Upstairs, a floor safe offered up the Barrett .50. She cracked open a steel-enshrouded slat in the wall facing straight out between the units to the front gate and the waiting white SUV. She stretched out with the rifle on the floor, chambered in a round, and placed the crosshairs on the driver. All eyes inside the car, however, were on their quarry, plopped on the asphalt in front of the garage. They wouldn't be able to see her anyway.
Downstairs, she pressed the gate button, and jogged back up to her gun perch. The SUV was just entering, moseying in at ten to fifteen miles per hour. She watched the occupants through the Leupold scope. They were hard-faced men, Caucasian, thick of neck and shoulder, with a military bearing which she knew only too well.
The men suddenly drew their weapons, mouths moving in urgent communication. What? Thalma angled her view down and ahead of them, and there was the cause of their concern: the burly, bearded dude and the red pickup, stopping beside the plastic case.
No, Thalma thought. Turn around and drive the hell out of here. Now!
Ignoring her psychic plea, the man hopped out, scratching his head, and kneeled beside the case. After a moment's hesitation, he popped its locks and opened it. Thalma watched his expression flash from shock to fear. He straightened up and peered over the bed of his truck as the white SUV raced up and screeched to a stop.
"Stupid nosy bastard," whispered Thalma, hunkering down and sighting in on the vicinity of the SUV, which was partly blocked by the red pickup. A man sprang out from the driver's side, gun raised. Sighing through her teeth, Thalma placed the crosshairs on his chest and curled her finger over the trigger as the bearded pickup driver raised his hands and stammered protests of innocence while gesturing at the open case.
Thalma watched the man with the handgun steady his aim. She shot him in the chest. The .50 caliber armor-piercing round knocked him backwards and off his feet. The bearded man hunched down, gazing up blindly in her direction.
"Run!" Thalma shouted.
The man must've heard her, because he jumped as if kicked into his still-running pickup, and raced backwards away from the SUV, tires smoking. The SUV's passengers were now out, aiming their pistols at her from behind open doors.
Thalma ducked back as a fusillade of bullets punched into the second story. She waited a beat, listening to the pickup roaring away, and then slid back into shooting position. The SUV had pulled forward around the plastic case and the fallen man, blocking both from view. A few rounds through the roof would finish them, but that wasn't her goal. She heard the rear doors of the SUV swing open – and a scraping sound as the case was gathered in. The door snapped shut.
The SUV whirled to face the gate, leaving the asphalt clear of both the fallen man and the plastic case. A few rows down, the red pickup emerged, almost spinning out as it skidded into a turn toward the exit. The SUV raced after it, engine screaming. The team, she thought, would still want to kill the pickup driver before he reached the police.
Thalma sighted in on the SUV's right rear tire and pulled the trigger. The car lurched, and then stumbled on, shedding the tire. Ahead, the gate opened and the red pickup fled. They wouldn't be catching him with three tires, she thought with small satisfaction. By the time the SUV crashed through the gate – not waiting for it to fully open – its rear wheel was already starting to throw sparks.
Time to go.
Thalma closed the flap, dropped the gun back into the floor safe and covered it up. Soon she was backing out of the garage and driving around to a private exit gate at the rear of the property. She had no idea what the padlock's combination was, but her cordless impact driver's steel-cutting circular saw made short work of it. Once through the gate, she guided the pickup through a series of dirt roads, staying clear of the highway or any main roads for as long as possible. She had no reason to believe that the police would be looking for her, but even if she did get pulled over for some improbable reason, the drugs were gone. They couldn't link her to what had happened at the self-storage facility.
No, her real concern now wasn't the police but the organization that had picked up the drugs. Would Mr. Murphy's men manage to ditch the car and then the police? If they had some urban survival training – and she had a feeling they did – then she figured they had a decent shot. Especially with the kind of support Mr. Murphy and their company seemed capable of offering.
And how would Murphy respond to killing one of his men? Would he decide to kill Peter Ulbright in retaliation? Anxiety seeped like a dark red cloud into her vision. She hadn't thought of Ulbright when she shot the man. Still, she doubted Murphy would be overly concerned as long as he got his precious hallucinogens. But if he didn't get those hallucinogens...
Thalma released a pent-up breath and rubbed her jaw. The image of the man who'd received her fifty caliber gift hung on in her head, despite her desire to move on to other issues. She saw the impact, but then it was just a blur of motion – the pickup driver roaring away and the SUV whipping in to retrieve the body and the case. She'd assumed at the time that he was wearing body armor, but a BMG AP round would punch through any conceivable body armor.
Thalma pushed the image of the falling man out of her head, and a pair of converging negative possibilities rushed forward to take their place. First, if the drugs didn't end up back with their owners, that would count as her failing to deliver her end of the deal. If Murphy was good as his word, that might mean his organization would come after her even though she had tried to fulfill her side of the bargain.
The second possibility, if anything, was worse: the DEA and other law enforcement agencies would start digging into Land Trust Investments – and then start digging into her. In fact, digging wasn't necessary. She was a person of interest now, a known address and a known affiliation with the corporation that owned the sites of two felony crimes. It seemed quite possible that they might want to pay her a visit and maybe talk about some of these things.
