Teddy woke to the sound of breaking glass. He slipped out of bed with his gun in his hand and stepped into a pair of sneakers. He crept to the door. There was no sound behind it. He eased it open. There was no one on the stairs, but he could hear someone walking down below. The guy was clearly an amateur—he was making more noise than progress. Evidently he hadn’t brought a light.
Whoever he was, he had no right to be there. Peter or the pilot wouldn’t show up at two in the morning. If they did, they’d turn on a light. And they wouldn’t break a window to get in.
The intruder was thrashing around. Teddy half expected to hear him knock over a carton of Coke bottles from the soda machine, a relic of past years. Cokes were still ten cents in the machine, a losing venture but well worth it just for the nostalgia.
The crash did not come, but a crackle of paper indicated he was making his way toward the stairs. Teddy didn’t want him to get there. He grabbed a flashlight he always kept on the table by the door, slipped out, and crept down the stairs.
The intruder was almost there. Hoping the battery worked, Teddy clicked the flashlight on.
A beefy man with a gun in his hand blinked in the sudden light. His face was a picture of consternation. He tried to aim the gun.
Teddy shot him in the head.
The body fell on the gun with a heavy thud, but it didn’t go off. That was the only thing Teddy had been afraid of, an unsilenced shot that would draw attention.
Teddy rolled him over and pried the gun out of his hand. He was a goon, your standard, card-carrying enforcer. Teddy had known enough of them in his day. This one was out of his league.
Teddy pulled out the goon’s wallet and checked his ID. The man who’d tried to kill him was Tony Zito. He had a Las Vegas driver’s license.
So, it looked like Mason Kimble and Gerard Cardigan had brought in out-of-town talent. That figured. Not knowing where he was, they’d hired a skip tracer. The fire starter had probably also been an import, though it probably hadn’t been this guy. The guy who built the fire and failed to kill Teddy would hardly get a second chance.
Neither would Tony Zito.
Teddy went out to the parking lot and found the goon’s car. It wasn’t hard. It had a Nevada plate, and Teddy had the keys. He clicked the button and the lights flashed.
Teddy drove it around to the hangar, opened the bay door, and pulled in. He popped the trunk and stuffed the dead man inside. He backed out of the hangar and closed the bay doors.
He had to ditch the car. He didn’t want it found close to the airport, but he didn’t feel like walking back either.
There were usually bicycles parked in front of one of the larger hangars across the way. Teddy checked to see if any were unlocked. None were, but he chose one with a flimsy lock he could pick in thirty seconds and threw it in the backseat of the car. He set off along the coast.
About five miles away he found what he wanted, a cliff overlooking the sea. He stopped the car and took out the bicycle. He hopped back in, put the car in gear, and headed it for the edge of the cliff. He gunned the motor and jumped out at the last moment.
It wasn’t pretty. The car didn’t have enough momentum to sail off the cliff. It just barely made it over, dropping straight down, striking the side of the cliff as it fell, landing upside down in the shallow water.
Teddy didn’t wait to see if the tide would sweep it away. He just hopped on his bike and started back for the hangar.
As he rode he heaved a sigh. The dead hit man, easy as he’d been to take care of, posed a real problem.
Someone knew about Billy Barnett’s airport apartment.
He’d have to move again.