by Diane Capri
Over the ridge, Flint could hear running water. A creek. From the sound, he judged it fairly narrow and shallow and protected, which was why he hadn’t seen it from the air. He kept walking until he reached the first shade. He welcomed the cooler air.
Phillips reached the shade and the creek a moment later. He bent down to scoop up a palm full of fresh water, but he kept his weapon pointed at Flint.
Flint heard the running water splash onto Phillips’s face and fall back into the creek. He heard the rustle of the trees as the breeze gusted through. And something else. Another sound almost any Texan who had ever held a hunting rifle would recognize.
Flint stopped moving. He turned his body sideways to present a smaller target to Phillips and glanced quickly around the little oasis of trees surrounding the creek. Two of the three basics right there, water and shelter. But what about food?
The food source had to be there. Probably on the other side of the trees. If Flint were foolish enough to walk over there, he’d find a few roll barrels filled with corn or even field crops sufficient to keep a small population alive.
Phillips straightened up. “What’s the problem? Change your mind about sitting in the shade?”
Which was when Flint once again heard the unmistakable sound. He knew what to do: turn and run. Fast. Try to make it to the Sikorsky and get inside and hope for the best.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Phillips seemed unaware of the noise or the danger.
“Have you ever been wild pig hunting, Phillips?”
“Not much of a hunter, actually. Not since two tours in Fallujah hunting humans, if you get my drift.” Phillips continued to snap the gum, and the overpowering strawberry smell wafted toward Flint on the breeze that would carry the scent around the oasis. Strawberry was one of the scents most attractive to wild pigs. Hunters used it as bait in their boar traps.
“Wild pigs are a serious problem in Texas. They’re even overtaking some of the urban areas now. They’re vicious and dangerous.” Flint took a deep breath through his nose, checking for scent. “Hogs are intelligent beasts. Fourth smartest creature in the world, they say. Only dolphins, apes, and some humans are smarter.”
“Good to know. What’s it going to be? Sit and wait here or back in the sun? I’m not standing around for an hour, Flint.”
Flint pointed deeper into the little stand of trees and the running creek. “Do you hear that noise? Not the water but the little squeals? Those are piglets. There must have been a group of wild pigs down there when we flew in.”
“None here now.” Phillips shrugged. “They’d have fled when the Sikorsky came down.”
“Yeah, maybe. Unless the piglets were newborns. They’d duck down in a clump of grass or behind a log, trying to hide. And the sow wouldn’t go far from her litter.” Flint scanned the area from behind his sunglasses. “She can smell us. Sows have been known to lie in wait.”
“I’ve got a weapon.” Phillips’s smirk was back as he pantomimed his plan of attack. “Right between the eyes. We can handle it.”
“Let’s go.” Flint shook his head and turned to face the creek, walking backward as he scanned for wild pigs. “Hogs are hard-headed. Literally. If we have to shoot, aim for the vital organs, between the shoulders.”
No sooner had Flint issued his warning than an ominous rustle from across the creek reached his ears. He backed up faster. Phillips didn’t notice his increased speed. He didn’t move out of the way. Flint ran into him and knocked him off his stride.
Phillips fell to the ground at the same time the charging sow broke through the trees.
She ran straight at Phillips at top speed. She was huge. Flint had seen bigger males, but the sow was easily two hundred pounds of momentum traveling like a battering ram at ten miles an hour.
Flint reached down to pull Phillips to his feet. “Come on!”
Phillips stood his ground, braced, and aimed at the sow’s head.
She kept charging until he’d fired two rounds. Each hit weakened her, but she kept coming. Until she got close enough to Phillips and lunged. She knocked him to the ground and his Sig flew out of his hand.
The feral hog ripped into Phillips’s legs with her tusks. The shorter upper whetters lashed as she lowered her head, and the bottom canines gashed deeper when she tossed her head upward. She slashed, stabbed, and bit Phillips as he screamed and kicked and tried to escape.