The cell rang, jarring her. Mr. Good News.
"Yes," she said.
"I understand your man killed one of my men," he said.
"That's what I was told. To save the life of a civilian he was about to murder."
"It appears your henchman shares your exalted sense of morality." An uncharacteristic harsh edge had invaded Mr. Murphy's mantle of urbanity. "As a consequence, instead of being on their merry way with the drugs intact and no one the wiser, my team is scrambling to stay clear of law enforcement – and one has already lost a significant portion of the package."
Thalma didn't respond.
"Needless to say," Mr. Murphy continued, "you will bear the consequences of your employee's actions."
Thalma rubbed her throat. "Is Mr. Ulbright alive?"
"Sadly, no. He was killed trying to escape. So one could say the scales are balanced in that respect."
Thalma closed her eyes briefly. Balanced, she thought, if you consider murdering someone in cold blood the equivalent of killing someone who was about to murder someone in cold blood. But what was the point in arguing ethics with a sociopath?
"By 'consequences'," Mr. Murphy continued, "I'm speaking of financial compensation. We won't know the extent of that compensation until my men have returned. My guess, however, is that it will number in the many, many millions. Will I continue to be able to reach you at this number?"
"Doubtful," said Thalma.
"Are you willing to pay for the lost merchandise?"
"That depends on whether I believe you're asking a fair price. I don't even know what this drug is."
"A little something called LSD 35. It's a particularly potent and strange variation of the original, currently worth approximately five thousand dollars a gram. So you can see it wouldn't take much loss to add up to very large sums."
"That's retail. I wouldn't expect to pay more than wholesale, plus a minimal markup."
"Subject to negotiation," said Mr. Murphy crisply. "You have my number. Call me in two days, and we'll make arrangements for payment. Assumin
g many millions are within your reach."
"I'm sure we can work something out."
"Very good. And Mr. THX," he added, "if we don't hear from you, please rest assured that you can very much expect to hear from us."
Thalma ended the call without comment. She had every intention of peacefully resolving her relationship with Mr. Murphy and his mystery organization, but she would use the next two days to think that through.
Chapter 6
LOUIS'S LIGHT WAS ON when Thalma got back, so she knocked on his door.
"Oh, hey!" He reached out for a hug, but hesitated, lightly grasping her shoulders instead. "I'm glad you're back."
He stepped aside for her to enter. It was funny, she thought, how nothing had really changed in the little house, and yet it felt like Louis. Just the little touches – a Popular Mechanics magazine flopped half-open on a chair, a couple of dirty plates on the kitchen counter, a Smallville rerun on the TV. She slumped down on the couch.
"Another tough day at the office?" He regarded her with his lambent golden brown eyes. "Did you drop off the drugs?"
"That ended up being about five times harder than I expected," she said. "The first place – and old steel factory – had been taken over by a meth lab..." She described her encounter with the tweakers and then the police. "I had to improvise, and chose my nearest property – a self-storage place in Bismarck. More bad luck, that resulted in me killing a man. The first in more than fifteen years."
Louis sank into a seat, his eyes taking on a glazed, fearful expression as he listened to her account of events at the self-storage facility and her conversations with Mr. Murphy.
"Fuck." The word emerged in a low groan. "Talk about Mr. Murphy. Considering your luck recently, that's gotta be some cosmic joke."
"No kidding," Thalma laughed without feeling.
"I've got some rice thing I threw together tonight. You want some? And maybe something to drink?"
"Both sound really good."
She watched him walk away in his bare feet, and kicked off her own athletic shoes, thankful that one of her positive weirdnesses was that she never had foot odor or any kind of b.o.
She stretched out her feet and drooped backward, letting the sofa absorb her body, a smile that she would've thought impossible a few minutes ago forming on her face. Something about coming home to someone who cares about you, she thought. A tiny frown of question countered her smile. He really does care for me, doesn't he? It wasn't a thought she trusted.
Louis handed her a beer, and set a bowl of his rice concoction on the coffee table beside her.
"Thanks," she said, smiling up at him. "You're spoiling me."
"Maybe you should try the rice first."
He sat down across from her, grinning through his beard. It didn't take long for the grin to retreat into a more serious expression.
"Have you ever considered just stopping?" he asked. "It's not like you need the money anymore, do you?"
"It was never about the money," she said. "It was about – still is about – creating a safe haven. A refuge from the corruption and insanity of the world."
"I think I get it. But haven't you already done that?"
"Maybe for myself. But I want to create something a lot of people could become part of – a network of people who believe in freedom and justice and work together to help each other achieve that."
"An alternative society?"
"A coalition of the willing." She smiled. "People who have money now use it to buy privileges for themselves and their allies at the expense of other people's liberties and livelihoods. I want to do the opposite – and that's going to take money. A lot of it."
Louis was nodding and stroking his beard. "Sounds like a noble dream."
"I'm not into dreams. I'm into planning and getting things done."
"I know. And for what it's worth, I believe in you."
He saluted her with his beer. Thalma smiled, blinking hard to hold back tears, and saluted him back.
