Twelve

THE FORTY-FIVE-MINUTE DRIVE TO TILLMAN’S ESTATE JUST OUTSIDE Denver was a long time to be sitting in a confined space with a man Emily couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of. She tried her best not to find anything interesting to look at out of Max’s window, because she didn’t want to inadvertently look at him. She needn’t have worried. They were about as far apart as they could be without one of them straddling the outside of the car. While he seemed to fill the entire space with his presence, Max appeared completely oblivious to her, and the desultory conversation she was having with the two women in the front seat.

Because of the death of Elaine Ludwig, Max had decreed that she remain with them, and not go on ahead to Seattle. Emily was fine with that. People in her world seemed to be dropping like flies. She wasn’t safe with Max emotionally, but she was a hundred percent sure of her physical safety when they were together.

For the past half hour, he’d been poking, amazingly rapidly, a chrome stylus at a small black handheld device. Even though he was in his customary uniform of unrelieved black, today he’d opted for black dress slacks and a beautifully cut jacket over his black silk T-shirt. Black suited him.

She, however, had protested wearing the all-black, all-the-time outfit that AJ had offered her on the plane. Instead she’d opted to wear her own clothes. Jeans, tan high-heeled boots, a navy cashmere sweater, and a camel hair jacket. It wasn’t until she was dressed that she realized she was color-coordinated with the T-FLAC jet.

The short jacket might be attractive, but she was going to freeze her ass off when she got out of the car. More so because she’d gotten bold, and adopted the “go commando” part of the T-FLAC dress code.

Max’s appearance had very little to do with what she found so appealing about this annoying man. Looks weren’t that important to her for obvious reasons. Yes, he was handsome in a rugged, get-the-hell-out-of-my-way way. But she was intrigued by his focus. His drive. His chivalry, even if it was somewhat overwhelming when directed at her, was ingrained. She liked the way he treated his two female operatives exactly the same way he treated the men he worked with. She loved his big, tanned hands, and the way his eyes turned to green when he looked at her, like a barometer of how much he wanted her.

This probably wasn’t the best time to try to make sense of her feelings for Max. She was on too much sensory overload as it was. I’m in such big trouble here, she thought as her heart clenched. She turned her head to look blindly out of her side window at the passing scenery.

It was a glorious day, with not a cloud in the crystal blue sky. The stands of pine trees on either side of the narrow rural road were laden with snow. Rust-and-white Hereford cattle stood ankle deep in it, big brown eyes watchful as the car passed beyond their fence. It was a beautifully serene, bucolic scene. She took a mental snapshot so she could paint it later.

But she’d add action and drama to the serenity by painting Max, leaning over the neck of a running black stallion, its tail flying in the wind as it soared over the snowy hills. She’d paint speed in the chunks of white spewing behind the horse’s hooves, and a plume of steam misting from the horse’s mouth as it galloped.

“Do you ride?” she asked Max casually.

He glanced up from whatever he was doing to give her a slightly puzzled glance at the non sequitur.

“Anything from a horse to a Harley. Why?”

Of course he rode a motorcycle. She’d dress him in black leather. Hell, she’d like to paint him in nothing at all. “No reason. It’s hard to believe we’ve been on his property for the past half hour,” she said, changing the subject fast.

“Tillman has some serious bank,” Max pointed out, his attention back on the device in his hand.

“No kidding.” Emily tried to figure out what some of the buildings were that they passed. Barns. Outbuildings holding farm equipment. Several large homes at the end of long, snow-covered driveways. According to Darius, Richard Tillman’s twenty-five-million-dollar, five-hundred-acre ranch, nestled in the hills between Denver and Colorado Springs, was a money machine. Besides owning one of the largest commercial real estate development companies in the Northern Hemisphere, he also raised cattle and bred quarter horses, both here and in Montana. He was that kind of wealthy.

