She unlocked her weapons safe, the tall thin steel safe that kept her firearms out of the way of small curious hands. She stashed a thin sharp knife in a nylon holster up her sleeve. She removed her favorite pistol, a Glock 21 SF, and placed it in a nifty little holster that hid inside her pants below her belt. Tug on the loop, the holster slid up and placed the grip into her hand. She’d found that tricky little devil while she was recovering in the hospital, cruising the internet out of sheer boredom. She hadn’t expected to try it out so soon, though.
She showered and dressed in layers, tough clothes that would hold up against trouble. Not that she expected trouble. But. She thought it was General MacArthur, or maybe Jimmy Kimmel, who said, “Shit happens, especially when a mummy’s head is involved.”
She was as ready as she’d ever be, so she went out and sat on the front porch step like a kid waiting for the school bus.
In less than a minute, she saw Rita Grapplee hurrying out of the tasting room and toward her.
RITA GRAPPLEE:
FEMALE, RUSSIAN ANCESTRY, MIDDLE-AGED, BROWN HAIR, PALE SKIN, PALE EYES, 5'10". EXUBERANT, INTELLIGENT, TOO ENTHUSIASTIC. WORKED FOR MAX FOR THREE MONTHS AFTER RELEASE FROM DRUG REHAB; ANSWERS PHONE, STOCKS SHELVES.
As soon as Rita got in earshot, she asked, “Kellen, I saw you sitting there—are you all right?”
Funny. The men and women who had served with Kellen frequently called her “Captain.” She never asked them to; they were welcome to call her by her first name. Bank tellers, waitstaff, all kinds of service people called her “Kellen”; she thought nothing of it. But the familiar way Rita said her name made her want to snap out an order to stand at attention and salute. Rita was one of those; the people who got by doing as little as possible while wanting everything. The other employees hated her, and Kellen had been through too much in her twenty-eight years to admire that lack of initiative.
Yet today, Rita had done nothing except express concern, so Kellen took a patient breath. “I’m fine, why?”
“You were hurt just a few weeks ago, and you called me, remember?”
“I didn’t call you in particular, I called the winery’s emergency number, and you were on duty. In any case, I’m simply waiting for a ride.”
Rita smirked. “How nice. Is Max coming to take you for a drive?”
Kellen didn’t understand how one woman, a near stranger, could be so presumptuous. “No.”
“Another suitor?” Rita sounded shocked.
It was on the tip of Kellen’s tongue to tell Rita to mind her own business. But she knew that Max and Rae and Kellen and their situation was the source of rampant speculation among the employees and she didn’t want to cause Max more grief, or imagine Rae being pulled aside and pestered with vulgar questions. So Kellen contained her impatience. “No, Max found me a job. I’ll probably be gone for a day or two.”
A white Ford van with dark tinted windows turned up the drive. It veered toward the winery, so she stood and waved. The driver waved back and headed toward the farmhouse. “There’s my ride now.” As the van pulled to a stop, Kellen saw the discreet monogram, RM, on the door.
“RM? What does that stand for?” Rita didn’t wait for an answer. She pulled out her phone and looked it up. “Richart Movers? You’re going to work for a moving company?”
“Apparently.”
Rita continued to read from her phone. “Ohhh. They move fancy art stuff. Rich. Art. Get it?”
“Yes. I get it.”
“That’s a weird job for you. Where are you going?”
A man slid out of the driver’s seat, came around and offered his hand.
Ignoring Rita, Kellen moved to meet him.
He said, “Hey, I’m Horst Teagarten. Horst isn’t a family name, my folks just had a weird sense of humor, giving that to a kid from Florida.”
Kellen filled out her mental file with speed and precision; he checked all the boxes as a cliché.
HORST TEAGARTEN:
MALE, NORTHERN EUROPEAN, 6'2", SHAVED HEAD (BALDING), BLUE EYES, UNIDENTIFIED ACCENT. TIGHT T-SHIRT, JEANS. MUSCLED SHOULDERS, TIGHT BUTT, FATTY BULGE AROUND THE WAIST. SMILING, CHARMING. IMAGINES WOMEN ARE IMPRESSED WITH HIM.
She shook. He had a good grip, didn’t try to crush her fingers like guys so often did. “I’m Kellen Adams, glad to work with you.”
His gaze shifted to Rita.
She leaped forward and in that overly loud voice of hers, she said, “Hi, I’m Rita Grapplee. I work here at the winery with Kellen. Good to meet you. So you move art?”
“Yes. Um...” He glanced at Kellen.
Kellen shook her head slightly.
He got the hint. “Come on. You can put your bag in the back.”
She followed him around, watched him open the van’s cargo doors and slung her duffel bag onto the floor behind the last row of seats.
Rita did not get the hint. She followed, too. “Where are you two off to?”
“We’re picking up an important antique at the Portland Airport, and we need to get going.” Horst was polite, but apparently Rita grated on him, too, for he was terse.
Kellen heard a shout and turned toward the tasting room. “Look, Rita. They’re calling you back to work.”
Rita barely glanced at the temporary manager. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on break.”
“Not according to him,” Horst said.