"But right now I'm a little worried about this Mr. Murphy guy," said Louis. "What if he and his people start poking around in your business? And then there's the DEA..."
"You know, you're kind of a buzz kill."
Louis settled back with an awkward shrug, his eyes straying to the TV screen, where Doomsday was kicking Clark's butt. Thalma finished her beer, and picked up her bowl of rice. A few spoonfuls in, she raised her eyebrows to Louis.
"Mmm," she said. "This is really good."
"It's high protein, so you ought to like it. It's got mung beans, wild rice, quinoa, beans, eggs, and fresh vegetables, with chopped up ground chuck and chicken and a variety of spices."
"You should open a restaurant."
"I actually got that one from a dude who worked in a vegetarian restaurant in Portland. He didn't add meat, but I'm heretical that way."
"I don't do well without meat."
She inhaled the food, despite having stopped for a chicken burger and fries at Arby's on the way home. Louis rose silently and refilled her bowl, also bringing another beer.
"But back to that Murphy jerk and the DEA," he said. "The DEA knows you work for Land Trust Investments, and now they've seen drug-related stuff happening on two of their properties. They could tie you to that, and really start digging into it, couldn't they?"
Thalma sipped from her beer, struggling to rein in her irritation at Louis more than fretting about the negative possibilities. She'd been fantasizing about having a business partner the last few years in part because she liked the idea of having someone to talk to when issues arose. So why did she feel more like throttling Louis now than talking things over? Maybe she hated the fact that now she had another person to worry about besides herself? Or maybe, she thought, she just had her own pace and rhythm of dealing with things, and didn't appreciate being rushed.
"I'll be considering the threat," she said. "I don't see much point in panicking about it. Worst case scenario, I could walk away from Land Trust Investments into a new identity."
"It would be that easy? You have it all set up?"
"I have multiple identities, and there are multiple circles of investments, savings, and properties, each isolated from the other."
"It would be impossible to find a link between them?"
Thalma swallowed another mouthful of beer, biting back her annoyance again. "Not impossible, but damn difficult."
"I don't mean to pester you about it." He was reading her expression. "If you did move on to another identity, where would that leave me?"
"I guess that depends on where you'd want to be," said Thalma, her gaze challenging. "You have no formal connection with me. You could walk away and safely return to your normal life."
Louis stared at his lap, frowning. Thalma felt a gathering coldness in her chest, as if she'd swallowed a large lump of ice.
"I don't want to return to my normal life," he said. "I want to be with you."
Thalma's coldness retreated on a tide of reassuring warmth. She breathed in, a smile breaking out.
"Then we could find a way," she said.
The warmth stayed with her as she polished off her second bowl of his rice concoction.
"You're the one who's going away for a week in jail at the end of the month," she said. "Maybe you should be worried about yourself."
"Thanks for reminding me." Louis slumped in his chair, covering his eyes. "I can already feel my spine misaligning from their so-called beds."
"I'll visit you as often as they let me."
"You will?" He peeked out from behind his hands.
"Of course. I wouldn't let such horrible suffering go unwitnessed."
"Gee, thanks."
Thalma rose. "It's getting late. I should go – let you get some sleep."
"I haven't done anything stressful today. You're the one who should be tired. I mean, if you actually ever got tired."
"I get tired." She made a point of stretching and yawning. "Otherwise, why would I need to sleep?"
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"I guess your brain needs recharging or something. But your body never seems to get tired."
Louis pushed to his feet. They stood gazing at each other. Thalma knew then that she didn't want to leave. She also knew she wouldn't be the one to suggest that she stay. She might be part-male, but she figured it was Louis's turn to bring the testosterone.
Louis's gaze shifted to one side of her, his jaw working as if he was chewing on words rather than saying them. With a half-scowl, Thalma moved past him toward the door.
"Wait," he groaned.
He raised one feeble hand. Thalma stopped and turned by slow degrees to face him.
"I was just thinking," he said. "Maybe you might want to stay. This time, you know, without drugs."
"Maybe."
"And maybe, also, without, you know..." His face reddened.
"No problem." She smiled. "Your macho manliness brings out the woman in me."
"Yeah, right." He gave a tight chuckle. "I'm going to choose to believe that's at least partly true."
"It is. More than part."
She stood watching him, waiting. Louis took the clue and walked over to her. He reached out and ran his hand down the clean edge of her jaw.
"You're so beautiful," he said. "Like a Swedish warrior princess."
He leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips. She kissed him back with equal gentleness. He clasped her shoulders to steady himself and kissed her again. He explored her mouth, so full and soft, while she draped her hands on his shoulders. As passion built in Thalma, she held back, afraid of what she might do to his slim body if she let herself seize him the way she wanted to seize him. She was surprised as her restraint rewarded her with tantalizing waves of pleasure.
He broke away, and taking her hand led her to his bed. They took turns undressing each other – he removed her shirts, she his T-shirt, he her jeans, she his shorts – and then he was sitting on the bed, gazing at her wondrous, naked body. Despite her extraordinary strength, she wasn't bulging with muscles. It was as if, he thought, thin plates of steel had been layered over her abdomen and pieced in throughout her body.
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