None of that made Emily’s heart beat faster. What gave her heart palpitations and made her mouth go dry was the man’s art collection. “I’m going to ask—okay, beg Mr. Tillman to let me go into his private museum while you two talk,” Emily confessed as they drove down the tree-lined drive. “He has the most extensive collection of Renaissance paintings in the world,” she said aloud while mentally cataloguing the works she knew he had. Rembrandt, Raphael, and Da Vinci…and dozens of other masters.

She almost salivated knowing that in a few minutes she was going to have the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of seeing them without hordes of tourists jostling for a better vantage point, or without having to work on them. She’d enjoy just looking at them for the pure pleasure of doing so. Without analyzing every brush-stroke and technique, or having a hundred other people breathing down her neck. “And,” she added happily, “two full-time curators to oversee them. I have some serious art envy.”

“You haven’t met Tillman, have you?” Max asked, powering down the device, and shoving it into his pocket.

She shook her head. “I’ve always dealt with his assistant, Alistair Norcroft. Nice guy.”

Max rested his ankle on his opposite knee. “You get any kind of vibe from him?”

Not at all. I go for tall, dark, broody, James Bond types with whom I have no future. “I only met him a few times. And each meeting was pretty brief. Usually he had a courier deliver and pick up the paintings, but sometimes he’d come himself. He appears to be incredibly efficient, and from the way he talked about his boss, devoted.”

“A hefty paycheck would go a long way in paying for that devotion.”

“That’s a cynical way to look at it. I suppose you could be right, but Alistair didn’t strike me as all that money-grubbing when we talked. You’ll see what I mean when you meet him. He’s a pretty low-key guy. He’s got an incredibly responsible job, but he’s extremely laid-back and calm. And boy, is he organized. I’ve never met anyone as compulsively organized as he is.

“Funny, I’m not even sure how old he is. He could be anywhere from thirty to sixty.” Like Daniel, he’d admitted to having a couple of procedures done. Very metrosexual of him.

“Maybe he had an eye lift…or chin jobs are common among men, aren’t they, Max?” AJ twisted around from her position in the passenger seat.

He lifted a brow. “Not among the men I know. But yeah—Norcroft had a face-lift in 1997, and some god-awful thing called a chemical face peel in ’03,” Max said, surprising Emily. Why on earth would T-FLAC know or care about that? “He’s fifty-six.

“Went to Harvard,” he continued. “First in his class. Never practiced law. After a ten-year stint with another wealthy guy straight out of law school, he went to work for Tillman. Been with him ever since.”

They passed a heliport and more outbuildings. “If you know all that why did you ask me?”

“Because you might give me some insight that wasn’t in the dossier I got this morning. How about Prescott? Ever meet him?”

“Nope, but I’m sure you know everything including what Prescott Tillman ate for breakfast this morning.” Prescott was Richard Tillman’s only son.

“Want to know?”

“If you tell me, will you have to kill me?” Emily teased as a way to keep the conversation in perspective.

Max’s eyes narrowed to shards of green glass. “Not funny.”

Under the circumstances, probably not. “Depends if I’m talking to the checker at Wal-Mart or an international counterterrorist operative, doesn’t it?” She glanced through the front window as the car went under a high metal arch forged with an inlay of the initials RT. “What on earth…”

AJ gave a gurgle of laughter as Keiko turned the car into the drive of the biggest home on the property. Richard Tillman’s home. “Oh, Lord,” the redhead laughed. “Check this out.” She rolled down her tinted window to get a better view.

A blast of frigid air swirled around Emily’s Choos. The spectacle was hard to miss. She stared at the rows of larger than life-sized, Carrera marble statues lining both sides of the crushed stone driveway. “Wow.”

Max smiled. “That’s all you can say about three or four hundred Venus de Milos? Wow?”

The statues, and there were at least that many, were alternated, with a front view followed by a back view, followed by a front view, approximately six feet apart, all the way up the curved driveway. It was a startling sight, to say the least. The army of statues all had their arms, too.

“To say that money doesn’t buy taste is the understatement of the millennium,” Emily told him dryly. “Wow is all I can manage.” Max didn’t seem surprised. “You knew these would be here,” she semi-accused.

“Yeah,” Max’s lips twitched.

