SEPTEMBER 13
11:00 P.M.
Jill forced herself not to reach for the room phone and call the desk again. They were as tired of telling her that she had no messages as she was of hearing it. She’d used pay-per-view to see a recent movie that interested her, lost a few bucks and gotten her hands grimy playing the penny slots, ordered another hamburger, and finally returned to her room after three hours of perching on the deliberately uncomfortable stools in front of the cheap slot machines.
I should have brought my dirty clothes. Bet there’s a laundry somewhere in the hotel. Then the trip wouldn’t have been a total waste of time, money, and gas.
She watched the bedside clock crawl through a few more minutes. How bad could connections be between east Texas and Nevada? Was Blanchard hitchhiking?
She paced and then paced some more. After the physical activity of the river, her body wasn’t used to hanging out in smoky rooms.
Screw this. I’m going for a walk.
She grabbed her jacket and the belly pack that doubled as her purse and headed for the elevator. Ignoring the relentless mechanical yammering of the slot machines in the casino, she strode toward the front doors.
After the air in the hotel, the wind was like diving into cold rushing water. For the freshness, she’d live with the flying grit. She paced the front of the hotel several times, wishing she was doing something useful.
Check the oil in your SUV. That’s useful. Then you won’t have to do it at dawn tomorrow, when you leave this place.
On the subject of oil, her vehicle could only be described as greedy. It had a quart-a-day habit.
Check the tires while you’re at it.
Give the SUV a wax job.
Do something besides fidget.
She dodged a latecomer hurrying to the check-in, crossed the driveway to the parking lot, and headed for her aging SUV. The lot was partially full. Compressors on refrigerator trucks rumbled, waiting for drivers to bust out at the tables or stop hitting on waitresses. Some of the RVs had lights on inside, either night-lights or a beacon for bleary gamblers to stumble toward when they got tired of losing.
The guard’s golf cart was idling at the entrance to the parking lot. A low conversation came on the wind, the guard telling a newbie where the overnight RV parking was. The mercury-vapor lamps cast a ghastly orange glow over everything, changing colors dramatically. If Jill hadn’t known exactly where she was parked, she never would have recognized her vehicle. She cut through ranks of monster pickup trucks and SUVs the size of railroad cars. Finally she could see her own modest rig. It looker even smaller than she remembered.
Then she realized that the left front tire was flat.
So was the left back tire.
She froze, listening for any sound, searching for any movement. All that came was the wind and the sound of voices headed toward the casino, away from her. Warily, keeping other vehicles between herself and her own car, she circled the SUV.
Four flat tires.
Front door ajar.
I locked it. I know I did.
When Jill was sure she was alone, she stood back and dug a tiny, powerful penlight from her waist pack. She sent the narrow beam over the interior of the car.
Nothing moved.
No one was inside, sleeping off a drunk or waiting for a victim.
The seats had been ripped apart. The dome light was broken. There was a piece of paper stuck under the windshield wiper. What looked like ripped, coarse cloth jammed the open glove compartment.
She used the beam on nearby cars. Empty. Locked. Tires intact. No ads tucked under the windshield wipers. Whoever had trashed her ride had left the others alone.
Adrenaline lit up her blood like fireworks.
Gee, I feel really special.
Pissed off, too.
She looked around again, listened, heard nothing but wind and the growl of compressors keeping lettuce cold while drivers gambled the night away.
Quickly she closed the distance to her mutilated SUV. Nothing looked better up close. It looked worse.
She jerked the piece of paper out from under the windshield wiper. Block letters leaped into focus.
STAY OUT OF IT OR DIE
Adrenaline twisted into nausea.
She looked around the SUV again. Still alone. Still quiet. The guard was quartering a different part of the parking lot. She thought of calling him over, then thought of all the questions that the local cops would ask. Questions she really didn’t want to answer.
With a hissing curse she went to the passenger side, opened the door, and reached under the seat. To her surprise her satellite phone was still there. She pulled it out and stashed it in her belly bag. Then she grabbed a fistful of whatever was choking the glove compartment.
As soon as her fingers touched the material, she knew.
Canvas.
Oil.
Anger burned away the faint nausea of fear.
That slime-sucking son of a bitch. The threat wasn’t enough to make his point. He had to cut the missing painting to rags.
And it could just as easily have been her.
SEPTEMBER 14
2:21 A.M.
As usual, Dwayne Taylor had night duty. He liked it that way. The calls were more interesting and the view from Ambassador Steele’s office was one of the best in the city. Two of the office’s six walls overlooked Manhattan. The odd sheen of the bulletproof glass only added to the dramatic color-and-black view of skyscrapers. Three other walls held screens with satellite views of places where St. Kilda had operatives and/or things were going to hell. The final wall held a door and various reference books.
Ambassador Steele sat in his high-tech wheelchair, talking through a headset, debriefing someone in Paraguay. Mission accomplished. International executive returned largely unharmed to his worried family.
The “hot” phone rang.
Steele covered his microphone. “Get that, will you?”
Dwayne switched the channel on his headset and picked up immediately. “St. Kilda Consulting. Who or what do you need?”
“This is Jillian Breck. Joe Faroe told me to call this number if I was ever in trouble.”
Dwayne noted the tension in the woman’s voice, typed his best-guess spelling of her name into the computer, and simultaneously asked, “Are you in danger at this moment?”
“Only of losing more money to the penny slots.”
Dwayne smiled. “Not much danger, then.”
“My car is cut to pieces. Someone put a note under the windshield that said go away or die.”
Dwayne’s smile vanished. Information on Jillian Breck began to roll up on his computer screen.
Highest priority.
Joe Faroe.
“Where are you now?” Dwayne’s voice was a lot calmer than he was feeling. If Faroe said something was important, it was important.
“I’m in the Eureka Hotel, outside Mesquite, Nevada, in the casino. I figured it was safest here. Lots of guards.”
“Excellent choice. Do you have a room?”