear the round,” Haugen said.
Von glanced sharply at him.
“Do it now,” Haugen said. “We will not damage the merchandise.”
“But if they run—”
Haugen clipped him in the side of the head with the walkie-talkie. Von lurched and grabbed his ear. “Christ, you—”
“Clear the chamber, and safety your weapon. Now. Before I dump you overboard.”
Struggling to hold himself steady against the chop, Von cleared the chamber and safetied the pistol. He wouldn’t look at Haugen.
“If they run?” Haugen said. “Of course they’re going to run. They’re young and fit and pumped up, and they think this is a game. We want them to think it’s a game. Our plan depends on them thinking so.”
He shouted over the roar of the engine, enunciating each word carefully, as if lecturing a cognitively challenged janitor. Von stared at the prow of the boat. His lips were pressed white, his nostrils flaring beneath the ski mask, but he kept his mouth shut this time.
Haugen aimed the speedboat directly at the beach. The boat was a fine piece of machinery. And the drug runner’s vehicle of choice. Credit Terry Coates—the ex-cop knew his stuff. Too bad for Edge Adventures that the boat had been so easy to steal.
Haugen breathed in the sharp salt air. So far, so perfect. His team had taken control of the Edge game runners without a fight. Coates had thought briefly about resisting, but the sight of Von’s Glock had stopped him in his tracks. Coates didn’t want to die over a bunch of spoiled college kids.
No, the Edge game runners had gone down on their knees with their hands behind their heads. Von and Sabine had needed mere seconds to cuff their hands with zip ties and march them to their SUV. Then Haugen and Von took the boat and headed for the rendezvous. Sabine and the other men on her team had driven away with the Edge game runners, transporting them to the leased big rig parked in the middle of the huge truck depot near Candlestick Park.
The fact that Sabine was now on scene, and in position at the recreation area, meant she and her team had stuffed the game runners inside the big rig—gagged and zip tied in a circle with their feet chained to a ring in the center of the trailer. The game runners couldn’t lie down, couldn’t turn around, couldn’t even kiss one another, much less scream for help or kick the walls to draw attention. And the walls of the trailer were draped with heavy padding, the kind used by moving companies to protect grand pianos in shipment. The padding would deaden any noise. Nobody was going to miss the game runners for at least forty-eight hours. Just like nobody was going to miss Autumn and her friends.
And that was all the time Haugen needed.
He finally glanced at Von. “Do you think there’s the slightest chance I’ll risk shooting Autumn Reiniger here, at a public park?”
Von stared at the beach. “Is that a rhetorical question?”
Haugen smiled thinly. “Is that wit? A bon mot?” Intellectual gymnastics from the man—Von had just earned back a point or two. “You’re right. I was using a rhetorical device. We will not, I repeat, not risk damaging our investment by injuring Ms. Reiniger.”
“I think I got it now, boss.” Von looked at the beach. “Just one question.”
“Yes?”
“Six people in her party, right?”
“Correct.”
“So why are there seven of them there on the sand?”
6
Jo paused at the crest of the ridge. The sun was a gold needle in a deep blue sky. She leaned back against a boulder spackled red with lichen. A moment later, Gabe joined her.
She swept back curls that had escaped her ponytail. “Thirty seconds. Gotta catch my breath.”
Gabe shrugged off his backpack and got out a canteen. He took a swig and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” She drank and wiped her lips. “You have an altimeter?”
He shook his head. But the rise and fall of his chest told her they were at significant altitude.
Her truck was parked two miles back and probably a thousand feet below them on a narrow logging road. She and Gabe had been hiking for ninety minutes. According to her Stanislaus National Forest trail guide and the map Evan Delaney had given her, they were still a mile from the abandoned gold mine where Phelps Wylie had been found dead.
Gabe scanned the crown of the forest. All around, covering the mountainside, were lodgepole pine, white fir, and dogwoods turning crimson. He pointed at a soaring conifer whose dusty green boughs spread above them.
“That’s Jeffrey pine. It only grows above six thousand feet.” He smiled at her, a challenge. “Still way too low to worry about supplemental oxygen.”
“Yeah, sure—you could have HALO jumped and beaten me here. No need to brag.”
“Nah. The government gets annoyed when a PJ uses Air National Guard resources to meet his girlfriend for a date.”
He set his Oakley sunglasses on top of his head. He looked like he was in fighting trim, and he was talking like it too, as a deflective mechanism. But he couldn’t keep Jo from surreptitiously doing a visual sweep of his vital signs.
His skin tone was good: bronze, with a ruddy glow from the hike. Respirations were rapid, but that could be expected because of the altitude. His pulse was strong. She could see it beating in his neck, where it met the line of his jaw. His eyes were clear, dark, and focused. On her.
She slid her arms around him and kissed that beating pulse point. Wordlessly he pulled her tight against him and held her. She felt him breathing. He kissed the top of her head and then she tilted her face up and he kissed her right, on the lips. Twice.
Then he smiled, patted her backside, and picked up his pack again. “Wasting daylight, campers.”
Jo saluted. Don’t make a big deal out of it.
But she couldn’t stop herself from keeping an eye on him. Tough cookie didn’t begin to describe Gabe, even on his worst day. And today was far from his worst.
He was strong and young and resil
ient. But he hadn’t fully recuperated from being shot in the chest with a 9 mm bullet.
He had only recently returned to work with the California Air National Guard, and to grad school at the University of San Francisco. He had not yet received medical clearance to return to active military duty. He hadn’t put back on all the weight he’d lost in the hospital or recovered his stamina. A patch of sweat darkened his USF T-shirt between the shoulder blades. He still had a considerable amount of pain, which he refused to dampen with medication.
That, Jo knew, stemmed from pride and machismo and the determination to provide a clean and sober example to Sophie. And it stemmed from being a PJ, a pararescueman, with the Air National Guard’s 129th Rescue Wing. Gabe worked search and rescue on land, sea, and air. And when on active duty, he performed CSAR, combat search and rescue, sometimes leaping into firefights from thirty thousand feet, using HALO parachute jumps—high altitude, low opening—designed to maximize stealth and speed and a PJ’s chances of reaching the scene of the rescue alive.
Jo followed him along the crest of the ridge, through slices of sunlight in the cool air. The terrain was dry and spare and wild, beautiful and incredibly quiet. Looking up, past the green tops of the pines, she saw only polished blue. Her footfalls landed softly on dirt and pine needles. Beyond them she heard the rustle of the breeze through the boughs of the trees. The only signs of human encroachment were power lines strung from metal pylons that towered atop nearby ridges in the mountain range. The lines skimmed high above gorges and rivers, and for a moment Jo wished she could simply hang a zip line from one and slide directly toward the mine.
Gabe followed her gaze. “No way.”
She laughed. Ahead, the trail switchbacked to the bottom of a ravine before crossing a rocky stream and climbing up the other side. But upstream, where the slope steepened and began its climb to the timberline and snowcapped crags of the high Sierra, power pylons stood on opposite ridges of the ravine, linked by an aluminum catwalk.
“It would cut three miles off our trip. Save us a couple of hours and hundreds of feet of climbing,” she said.