“This is the man who owns genuine Raphaels, and Michelangelos?” She shared a smile with him, then turned quickly to look out of her window when her heart responded to the softening in his eyes and the intimacy of his smile. Don’t go there. Just don’t.

“Thank God he chose not to send me any of his Elvises on velvet,” she told the others, tongue in cheek, as they eventually reached the house.

Mansion. Castle. The front of the—monstrosity—was covered with natural river rock, and three wood-trimmed balconies curved from each floor of the house for spectacular views of the pine forest on the lower levels of the property and the mountains in the distance.

The house, Emily thought, without the added embellishments, fit into the pine trees and natural surroundings as if it had been carved from the native rock. Unfortunately, Tillman, or someone near and dear to him, had decided that natural wasn’t “pretty” enough.

On every beautifully carved wood post sat a stone cherub. Nailed to every handcrafted crossbeam was a stone medallion, or a frieze of running Grecian nymphs. A five-tier Italianate fountain, strategically placed for arriving guests’ viewing pleasure in the curve of the sweeping river rock stairs, dripped ice in suspended animation.

“Who’s this?” Keiko indicated the impeccably dressed man waiting for them at the foot of the steps as she pulled up close to the house. “The butler?”

“Alistair Norcroft,” Emily said opening her door as the man crossed to the car. “Alistair.” Slinging the handles of her tote over her shoulder, she held out both hands. “How are you?”

 

MAX SUMMED UP NORCROFT QUICKLY. HE KNEW THE MAN’S BACKGROUND, but a face-to-face meeting was always preferable. Alistair Norcroft was well-maintained. His face was smooth and unlined, lightly tanned, pleasant. His light eyes steady, and direct. He was slight of build, but fit, and of medium height. His hair was short and razor cut, not too stylish, but in keeping with the current fashion. He wore a Savile Row suit, an old-school silk tie, Allen-Edmonds shoes, and a Patek Philippe watch.

Max knew this, not because he gave a flying crap about fashion. But because he made it his business to know how much money people spent on their trappings. Hiding their wealth in plain sight. Norcroft spent a lot.

“Your trip was uneventful, I hope. This snow seems to be with us a lot longer this winter. Come back here where it’s warm.” Tillman’s assistant said smoothly.

He lead them down a corridor, then into a two-story-high great room at the mid level of the sprawling three-story residence. A fire blazed hot in the enormous stone fireplace, and ceiling-to-floor, wall-to-wall windows offered a spectacular panorama of the snow-covered mountains. The enormous room, overlooking a tree-filled ravine, was furnished with comfortable looking brown leather furniture and so many tchotchkes there wasn’t a flat surface not occupied by something.

“I do apologize.” Norcroft didn’t fit in with either the back-to-nature look of the décor, nor the outrageously tacky objets d’art. “Mr. Tillman is not well enough to see visitors today, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry you came all this way for nothing. Perhaps another time? Or is there something I can do to aid you?”

Despite the roaring fire in this room, the rest of the house had been cold. Surprising if there were an invalid about. Max had asked Emily to set up this meeting between the “investigators looking into the deaths of several restorers” and Tillman while they’d been en route. Norcroft had called her back within minutes assuring her that Mr. Tillman would be more than delighted to answer any questions the investigators might have.

He’d offered Emily and the others the use of Tillman’s guest-house for the night. Max had told her to decline. While he wanted his questions answered, he needed Emily inside T-FLAC headquarters, where he’d be a hundred percent assured of her complete safety.

Norcroft had told Emily how much he was looking forward to seeing her again. Max had listened to the artless conversation on speaker. The guy had sounded genuine when he’d offered to assist them in any way he could.

Now, five hours later, his boss was suddenly sick? Max thought, annoyed. Still, if the super efficient assistant couldn’t grant them access to his boss, Max suspected Norcroft could answer most, if not all, of the questions. The job this guy held brought him not only a hefty paycheck, but also privileged information. Max suspected there wasn’t much Tillman did without it filtering through Norcroft first.

