“You have to go,” he said in a low voice. “Now.”
Her body tightened around him. “We have hours yet.”
“You need to sleep or you won’t be ready for whatever happens.”
“I can run on less sleep than this.”
“If you don’t leave now,” Zach said, “I’ll keep you here and to hell with the op.”
Jill stared into his eyes and knew that he meant it. Temptation went through her in a shivering wave that had nothing to do with passion. Then she closed her eyes and untangled from him slowly, reluctantly.
“Tell me that after tomorrow,” she said as she eased to her feet.
Zach started to tell her that tomorrow was an expectation, not a guarantee. The look on her face said she already knew that.
“After tomorrow,” he said.
His words could have been a warning, an agreement, or a vow. She didn’t know which.
She did know better than to ask.
Quietly she walked from their shared room to the empty one. She closed the connecting door very softly. Her sat phone was right where she’d left it, drowned by a flock of large, fluffy pillows.
It will work out, she told herself.
There will be a time after tomorrow.
Won’t there?
When she got into bed, the sheets were as cold as her fear.
75
LAS VEGAS
SEPTEMBER 17
9:00 A.M.
That’s right,” Jill said into the room phone, “I’d like to rent something big enough for a lot of luggage, but not so big it’s like driving an elephant on ice.”
“One of our guests just asked me to return a Cadillac Escalade to the airport for him,” the concierge said. “Would that vehicle be satisfactory?”
Jill wouldn’t have known a Cadillac Escalade if it left tire prints up her back, but since St. Kilda had rented the vehicle and left it to be “returned,” she knew that half of the paintings would fit into the cargo area.
“Works for me,” she said. “Will the hotel be able to accommodate three pieces of very valuable luggage in a secure place?”
“Of course. The receipts for three suitcases will be with your car rental agreement.”
“I’d rather you kept them until a friend arrives to pick them up. She’ll present her ID to Mr. Tannahill’s head of security.”
“As you wish,” the concierge said smoothly. “I’ll deal with the rental company for you. The rental papers will be at the concierge desk for you to sign. Please bring your driver’s license.”
“Of course,” Jill said. “Thank you for the trouble.”
“For a personal guest of Mr. Tannahill, it’s no trouble at all. Please let me know if you need any further assistance.”
After Jill hung up, she looked at the sat phone lying two feet away from her on the nightstand. She wondered who was listening, if it was the same person who had killed her great-aunt and burned the old house down around her dead body.
Unease rippled through Jill, leaving a chill in its wake. Zach had already checked out. She was alone.
Being alone wasn’t new to her.
The loneliness she felt was.
So was the reality of a shooter and arsonist listening to her every breath, the flush of the toilet, the rustle of her clothes when she dressed.
It flat creeped her out.
You asked for it. You got it. Now suck it up and get the job done.
A knock on the door made her jump.
Dial back, she told herself harshly. If you rev too hard now, you won’t have anything left for the real rapids.
And she knew those rapids were coming. She just didn’t know when or how.
The knock came again.
“Who is it?” Jill said loudly.
“Quincy Johnston from St. Kilda.”
She checked the peephole. A gray-haired man with a plush walrus mustache and a leather briefcase stood in the hallway. Behind him, two bellmen waited beside luggage carts that held three large aluminum suitcases apiece.
She took a deep breath and unlocked the door. “Bring them in.”
The bellmen maneuvered the carts into her room.
“Sign here,” Johnston said.
“Not until I see the paintings,” Jill retorted.
Without a word Johnston noisily opened each of the six cases, then closed them. “Satisfied?”
With Zach gone? Not likely.
“Yes,” was all Jill said aloud. “Take those three suitcases to the concierge’s secured storage area,” she told one bellman. “Leave the claim tickets with the concierge.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“When I call the concierge, the head of security will release the three suitcases to the person I name. But only when I call. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the young bellman said again.
“If you have any questions, I’ll brief the concierge on my way out.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Johnston gave the bellman two twenties.
The young man smiled and left.
The second bellman accepted his own hefty tip and walked out, leaving both luggage and cart, shutting the door behind him.
As soon as they were alone, Johnston opened his briefcase and handed her some papers.
“Read carefully before you sign,” he said. “We don’t want you flip-flopping on us again. When I walk out of here, St. Kilda walks, too. You’ll be on your own.”
“That’s the whole point of firing St. Kilda,” Jill said. “I work better alone.”
“Your choice.” Johnston sounded bored.
She took the papers and rustled them, making enough noise for the bugged phone to pick up. Then she started reading.
Johnston opened his briefcase, put his finger to his lips, and handed her a leather portfolio.
She almost dropped it. “Heavy words, here.”
“One of the partners in St. Kilda is a judge,” Johnston said. “If you require translation of any legal jargon, please let me know.”
“So far, so good.”
She opened the portfolio, saw a BlackBerry, a Colt Woodsman, two loaded magazines, and five one-hundred-dollar bills. She raised her eyebrows.
“Explain clause three, paragraph two,” she said.