Rita sighed loudly. She lifted her phone, clicked a photo of the van and trudged back to work, her big feet slapping across the lawn.
Horst watched her. “She’s weird.”
“She’s got...problems.”
“Don’t we all?” Horst turned back to Kellen. “My boss briefed me about you. He told me you’re Army honorable discharge.”
“That’s right.”
“Good news, that. I wasn’t sure if you were someone’s girlfriend looking for adventure or actually in security. What rank?”
She bumped herself down to an enlisted man. “Spec-4.”
“Hey, I outranked you. E-6.” He looked incredibly pleased, as if he hadn’t had the chance to be in charge very often. “Did you bring your weapons?”
No, no. She wasn’t giving up her secrets so soon. “Richart Movers doesn’t supply weapons and ammunition?”
“What security person doesn’t have weapons he prefers?”
“My body is my weapon.”
He laughed.
She didn’t crack a smile. Her drill instructor said her hand-to-hand attacks were organized, focused and deadly in a way he had seldom seen in a woman.
No reason to bring that up.
Horst said, “You are kidding.”
She allowed her solemn face to break and she laughed back at him. “You caught me.” She flipped the knife out of her sleeve. “What do you have on you?”
He showed her a side holster under his jacket.
“If this mission is dangerous,” she said, “we’d better have more than that.”
“We do.” He pointed toward the ceiling. “Shotgun up there.” He walked her around to the driver’s side. “More shotguns in the door holsters, one for you, one for me. Ammunition above.”
“Slick.” The holsters had been constructed to look like part of the vehicle, unobtrusive yet easily reached.
He pulled one of the shotguns out, a Browning A-5 semiautomatic, handed it to her and watched her check it over.
“Looks good.” She relaxed a little. This operation looked legitimate and well armed. Horst was Army. She felt comfortable with him and his easygoing personality. But she didn’t tell him the truth about her weapons and her background; she had the scars to prove she’d been wrong before.
Horst went around to the back and shut the doors. He didn’t ask which one of them should drive. He assumed he would, because he was the man or because he was of higher rank, and Kellen did
n’t tell him that she’d been a transportation coordinator in Afghanistan and Kuwait. She knew vehicles, she knew repairs, and yes, she knew how to drive.
But in her experience, at this point in any mission, it paid to sit back and observe. As she climbed into the passenger seat, she asked, “Will we make it to the airport in time?”
“If we’re lucky and the cops don’t stop us.” Horst put the van into gear.
Kellen looked in the rearview mirror.
Max stood in the driveway, watching her leave, and he looked...lonely.
Was that good news? Did she want him to miss her even before she left? She should have said goodbye to him and—
She sat up straight. “Damn.”
“Forget something?” Horst asked.
“I did.”
“Hope it wasn’t anything important. We haven’t got time to go back.” Horst turned onto the highway.
Max disappeared from view.
“It was important.” She hadn’t said goodbye to Rae. She hadn’t even thought about it. “But it is too late.”
7
Kellen’s phone rang. She unbuttoned her pants pocket and pulled it out, hoping it was Max and Rae, calling to say the goodbye she had forgotten.
But no, it was a Washington, DC, number, and that meant only one person—Nils Brooks, head of the MFAA, dedicated to halting the flow of purloined artifacts into the US and always willing to put her life on the line to do it. She answered, “Adams here.”
Nils didn’t take the hint. “Kellen, it’s Nils. I have a text that you’ve been picked up and are on your way to the airport.”
“That’s right.”
“Did Max tell you anything about the job?”
“That me and Horst from Richart Movers are picking up a mummy’s head at the airport and transporting it to some guy who’s going to restore it, he’s somewhere in the Olympics, and there’s going to be a hike.”
Horst shot her an inquiring look.
She smiled at Horst and shrugged.
Nils said, “Sort of. This piece is rare, one of those artifacts that’s going settle fights among the experts and start fights among thieves.”
“Valuable.”
“Priceless.”
Priceless. She never liked to hear that word.
Nils continued, “My courier was supposed to take it on the plane with him, never let it out of his sight.”
She could almost hear the drumbeat of doom. “And?”
“He died. In the airport. The official report said he was knocked down as he was checking in at the machine. He hit his head. Current medical diagnosis is that it was a brain hemorrhage.”
Kellen closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “Probably not, huh?”
“Probably not, since he went against orders and checked the bag through to Portland, knowing full well it couldn’t easily be retrieved from the hold of the plane.” Nils waited for a response.
She thought through all the possible scenarios. “So Horst and I could face some...challenges?”
“Possible challenges. Yes.”
“Nils.”
“Probable. I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“No kidding.” She ladled on the sarcasm. “What does this restorer guy have to say?”
“Not much. He’s only got a wireless up there—”
“What? Is he living in World War II?”
“And he didn’t respond when I called.”
She took a moment to let that soak in. She and Horst were taking a priceless antique head into the Olympic Mountains and hiking it up to a weird recluse expert...and the guy didn’t know they were coming? “Nils...”
“How well do you trust Horst?” Nils asked.
“Good question.”
“You don’t want to say too much.”
“Not now!” Not with Horst sitting next to her.