“Perhaps he’s well enough to answer just a few questions?” Max suggested politely as Norcroft directed a uniformed maid to where he wanted the two-tiered, mahogany tea cart she was wheeling into the room.

“Set up on the coffee table, please, Christine,” he instructed the young woman. He watched her for a moment as she spread an embroidered cloth on the giant wormwood table, then started unloading carafes and cups and plates of little sandwiches and girlie, bite-sized frosted cakes. What the fuck? Did the guy think they’d come to a frigging tea party?

“I completely understand your frustration,” Norcroft addressed Max apologetically. “You’ve traveled a long way. I know Mr. Tillman was so looking forward to finally meeting Emily. And he certainly wants to do his civic duty and answer whatever questions you may have. Please be seated, and help yourself to the refreshments. Christine? The sandwiches for Mr. Taurus? Ah. Thank you, good girl,” he said, pleased, as she uncovered a tray of man-sized sandwiches. Enough to feed a small platoon.

Niigata, standing close by, mouthed the word “restroom?” to the woman, and the maid indicated it was down the hall.

“Where were we?” Norcroft asked, missing the exchange. “Ah, yes. I’ll go and check again to see if Mr. Tillman can perhaps make an effort for just a few moments. Excuse me.” He inspected the table, then apparently satisfied, thanked the maid and followed her out of the room.

Putting her monstrous bag down on the arm of the sofa, Emily wandered over to inspect a small dark painting across the room. Like Max, AJ positioned herself so she could see all the entrances.

He didn’t expect trouble, not here, but Max remained ultra aware as he looked around, trying to see it the way Emily had described Brill’s place. Observant, he had to be, but Emily had taught him the iconographical approach of seeing a person’s home through different eyes, and to interpret what he saw in a more personal, and intriguing way. The new perspective gave him additional insight into his host.

Jesus, he’d thought his old man’s villa pretentious and over the top. Compared to Richard Tillman’s place, his father’s home was not only tasteful, it was restrained. This was like comparing a single-wide trailer to the Taj Mahal. And while he had no doubt everything in the house carried a hefty price tag, even he, who never cared about shit like this, knew it was all mostly in exceedingly bad taste.

The iconographical interpretation was that Tillman had never shaken free of his humble roots. Born in a government housing project in Detroit just before the birth of the Great Depression, Tillman was obviously a hoarder. He had more money than God but apparently couldn’t or wouldn’t get rid of bottom-of-the-barrel, mass-produced statues and vases. The exceptions being several pieces of religious art scattered around the room.

Max was hardly an expert, but he’d bet the gilt porcelain figure of the Madonna, the Byzantine rendering of St. John the Baptist on wood, and several other objects were the real deal. It was just strange seeing them displayed alongside department store art. He wouldn’t have expected this from a guy with shitloads of money and a reputation as an art aficionado.

“Vermeer’s The Little Street is an excellent copy,” Emily indicated the painting she’d been looking at. She crossed the football-field-sized area rug to sit on the sofa facing the fire. “The one over the fireplace is a Rembrandt and the little painting by the door is a Fra Angelico. I suspect both are the originals.”

He met Niigata’s eyes as she came back into the room. The woman was sharp as a tack, and had picked up on his request to search as much of the house as she could in just a few moments. AJ would go next, followed by Max himself. There was a knack to doing a down and dirty search, and T-FLAC trained them well.

Dare had e-mailed them a blueprint of the house, and they had made a grid of what they estimated they could cover in the shortest amount of time without being conspicuous or getting caught. Unfortunately it wouldn’t be much, but it might be all the time and opportunity they’d have.

He glanced at Emily. “I thought you needed your equipment to tell an original from a really good fake?”

She grinned. “I do. But since I’m the one who painted that one, I pretty much know I’m not Vermeer.” She poured herself a cup of fragrant coffee that Max could smell halfway across the room. “Chocolate cake, ladies,” she announced, helping herself to a floral plate and a small square of the chocolate confection, which she ate with relish in one bite.