As Johnston began a long ad-lib, she checked the weapon quickly, carefully, knowing that his voice would cover any noise she might make.
How did Zach know this was the right gun for me? Jill asked silently. Was it in my file? Did I tell him?
Can he read my mind?
Who cares? she told herself. The gun is here and I can operate it with my eyes closed.
“Okay, I get it now,” Jill said, carefully laying the unloaded gun, two magazines, the BlackBerry, and the money on the bed. “I’ll never darken St. Kilda’s doorstep again, and vice versa.” She handed over the empty portfolio. “You have a pen I can use?”
“Of course.”
She signed, he countersigned, and the deal was done.
“Here’s your copy,” Johnston said, handing her two papers instead of one. “Good luck, Ms. Breck,” he added, opening the door. “Without St. Kilda, you’ll need it.”
The door closed firmly behind him.
Jill looked at the flat, long-barreled semiautomatic pistol and two loaded magazines lying on the peach sheets of the bed. She hoped that was all the “luck” she needed.
“Where did I leave that TV remote?” she asked aloud. “It should come with a leash.”
She started throwing pillows around until her sat phone was covered up.
“Ah, there it is.”
She turned on the TV to a twenty-four-hour weather station, ramped up the volume, and went back to the bed. She eased one of the magazines into the butt of the pistol but didn’t cycle the action. She slipped the extra magazine, the pistol, and the money into her belly bag. On the way out of the hotel, she’d carry her sat phone in her hand, like someone anxious to called or be called. Aft
er that, the phone could live on the passenger seat.
The BlackBerry PDA was familiar. Some of the rafting outfits she worked for used them.
She folded the copy of her severance agreement with St. Kilda and put it into her belly bag. The second piece of paper was more interesting. She sat on the bed to read the typed message.
Jill,
Zach told me you used a pistol like this before you went to college. The bullets are.22-caliber long rifle hollow points. The opposition shouldn’t be surprised you’re carrying. If they are, they’re seriously stupid.
Give a hundred to the concierge. Use the rest for gas and food on the road.
The alert function on the PDA is muted. Do visual checks every ten minutes or so. If you have local cellular service, you can text-message me. My IM is the first address stored. Zach’s is second. The BlackBerry is bugged-locater and voice activated, just like the opposition’s bug on your satellite phone.
If things really head south, scream.
Mary is wired in as your friend/contact on your sat phone. Use my number, then hit #. The call will be forwarded to her. Be sure to use the protocol you and Zach talked about last night.
Jill smiled, remembering what else they had done while discussing “protocol.”
Check in at least every two hours on the sat phone. Every hour would be better. They’ll be listening, but they expect you to use some kind of cut-out to release the second half of the paintings.
We’ll be with you all the way. Zach will be above, the others will be on the ground no more than four minutes away.
When the opposition makes contact, message me if you can. Or talk to yourself near the BlackBerry. Either will work.
Drop this paper in the toilet and flush. Remember, the opposition may be watching you from the moment you leave your room, so stay in role.
– JF
Jill reread the note and dropped it in the toilet. The paper melted like the water was acid. She flushed and went to finish packing.
When she was done, she checked the PDA. No messages had arrived. Quickly she finished filling her backpack, eased the gun and spare magazine into her belly bag, added the BlackBerry, and was ready to go.
Or as ready as she ever would be.
Same as the river. You watch, you weigh, you decide. You like the adrenaline, remember?
Yeah, but only when I’m the one on the oars. Right now I’m up a dirty river and there’s not an oar in sight.
She didn’t like the feeling.
And there was nothing she could do about it except quit.
She wasn’t a quitter.
Taking a deep, slow breath, she put the sat phone on the luggage cart before she wheeled it out the door and into an elevator. A moment later she was in front of the concierge’s desk. The desk was run by a handsome man whose name tag said eduardo and listed his hometown as Bogotá, Colombia.
“Do you have a piece of paper, a pen, and an envelope I can seal?” she asked.
“But of course.”
“Thank you.”
She wrote quickly on the paper, stuffed it into the envelope, sealed it, and gave it to the concierge. “This is for the head of security.”
Eduardo nodded.
“You look like you handle requests like this all the time,” Jill said.
He gave the liquid shrug of a man born well south of the Mexican border. “In my homeland, such precautions are business as usual.”
“Seems as if the world really is getting smaller every day,” she said with a feral smile.
“The receipts for your luggage are already in the hands of the Golden Fleece’s head of security,” the concierge said.
“Good. When I call, the person I describe in this”-she tapped the envelope in his hand-“will present credentials to the head of security, and the cases will be turned over. Nothing happens until I call.”
Eduardo nodded.
“If I call you and tell you to change the plans in any way,” she said, “hang up immediately and call the Las Vegas police.”
“Of course. If you could fill in your driver’s license number and sign the rental agreement, all will be in order.”
She took her thin cloth wallet out of her belly bag, found her license, filled in the number, and signed.