Flint scrambled to retrieve the weapon. The Sig had landed too close to the fighting sow. Flint darted toward it several times before he was able to grab it. He steadied his grip, aimed, and emptied the magazine with accuracy and precision, placing all remaining shots between her shoulders until she finally gave up.
Phillips writhed on the ground. Blood flowed from the gashes to his legs and torso. His clothes were pasted to his body by sweat and gooey coagulating blood. His face was contorted with pain.
Flint helped Phillips to his feet and supported him. “No broken bones, right? Can you walk?”
“Hell, yes.” Phillips leaned heavily on Flint’s shoulder and limped back to the Sikorsky.
“Worst case, you’ll have infections from those wounds. Any hospital will clean you up and treat you with antibiotics. You’ll be okay.”
“I’ve been worse, Flint. Don’t trouble yourself.” Phillips’s face was whiter than it should have been. He pressed his lips together. Sweat dotted his forehead.
Flint said, “I’m going to Houston. Do you want to come along or wait here for EMS?”
“How likely is it that the sow was a loner?”
“Not at all likely.”
Phillips looked a little green. “I’m coming with you.”
Flint helped Phillips into one of the backseats. He found a bottle of water and handed it to Phillips along with the first aid kit. Phillips could clean his wounds and apply disinfectant, at least. Anything more would have to wait until they reached Houston.
Reed was still out cold on the floor. The flight was bound to be rough and the landing might be more so. He could be seriously injured during the rest of the flight. Or he could regain consciousness and become a bigger problem.
No. He couldn’t stay unrestrained on the floor.
Flint hoisted Reed up and strapped him into the seat he’d occupied before. The man’s stench was overwhelming. Flint bit back the urge to gag.
With luck, Reed wouldn’t wake up before they reached Houston.
Flint went back outside and did a quick visual check of the Sikorsky.
He squinted to see the shadowed fuel line more clearly and identified small, shiny scratches on the crimp. Shiny enough to prove the crimp had happened recently. Phillips had probably used pliers to apply just the right amount of pressure. Too much pressure applied to the line, and fuel flow would have been stopped completely. Too little, and they’d have made it all the way to Houston.
The good news was that decreased fuel flow wasn’t a fatal problem for the Sikorsky. Fuel flow was slowed but not stopped. The engine was probably not irreparably damaged. Once it cooled down, the engine could function well enough to fly the rest of the distance to Houston.
He saw nothing that would ground the bird. No obvious structural damage to impede flight. The strut on the fuel cover door had snapped, as he’d feared. He pushed the door into place and latched it. Maybe it would stay in place. Or at least not cause serious damage when it ripped off.
Flint stepped back, replaced his sunglasses, and swiped his hands together to knock off the dust that had settled on every inch of the Sikorsky.
He found his Glock where he’d tossed it on the ground at Phillips’s feet what seemed like a lifetime ago. He slipped the weapon into his pocket along with the one that belonged to Phillips.
He ran back around to the Sikorsky’s entrance, jumped up and into the pilot’s seat, and spooled up the engine. Caxton EMS should be here soon. He needed to be airborne before they arrived.
Flint strapped himself into the harness, pulled it tight, a
nd focused on getting the Sikorsky off the ground for the tough ninety-minute flight to Houston.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Twenty minutes before landing, Flint flexed his shoulders and squeezed his eyes open and shut a few times. The strain of flying the wounded Sikorsky, on top of everything else that he’d done today, was catching up with him. His entire body felt fatigued. He needed sleep. What he didn’t need was any more interference.
He found his phone. Not the disposable cell phone but the one Shaw, Crane, Paxton, Trevor, and hell, maybe even Bozo the Clown were monitoring. He wanted to make one call, not five. So he chose the one number they’d all notice. He removed his headset, turned the phone’s volume all the way up, and pushed the speed dial number.
“Scarlett Investigations,” Scarlett said automatically when she answered the phone. She must have looked at the caller ID. “I can barely hear you over the helo noise. Where the hell are you?”
“Landing at Shaw Tower in fifteen. Can you get over there?”
She hesitated. “Sure. I guess.”
