After years of being the hunter, it was strange being pursued-and by cops, no less. I felt an uncomfortable inkling of shame, not unlike when I was nine and Amy talked me into swiping a candy bar from the store. I hadn’t been caught. I’d even snuck back later and returned it, without her knowing. Running from these agents, I felt the same twinge, mitigated only by the reminder that I wasn’t committing a crime, but trying to solve one.
My ruse with the first-floor door wouldn’t stymie the FBI for long, but it had bought us a few critical minutes. We made it to the delivery loading dock without incident. From there, escape was a simple matter of unlocking the exit door and walking out.
We stepped into the fading light and found ourselves at the foot of a small flight of stairs.
“I’ll look. Wait here.”
I nodded. Though I was quite capable of scouting, I was the lawyer who’d snuck out. No one was looking for a janitor.
Jack climbed the steps and disappeared. By the time I’d slipped my shoes back on, he’d reappeared at the top. He waved me up. I was just high enough to peek over ground level when two men in maintenance jumpsuits walked around the corner. I ducked so fast I nearly fell backward down the steps. Jack started to follow, then let out an obscenity.
He turned to me, said, “Wait,” then strode off.
TWENTY-SIX
Had the maintenance men seen Jack, noticed his janitor’s uniform shirt and called him over to help with something?
A moment’s silence. Then a man’s voice, raised just loud enough to carry.
“Drive where?”
“Just drive,” Jack called back.
I walked up a few steps and stood on tiptoes to peek over the top. Jack and the two men were about twenty feet away, on the other side of a storage shed. I darted over to it.
“Not good enough,” one man said. “Tell me where the hell I’m driving, Jack, or…”
I didn’t hear the rest of it. My brain snagged on Jack’s name.
Jack walked past the storage shed. Hearing the other man still talking, I swung back, trying to get out of sight. I stepped on a branch, the crack of breaking wood loud enough to make Jack turn. His gaze met mine. He looked away quickly, but it was too late. The two men in maintenance suits were behind him, now both staring right at me.
One of them was around Jack’s age, average height and lean to the point of bony, with thinning ginger hair, a sparse beard and glasses.
The other man was closer to my age, a little over six feet with a solid build, light brown hair, and a face that was pleasantly handsome but no cause for second glances. Nothing about him screamed “cop”-no mustache, no brawny forearms, no steel-eyed glare of perpetual suspicion. But I knew that’s what he was, the same way I’d know a Beretta from a Glock with a split-second glance.
The cop looked from me to Jack. “Your new partner, Jack? Either that’s one hell of a disguise or there’s something you forgot to tell us.”
“Drive,” Jack said. “North. First rest stop.”
The cop opened his mouth to argue, but the red-haired man said, “We’ll be there.” He smiled at me, then shooed his partner toward the parking lot.
“That was Quinn, wasn’t it?” I said as we got into the car.
“Yeah.”
I fought the first bubble of panic rising in my gut. “Okay. Presumably, Quinn got the same message those Feds did, and came by hoping to find out what was going on. Bad timing, but now we have to deal with it. This meeting at the rest stop. Should I stay in the car?”
He pulled out of the parking lot. “Up to you.”
“My first instinct is to stay out of their way. But he already got a good look at me, and he obviously figured out I’m your mystery partner. So if I stay in the car, that’s going to arouse suspicion. They’ll wonder if it’s more than rookie nerves.”
“Yeah.”
I looked over at him. “Can I get some advice? Please?”
He drove for at least five minutes without answering, then did so slowly, as if with great reluctance. “Safer to meet them. Get it over with. You’re in disguise. Quinn’s a blowhard but…” A long pause, as if he’d rather not finish. “He’s good. Trustworthy. You’ll be fine.”
Quinn and his partner were waiting when we pulled into the rest stop. Jack drove past them, circled to the rear of the building and parked on the far side. He looked around, then got out and headed for the picnic area that, given the cool season and the late hour, was understandably empty.
He gestured at the table in front of us. “Here good?”
“Seems okay. We’re far enough from the buildings that no one should overhear if we keep our voices down. Watch the body language, though.”
When I looked up, Quinn was bearing down on us, jaw set, fists balled at his sides.
“So much for body language,” I murmured.
Jack stood, shoulders squaring. Quinn’s partner headed our way, as if to intercept, but he was too far to reach us in time.
“What’s this?” Quinn said, gesturing at me. “When you said you had a partner, we all figured you meant Evelyn or someone we knew. That”-his finger jabbed my way-“is neither.”
“I’m vouching for her,” Jack said.
“That’s very nice. But we’re taking a big risk, working with a stranger-”
“I said, I’m vouching for her.”
They stared at each other. Last time I’d seen that look it’d been on a pair of feral dogs, in a battle for control of the lodge’s garbage bins-right before I turned the hose on them. Some guys…you can teach them to walk upright, put them in nice clothes, but it still comes down to a good ol’-fashioned pissing contest. And me without my hose.
“Hey,” I said, inching between the two. I fixed my smile on Quinn and upped the wattage. “What’s a club without initiation rites? How about a test? Make sure I pass muster.”
“You don’t have to-” Jack began.
I put up a hand to stop him, never breaking eye contact with Quinn.
“Test me,” I said. “Can’t say I was ever any good at pop quizzes in school, but what the hell. Give it a try.”
Quinn’s gaze locked on mine. “You any good at distance shooting?”
“Got a rifle on you?”
The barest hint of a smile lit his eyes, but didn’t reach his lips. “Not right now. So, what’s the best silencer for Remington 700?”
“None.”
His brows rose a quarter-inch.
“First, it’s a suppressor. You can’t silence a gun. Ignoring that, a real distance shooter wouldn’t use one unless absolutely necessary. Most times, you’re taking the shot from far enough away that a suppressor isn’t necessary, and using one means you run the risk of throwing off your MOA.”
“Minutes of angle,” the red-haired man said with a smile. “She’s right. I’ve told you that before, but you never listen.”
I continued. “If you have to use a suppressed rifle, you’d be better off with a McMillan M89 or Steyr SSG. Their suppressors work okay, but personally I prefer-”
“All right, all right.” He extended his hand. “Quinn.”
“ Dee.”
The red-haired man took my hand with a smile. “Felix.”
Quinn turned back to Jack. “So what the hell was that fuckup at the hospital?”
“Following a lead. Same as you.”
“Well, that shit wouldn’t have happened if you’d listened to me and we actually tried a little teamwork on this job.”
Jack glanced my way, as if expecting a “told you so.” I looked away before I gave him one. As I scanned the rest stop, I slid between Jack and Quinn again.
“We have an audience,” I said.
Quinn followed my gaze. Next to the building a middle-aged couple stood beside their car, watching us.
“May I make a suggestion?” I asked.
Quinn nodded.
“How about we sit down, I’ll grab some cans of pop and we’ll have a picnic.”