“I told the boss at Richart Movers we needed someone trustworthy, and he said he’d do the best he could on such short notice.”
“Oh, dear.” The short notice thing was not promising.
Horst glanced at her as if trying to follow the conversation, but he seemed uncertain.
That worked for her. “Why the late update?”
“If I’d told Max all this, he wouldn’t have passed the message on.”
“So you men fixed things up between the two of you, and this is the result?” She hadn’t packed everything she would need, like her body armor and her extra weapons. She rode in a van with firearms that looked good but which she had not tested, with some guy she hoped had had proper security training. She was acquiring a head that Nils Brooks called priceless. Great. Just great.
And...her adrenaline kicked up to enjoyable levels.
Yes, she had missed this.
“It’s not that bad,” Nils said. “I’ve dealt with Richart Movers before. They’re a young company, but the owner is reputable and—”
Kellen hung up on the pompous self-satisfied chauvinist asshole, smiled tightly at Horst and said, “Just getting the details of the operation.”
“Anything I should know?”
“Men are jerks.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Smart guy, this Horst. He didn’t argue with her. He might be okay; just because Max and Nils were jerks, that was no use thinking Horst was going to grab the mummy’s head and run with it.
“What challenges are we going to face?” he asked.
“Hmm?”
“You said, ‘So Horst and I could face some...challenges?’”
“How much do you know about this operation?” Kellen asked.
He shrugged. “We have to retrieve the head from the airport because it’s an important artifact that needs to be studied. Somebody dropped it off at the airport back east. We pick it up from baggage claim and head toward the mountains to deliver this thing to, um, this guy.”
“The Restorer? Is that his name? His title?”
“I dunno. I think he’s this eccentric guy who lives in the boonies and is the go-to for figuring out if an artifact is real. No one told me he had a name.”
“So he’s...the Restorer.”
“Whatever.”
“That’s all?”
“Pretty much. I’ve worked for Richart Movers for almost a year, and we’ve moved some pretty important expensive stuff for some pretty important expensive people. When I signed on, I was hoping for a little action, but so far, nothing’s happened. It’s been all driving and carrying and thanking people for the tips. Don’t worry.” He patted her knee.
She didn’t knock his block off, but only because he was driving and she was thinking. Apparently, he didn’t know about the courier’s death, or even that there had been a courier charged with bringing the head to the Restorer. Why hadn’t Horst been told? It seemed that kind of information should have been passed on to heighten preparedness. Unless Nils had kept the information to himself and only passed it on to her. Nils was paranoid and suspicious, and she was the one person on this assignment he knew without a doubt he could trust.
She asked Horst, “When did this call come in?”
“A couple of hours ago. I happened to come in after a few days off, so the boss grabbed me and told me we had an emergency job. He sent me to pick you up and go to the airport.” The van reached the freeway entrance; Horst put his foot on the accelerator and they merged to the honking of furious drivers. “Lucky for me. Mostly I work with guys, and they aren’t pretty like you.”
Yeah, he was full of bullshit and ill-deserved confidence.
He pegged the van at ninety miles per hour and wove in and out of traffic, inciting honks and well-deserved hand gestures. In a way, that was good—while she was terrified for her life, she had no time to worry about her lousy parenting skills or the future of their mission.
Horst chatted as he drove, about the military, his parents’ home in Florida, speculation about the mummy’s head and gossip about the Restorer who he said was some weird whacked-out hermit.
So he did know some things about this mission.
Luckily for her, she didn’t have to lie any more about her military and security experience. He never, not once, indicated by query or comment, that he was interested in anything she had to say. Instead, she made engrossed noises, agreement noises. Or possibly they were exclamations of muffled terror as he changed lanes with inches to spare.
Her sounds encouraged him to tell her that he’d joined the military when he was nineteen because he had been caught picking pockets at Disney World. His father had blown a gasket and threatened to cut off his funds unless he joined up.
That captured her interest, and she looked Horst over again. Nothing about him shouted urban pickpocket. Mostly he seemed like a well-built guy who liked to impress women one way or another, and maybe since she’d been in the Army he was playing the bad-boy card to impress her.
When they pulled into a parking place at Portland Airport, she sagged in the seat and hoped her high blood pressure hadn’t ripped opened the still red scar on her hip.
Horst unsnapped his seat belt and checked his phone. “Let’s go. Luggage is arriving now.” He hoofed it for baggage claim so fast, Kellen ran to keep up with him, and she rejoiced as he kept up a monologue about how this head was an antiquity of great importance and if he didn’t manage to grab it on its first swing around the carousel, someone would confiscate it and it would disappear into some rich guy’s collection of illegal goods, and the archeological world would never have the time to study its origins and legends.
Kellen admired the sentiments and wondered if she should put Horst back on the good-guy list. In her mind, he was changing from bad to good to bad pretty quickly.
“Also, my boss would kill me.”
That sounded more like it. “What kind of bag is it in?”
“Small black rolling bag.”
She moaned.
He laughed. “Yeah. But it has a lime-green yarn puffball attached to the handle.”
“I guess...that’s a good idea. Who would think a mummy’s head would be marked like that?”
What Doesn't Kill Her Page 5