“Bring Crane with you. And Paxton and Trevor, too, if you can find them. Tell them I have something that belongs to them. I want to give it back.” The signal cut out. He waited a second for her to call back. When she didn’t, he put the headset back on. It filtered out some of the noise inside the big bird but not enough.
He contacted the control tower closest to Shaw’s skyscraper and received clearance to enter the airspace and land on the rooftop helipad. After that, every ounce of his attention was focused on getting the helo down safely.
When the Sikorsky was perched firmly on the pad, he shut the engines down and sat for a moment in the blissful quiet.
Shaw’s private two-man ground crew ran out to the Sikorsky and attached the tie-downs. Flint unlatched his harness and made his way from the cramped cockpit.
Reed was still groggy, but his eyes were open. His head lolled to one side. Now that the urine, vomit, and fear sweat had dried on him, he smelled worse than a full port-a-john after a frat party. Flint was loath to touch him again. As it was, Reed’s stench had permeated Flint’s clothes. Everything he was wearing, including his favorite leather jacket, would have to be burned.
One of the ground crew had a pair of gloves sticking out of his back pocket. “Hey, buddy! Loan me those gloves?”
The guy handed them over.
“Got a wheelchair? This guy’s unable to walk.”
“Just inside the door. I’ll get it.” He trotted to collect the conveyance and returned to steady it on the helipad.
The gloves were snug on Flint’s hands, but he yanked and tugged and finally got them on before he released Reed from his harness and pulled him to his feet. He lifted him out of the Sikorsky and plopped him into the wheelchair. In the still, warm air, Reed’s body gave off a noxious odor like a mushroom cloud, rising and expanding as it hit the atmosphere.
Flint pulled the gloves off and handed them back to their owner, who shook his head as if they were toxic. Flint completely understood. “Thanks for the help. The other passenger needs a ride to the hospital.”
“Will do.”
Flint pushed the wheelchair toward the entrance and dropped the gloves in the trash can on the way, sorry that the bin wasn’t large enough to dump Reed in, wheelchair and all.
Flint pushed him to the elevator and rode from the roof to the penthouse. Was it only this morning that he’d met Scarlett and Shaw here for the first time? It seemed like a lifetime ago.
The elevator went down one flight. The doors opened onto the big, empty space. Scarlett wasn’t standing there tapping her impatient foot this time.
Flint pushed Reed toward Shaw’s office along the polished granite floors. In a place with no light pollution, like Wolf Bend, the glass curtain walls might have been blank windows on the night sky. Here in Houston, they provided views of the city.
Before he reached Shaw’s end of the open floor plan, he noticed the small crowd gathered in one of the seating areas. Three of them. As requested.
Only Paxton and Trevor were missing. Which couldn’t be a good sign.
Crane and Scarlett stood facing the panoramic display of downtown Houston, which was spectacular. Shaw was standing with his back to the window. He was the first to see Flint’s approach.
Flint made steady progress toward the group. “Crane. Brought you a present.” He gave the wheelchair a shove and it rolled between a black leather sofa and a black leather sling chair into the center of the open room. The stink, of course, preceded Reed.
Scarlett wrinkled her nose. “Who is this odious creature and why is he smelling up the place?”
“So glad you asked. His name is Jeremy Reed. He’s been squatting at the old Oakwood ranch. He says he owns it. Says Richard Oakwood gave it to him.” Flint turned to Crane. “Know anything about that, Felix?”
“No.” Crane glanced at Reed. He put a stogie to his mouth and inhaled to cover Reed’s smell. He blew out a batch of perfect O rings. “Which leaves my pal Baz here. What about it, Baz? This your guy?”
“Never saw him before in my life,” Shaw said. Which wasn’t exactly a “no.”
Flint ran his hands through his hair. He bowed his head for a moment and then took a deep breath. “Okay. Here’s how this is going to go. Crane, you tried to hire me to find Laura Oakwood for you, or, barring that, to prevent Shaw from finding Oakwood. I declined.”
