“Who?”

“Trace these helo serial numbers,” Zach said, speaking distinctly as he repeated what he’d seen through the binoculars.

“I’ll get back to you,” Faroe said.

Zach switched to the pilot’s frequency. “We’re going to land.”

“Where?”

“On the highway.”

“What about traffic?” the pilot asked.

“It’s taken care of.”

The pilot took the plane higher.

“I told you to land,” Zach said.

“Do you want to walk away from it?”

“Yes.”

“Then shut up and let me do my job.”

Zach switched back to his sat/cell. “Come on, come on,” he muttered. “How long can it take to run the numbers on a-”

His sat/cell rang. “Who are they?” Zach demanded.

“Red Hill International,” Faroe said.

“The high-ticket security outfit out of Las Vegas?”

“The same.”

“They have a pretty good rep,” Zach said. “What are they doing working for an arsonist and shooter?”

“Best guess? They’re getting hosed by a lying client.”

“God knows that never happens in this business,” Zach said sarcastically. “The really bad news is that friendly fire kills just as dead as the other kind.”

“The ambassador is talking to General Meyer of Red Hill as we speak.”

“Screw talking. I’m taking this bird down,” Zach said. “Jill isn’t armed to go up against Red Hill.”

“Neither are you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Zach disconnected and switched frequencies to talk to the pilot. “Take me down.”

“Which part of the highway?”

“The cop car with the flashing lights is the upwind end of the runway.” Zach pulled his duffel from behind the seat and took out a long-barreled pistol and spare magazines. “The downwind end is behind us, where the RV is parked across the highway. From the dust I’ve seen in the headlights, I’m guessing we’ll get occasional gusts of wind from southwest to northeast.”

Not good news for a landing.

“I’ve noticed.” The pilot’s voice was flat.

He turned the plane into the wind and lined up with the highway. He dropped into a zone where the air wasn’t quite as bumpy.

But it was still a long way from smooth.

“I’m glad St. Kilda will be the one explaining this to the FAA,” the pilot said.

“Engine trouble, what can I tell you?” Zach said. “Put me as close as you can to the ranch entrance.”

That meant a really short landing. The pilot hissed a word not approved by the FAA.

“Can you do it?” Zach asked.

“Tighten your harness” was all the pilot said.

Zach looked at the buildings coming closer with every second. Jill wasn’t anywhere in sight.

She’d already gone in.

Be smart, Jill, Zach prayed silently. Turn around and run like hell to the Escalade.

But he knew she wouldn’t. Worse, he knew it wouldn’t make any difference if she did.

Red Hill wasn’t a bunch of amateurs.

84

SEPTEMBER 17

6:31 P.M.

The gaping door of the fourth cottage opened into a room that looked cheap and hard-used. Jill stood to one side of the doorway and glanced around. The carpet was faded and stained, but the coffee table had been dusted recently. Two cheap cast-iron chairs huddled around an equally cheap ice-cream table. The TV was on, picture only. The sex tape that was running showed Tab-A-to-Slot-B graphics for the sexually stupid.

Despite the lack of landscaping and the dry pool, it looked like the room was still being used by working girls. The bed was made. The table and the TV had been dusted. The electricity was on.

A half-wall across the rear of the room partially concealed an oversize spa tub. The tub was full, but unoccupied. The jets were off. The sharp, unmistakable smell of chlorine hung in the air.

Maybe the women make their tricks sluice off in bleach before they climb on.

She certainly would.

“Anybody here?” Jill called out.

In the bathroom, Score wanted to laugh. He finally had the bitch within reach. He’d been waiting for this moment for a long time.

Too long.

“Come on in,” he snarled. “Close the door.”

Jill thought the voice was almost familiar. Blanchard without the cold? The mysterious caller without the filter?

“Do you understand that there are people who know exactly where I am?” Jill asked, not entering.

“Just get your ass in here,” Score said, scratching his face through a ski mask. “You’re wasting my time.”

Like you haven’t wasted mine? Jill thought.

Slowly she stepped just inside the room. One of her hands was around the suitcase handle. The other was very close to the unzipped belly bag. Her heart was trying to crawl up her throat, but her stomach kept getting in the way.

“I said, close the door.” Score said roughly. “You have a problem with your hearing?”

Jill’s adrenaline turned into anger. “You want it closed, you close it.”

Score stepped out of the bathroom. “You didn’t learn much in Mesquite, did you?”

“Much what?”

“Fear.”

“If you want to scare me, take off the mask. I bet I’ll be terrified.”

Score came around the half-wall and stood close to her. He was about her height, twice her weight, and three times her muscle. He glared at the single suitcase in her hand.

“Where are the rest?” he demanded.

“I have two paintings with me. You can inspect them, but only if you show me the money first.”

“You think you clang when you walk?” Score asked.

Jill struggled with an unholy cocktail of fear, adrenaline, and anger.

She lost.

“Is that what happened to Modesty?” she taunted. “You didn’t like listening to her clang?”

Score laughed despite the rage sleeting through his blood. “She was stupid. She jumped me, fell, and knocked herself right into the next world. You feeling that kind of stupid?”

The man’s casual summary of her great-aunt’s death was like a bucket of ice water in Jill’s face.

“No,” she said. “I’m feeling like getting this done and getting on the road.”

“Don’t want to play, huh?” He licked his lips slowly.

His tongue looked thick and wet in the slit of the black mask. She simply stared at him, suspended between adrenaline and disgust.

Score laughed, knowing he was scaring her. He went to the closet, yanked out a briefcase, and walked over to stand close to her.

Real close.

Jill wanted to back up. She didn’t.

Ski Mask knows I’m sickened by him. He’s using it to intimidate me.

She took the briefcase and handed over the suitcase, not even flinching when his latex-gloved fingers slowly stroked over her hand.

“Stay here,” he said. “Count your money. Throw it on the bed and get off on it. Just don’t try to leave before I tell you to. You’ll get hurt. I’ll enjoy that, but you won’t.”

“Where are you going?”

“To make sure the paintings are real.”

The instant the door closed behind him, Jill raced to the window and pulled the heavy, faded curtain aside just enough to peek through.

The man stripped off his mask, walked toward the crib two doors down, knocked, and entered.

But not before she memorized his face in the last cool gasp of sunlight.

The angle of view she had was tight, but she could see another man step out of the other cottage into the dying day. The second man was well groomed, freshly shaved, dressed in black slacks, charcoal shirt, and no tie. His loafers screamed of city sidewalks and money, a lot of money.

He had the self-assurance to go with it.

Art buyer? Lawyer? Sleazy millionaire?