CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Esme remembered the summer Dax had set the pure stock Plymouth drag title up at Bandimere with an 11.897-second time at 119.46 miles per hour in his Hemi ’Cuda. The two of them had toasted his success with a couple of her mother’s homemade root beers. It had been a big day, sharing a cool moment with her cool cousin.

Today had been a big day, and Johnny had been going faster than Dax coming down out of the mountains. Thank God he had an upgraded suspension on the Cyclone. She didn’t mind fast, and she hadn’t felt unsafe, but neither had she taken her eyes off the road or her hands off the car. Her right hand had been holding onto the door, and her left had been wrapped around the edge of her bucket seat, in case they’d gone airborne.

He’d cut it down a notch now that they were in Denver, and her hands were in her lap, trying not to wring each other. Damn. She knew what made her feel unsafe-a couple of armed and dangerous guys trying to grab her in the middle of a simple bathroom pit stop.

“Who were those guys, do you think?” she asked. “Bleak’s?” They had to be Bleak’s. She was beginning to think that somehow she, and Dax, and her dad had completely underestimated how serious Franklin Bleak was about collecting his money. It seemed a little crazy, how all these guys were after her, chasing her all over the damn state.

“You tell me,” he said, lifting his hips off the seat and pulling two wallets out of his back pocket. He handed them over to her, and all she could do was look at him and be a little amazed.

Then he reached in his front pockets, one after the other, and produced two cell phones, and handed them over.

“That’s… uh, good work.” Why in the hell hadn’t she thought of that? Frisking. She should have thought of that, or at least noticed what he was doing. He’d taken their weapons. She’d noticed that. He’d also unloaded both pistols before dropping them in the backseat. She’d definitely noticed that. He’d been very fast about it, very efficient, like it was something he did all the time.

She opened the first wallet and read the name on the driver’s license. “Mitch Hardon, that was the old guy, the one who almost ate your lunch.”

He cast her a narrowed glance across the car, being such a guy about it.

“He’s got two hundred and fifteen dollars in cash, a couple of credit cards, and stuff,” she said, setting it aside and opening the other wallet. “And we’ve got Leroy Fitzer, twelve bucks, somebody else’s credit cards-some guy named Jason L. Davidson-two condoms, and a Bleak Enterprises business card, listing him as a production manager.”

“Mystery solved,” he said, then cleared his throat. “You were good back there.” He had both hands on the wheel, his gaze straight ahead.

“So were you.” It was true. “Thanks. I think that’s about the third time you’ve saved me tonight. We make a good team.”

“I think that time it was you who saved me, so we’re close to even, and we haven’t even gotten to the main event.”

She gave her head a small shake. “Well, you’re not on for the main event. You’ve already gone beyond the call of duty here tonight.” She still didn’t know why, not exactly, but she was grateful.

“Five A.M. at Bleak’s warehouse,” he said clearly. “I’m going to be there, with you and your partner, if he ever shows up.”

“Oh, hell.” Dax. She’d forgotten to call Dax. She’d listened to his message, but then lost cell reception again. She quickly pulled her phone out of her messenger bag and keyed in his number.

“Dax,” Esme said into her phone, when he answered. “We just hit the city limits.”

Over on his side of the car, she heard Johnny choke a bit on a swallow of the drink he’d gotten at Harold’s. When she looked, he was staring at her with an odd expression on his face-concern, maybe, or disbelief. It was hard to tell.

“Did you get the cash?” Dax asked, and she put her attention back into the phone call.

“Yes.”

“Are you still with Ramos?”

“Yes.”

“Good, don’t let yourself get out of his sight, not for an instant.”

“Warner and Shoko.” She understood. Down to the marrow of her bones, she understood. “What in the hell are they doing in Denver?”

At the worst, she’d figured Warner would realize Otto had screwed up the deal after the fact, not practically in the middle of it, and not where she’d be within striking distance.

“If Warner authorized the sale of the painting, then he was here to collect his half a million.”

“And if he didn’t authorize it?” Otto had done a little moonlighting in Bangkok, making some cash on the side with bits and pieces of Warner’s enormous collection, but unloading the Meinhard on his own was an unprecedented risk. Warner would notice that the Meinhard was missing, and yes, she could imagine that he would come after it fast and hard. Later, though, after she was long gone.

“Then Otto got off easy,” Dax said.

“Is he dead?” With Shoko in the mix, sometimes dead wasn’t such a bad option. And oh, holy crap, was she going to be in it up to her neck, if Warner’s dragon lady had killed Otto Von Lindberg. An anonymous hooker turning an anonymous trick in a hotel room and nobody was the wiser. An anonymous hooker leaving a dead trick in that hotel room, and suddenly she wasn’t anonymous. Suddenly everybody knew who she was; suddenly everybody remembered talking to her-starting with the parking valet.

“No. He’s not dead. He’ll be sporting ‘Nazi hero’ for a while, so whatever the reason is that Warner keeps him around, that reason is still holding.”

The relief she might have felt failed to materialize. Being in the same country as Warner was enough to tighten her gut. Add Shoko, and her gut was tying itself in knots.

Nazi hero. Goddammit. She had half that mark, and the only thing that had saved her from the whole abomination was Dax. Eighteen months later, and she could still feel the tip of the bitch’s blade. It woke her up sometimes, always in a cold sweat, and the demon from that bad dream was here, in her hometown. So help her God, she’d never imagined Denver could be so damn full of so many badass felons out to grease her.

“Johnny and I left two of Bleak’s guys hog-tied in a convenience store off I-70 near Sixth Avenue.” And she was definitely pegging those two as felons. Hell, they worked for Bleak.

When Dax didn’t say anything, she knew she was hearing his “oh, for the love of God and Patsy Cline” silence, his unhappy silence.

“You were followed.” His words were flat when he finally spoke.

“Yes, but we did good,” she assured him.

“The two of you should have done good,” Dax said. “You’re you, and Ramos is a Ranger.”

Esme felt her eyebrows lift up.

“He just got back from Afghanistan two weeks ago, his third combat tour,” Dax said. “I’d guess he’s still pretty sharp.”

“Like a tack,” she said, all the pieces falling into place. She slanted Mr. U.S. Army Ranger a glance. Only one word came to mind, and she wasn’t shy about saying it. “Hoo-yah.”

Johnny didn’t look over, made no acknowledgment whatsoever of her revelation, except for the big grin that spread across his face.

Johnny Ramos a Ranger; it made perfect sense.

“You should have told me,” she said, still looking at Johnny.

“I did tell you,” Dax said on the phone. “What I haven’t told you is that the cops are looking for the blond hooker who was in Otto’s room, and my guess is that by the time they lift the prints off the prepaid phone you used, they’ll know your shoe size and your horoscope. So lay low.”

Crap. “I was wearing gloves, Dax. There won’t be any prints, but how in the hell did they find the phone?”

“Followed the emergency GPS signal straight to the B and B bathroom, babe. It was a piece of cake.”

And they had Shoko to thank for this. If she’d left Otto alone, no one would even have a clue what had gone on in the Oxford. No one would have cared.