Crane pushed his lips around and stuffed the stogie between his teeth and said nothing.
“Your boys Paxton and Trevor claim they already have Oakwood. They say they’re holding her hostage until the deadline passes, at which point their plan is to let her go and collect your finder’s fee.” He stared into Crane’s eyes. “So you don’t need me.”
“And Shaw.” Flint turned his attention to the taller man. “I agreed to help you find Laura Oakwood because you pressured Scarlett. In the hours since I took on this case, I’ve been attacked by Crane’s men and everyone they’ve pissed off on their bungled hunt for Oakwood. Reed here shot at me with a shotgun. One of you hired Phillips to crash our helo and strand me in the middle of Texas to keep me out of the way for a while. He says it was Crane. And a good friend of mine was attacked twice, once with a baseball bat. At least two other men are in the hospital.”
He paused for reaction. Neither Shaw nor Crane offered any excuses or defenses. Which pissed him off all over again. “I’m sorry, Scarlett, but I’m done here. You guys can arm wrestle or something to decide which of you is the bigger dick. I have better things to do.”
Flint turned and walked out. His heels tapped on the polished granite floors all the way to the elevator. No one followed.
But they would.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Flint found a taxi on the street in front of Shaw Tower. The cabbie covered his nose and coughed when Flint settled into the backseat. “Yeah, I know I smell like I fell into a septic tank. I’m sorry, pal. I’ll pay to have your cab fumigated. Market Square Park, please.”
The cab dropped him off at the corner. Flint tossed the guy a hundred bucks for the ten-minute ride and the fumigating and walked toward home. Pedestrians on the sidewalks gave him a wide berth. When he reached his house, he went around through the alley into the backyard and stripped. He emptied his pockets and dropped his entire wardrobe into the dumpster behind the garage.
He walked naked in the dark to the back porch, disarmed the security system, allowed himself inside, and rearmed it. He carried the contents of his pockets and his gun upstairs to his bathroom and dumped it all into the empty sink. Later, he’d figure out how to decontaminate everything.
He turned on the hot water full blast and stepped into the shower.
After he’d drained the hot water tank and applied strong soap with stiff-bristled brushes over his entire body, he looked more than a little like a lobster, but he’d finally shed the Eau de Reed parfum. He took several deep breaths through his nose for the sheer pleasure of br
eathing clean air.
He padded into his bedroom, donned a pair of boxers from the top drawer, jeans and a shirt from the closet. He slipped his feet into supple leather slippers and returned to the kitchen.
It was full dark outside. He closed the plantation shutters over the kitchen windows. He stood in the blinding light from the refrigerator for a moment before he grabbed a bottle of water, closed the door, and carried the bottle into the den. The glow from the cable box cast a soft blue sheen over the room.
He found the remote next to his favorite chair and punched up background music. He adjusted the volume. He added a layer of frequency interference to confound the listening devices it was safe to assume targeted the house.
“You definitely smell better,” Scarlett said from the shadows.
“I see you hacked my security code again.” His eyes had adjusted to the dim blue light. She stood in the far corner of the room and she hadn’t changed clothes from the meeting at Shaw Tower, which meant she’d come directly here. He’d thought she might detour to check on her daughter. “Would you like a drink?”
She raised the whiskey glass in her hand. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He lowered himself into his favorite leather chair and propped both feet onto the ottoman. “How can I help you, Miss Scarlett?”
“That was a fine tantrum you threw back there in Shaw’s office.”
“Glad you liked it.” He unscrewed the cap on the plastic bottle and took a good long swig of icy-cold spring water.
“We’re running out of time, Flint. We’ve got less than thirty-five hours to find Oakwood. The deadline triggers automatically, like Cinderella’s pumpkin. One moment past our deadline and we’re done.” She sipped his oldest single-malt Scotch, the one she’d bought him for his last birthday. “We’ve got work to do.”
“I resigned back there during my tantrum. Didn’t you hear?”
She closed her eyes and rested against the wall for a moment, not bothering to argue. He never quit anything. And Scarlett knew that better than anyone.