“Thank you, Ms. Breck,” he said, handing over the rental agreement. “Your car is in front, waiting for you. Would you like assistance with your luggage?”
“No, thanks.” She pulled a hundred-dollar bill from her belly bag and said, “I appreciate your trouble.”
“It is no trouble at all,” Eduardo said, smiling and pocketing the bill. “Have a safe trip.”
Jill laughed, a hard sound that owed nothing to humor. “Yeah, that would be nice.”
But she didn’t expect it would turn out that way.
76
OVER NEVADA
SEPT 17
6:15 P.M.
Zach sat in the right-hand seat of the orbiting aircraft, binoculars against his eyes. Ten thousand feet below, he saw the glint of water and slash of green that was the Indian Springs oasis. The glare of slanting sunlight on the metal roof of the gas station was like a fire.
The pilot had taken up station about a mile west of the highway and was trying to more or less match the speed of the Cadillac on the desert floor. It was tricky. The opposition had Jill running back and forth and around like a hamster on a bent wheel.
The only good news was that she was a Western driver-eighty miles per hour unless she hit a straightaway, then up to ninety.
Talk about going nowhere fast. Zach shook his head and told himself to be patient.
The Escalade sat beside the front door of the gas station. Through the binoculars, he followed Jill as she came out of the station and stood beside the car, sat phone in one hand, BlackBerry in her belly bag. He could hear her end of any conversation.
“Now what,” she said impatiently into her sat phone.
Silence.
“Yes, I’m filling up on gas at a price that makes the paintings look cheap.”
More silence while she listened.
“Again? I’m getting tired of that stretch of highway. Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
Zach wondered when and where the opposition was going to stop playing games. The sun was already sliding down the sky, heading toward the western horizon and the dark velvet twilight of a summer desert evening.
His sat/cell vibrated. He hit the connect button, read the caller ID, and said, “Nothing new.”
Faroe wasn’t any happier than he was. “They’ve had enough chance to vet Jill and everyone else on the highway. Are they waiting for dark?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Craptastic.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Zach said. “The good news is that it will make it easier for her to escape, if it comes to that.”
“The bad news is that in the dark, you’ll have to tighten up the chase units. Actually, that’s good. We’ve switched chase vehicles four times. Won’t need to worry as much about being made after dark.”
“This has to be hard on Jill’s nerves,” Zach said.
“Worry about your own. She’s solid. Steele is already making noises about signing her up as an op.”
“Is that good or bad?” Zach shot back.
“Not our choice, is it?”
Faroe broke the connection.
Zach wanted to put his fist through the thin aluminum skin of the airplane. Instead he took a few slow breaths and turned hot impatience into the cold stillness of a predator. He wouldn’t be any good for Jill if he was on the breaking edge of frustration.
Quick playing jerk-around, you bastard. It’s time to party.
77
INDIAN SPRINGS, NEVADA
SEPTEMBER 17
6:16 P.M.
Jill leaned against the car and let the gas feed in through the battered metal nozzle. The long, straight highway just beyond the gas station cut across an alluvial fan that spread gracefully d
own the mountains to the desert floor. Just the sight of the dry ridges and shadowed ravines of the mountains loosened her tension. She knew that the desert was frightening to some people, boring to others. To her the desert was clean, spare, whispering of endless space for the mind and soul to run free.
She itched to paint the land almost as much as she itched to touch Zach again. She didn’t know if that was good or bad. She only knew it was as real as the metal towers marching away over the dry land, their arms holding lines that hummed with power.
The highway itself was an intrusion, but not as much as the heavy lines draped from steel towers. She looked through them, beyond them, to the majestic wild, lonely landscape that Thomas Dunstan-or her grandmother-had captured so indelibly.
To the right of the Cadillac, a knot of cottonwoods swept the wind with restless leaves. Their fluttering green announced the presence of water in a dry land. The cottonwoods had been here when the Indian Springs canvas had been painted. The trees were still there, still restless, still shouting of cool water in a dry, relentless wilderness.
Jill let her glance roam the landscape, seeing with the eyes of her grandmother. Take away the power lines, and the area had changed very little since Indian Springs had been painted. The gas station had evolved from a ramshackle frame building with two antique pumps into a sand-and sun-blasted metal structure with four pumps out front, but the trees and the fault line of little springs running along the base of the mountains looked the same.
Where are you, Zach?
Ten thousand feet overhead.
Somewhere.
Out of reach.
What’s the big deal? I’ve spent a lot of my life alone.
But death threats took a little more time to get used to.
Shaking off the edgy feeling, Jill went into the station, used the bathroom, bought several liters of water, and paid for everything. The old man who took her money wasn’t feeling chatty. Neither was she.
While the man slowly, painfully, counted out her change, she looked behind the counter at the faded black-and-white print of the gas station with a ribbon proclaiming the date and the grand opening of the station. The photo had been taken a long time ago, when cars in the rugged land were an adventure, not a necessity, back when the frail man counting pennies over the counter had been a little boy yearning to be old enough to break broncs and chase lean cattle through sagebrush valleys.
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