“Not right now. Thanks, Em,” AJ said regretfully, just as a man strolled into the room as if he owned the place. Except he was too young to be Tillman. Wearing slightly baggy jeans and a gray wool sweater that showed off his beer belly to perfection, Tillman’s son was probably in his fifties. He was five eight, with a sharply receding hairline of light, almost downy hair. And what Max suspected was a permanently dissatisfied expression.

Ignoring the women, he walked directly to Max. “Prescott Tillman. And you are?”

He didn’t offer his hand, and neither did Max. He’d met dozens of Prescott Tillmans over the years. Soft. Lazy. Entitled. Riding on a wealthy daddy’s coattails, and suspicious of anyone who might tip the balance of his very cushy status quo. “Max Taurus. Global Casualty and Loss. These are my associates, Mrs. Cooper and Ms. Niigata. Ms. Greene was kind enough to accompany us to speak with your father.”

Emily rose from the squishy leather sofa to intercede. If the younger Mr. Tillman were a dog his hackles would be rising. She put out her hand, forcing Prescott Tillman to take it or appear terribly rude. “Mr. Tillman, I’ve enjoyed a long business relationship with your father. I’m sorry to hear he’s taken ill. I hope it’s nothing serious?”

“He’s eighty-four years old and in decline, I’m sorry to say,” he said, dropping Emily’s hand and addressing Max again. “Whatever you need, I’m sure I can answer any questions you might have.”

“For starters we’d like a list of all the paintings he’s had copied in the last five years, and the names of the artists he commissioned for each,” Max informed him.

“I don’t have access to that information.” Prescott’s voice was cold. “If you leave a card, I’ll have my secretary see what she can find and mail it to you. Now, if that’s all, I’ll have the maid see you out. I have a meeting in a few moments.”

“Your teleconference has been set up in your office, Scott,” Norcroft said smoothly, entering the room with a thin file folder in one hand. “You have two minutes if you need to take care of anything before Brian and Charles are on the line.”

“What’s that?” Prescott demanded, jabbing a fat finger at the file folder in his hand.

“The information I believe Mr. Taurus was inquiring about.” He handed Max the folder. “I took the liberty of printing out a copy for you. This is a record of all the transactions Mr. Tillman—Are you going downstairs, Scott? Would you like a cup of coffee and one of Christine’s excellent ham sandwiches to take to your office?”

“I’m not a fucking child, and I don’t want a goddamned fucking ham sandwich.” The younger Tillman stormed out of the room. If there’d been a door to slam, Emily thought, he would have slammed it. Nice guy…

“I apologize for Scott’s language, ladies. The copying and donation of his father’s extensive art collection has been a sore point for him.”

“He resents his father’s altruism?” Emily asked sympathetically. Not sympathetic to Prescott, but to Tillman senior’s assistant who, she guessed, had to do a lot of apologizing for his employer’s son.

“I really don’t want to speak out of turn…But the truth is Scott resents his father’s generosity in giving away such a large portion of his inheritance. It’s understandable, of course. But unrealistic. Mr. Tillman’s wealth is such that Scott couldn’t spend it all in ten lifetimes. What’s left after all the artwork has been given away is still a sizable fortune.”

Max glanced up from the open file in his hand. “Is this everything?”

“It is, yes. Can I accommodate you with any more information?”

“Tillman senior can’t see me?” Max asked.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Taurus,” Norcroft said apologetically. “He was in so much pain, his nurse gave him a sedative just before I went in to see if he might be up to visitors. Again, I am sorry.”

Max flipped the folder closed. “Has Tillman senior left the country in the last four or five years?”

Norcroft shook his head. “Mr. Tillman is something of a recluse. He hasn’t left this house—truth be told—his rooms in over ten years. I don’t want you to think he’s a Howard Hughes. Mr. Tillman has enjoyed rude good health for some time. But he became something of a hermit after his wife’s death. And while he isn’t fond of people and dealing with the trappings of going to the office every day, let me assure you that he’s still as sharp as ever, and puts in a full ten-hour day from right there in his home office.”

Norcroft smiled fondly. “I wish it were possible for you to meet him today. I know you’d be impressed with his brain and his wit. Still, we’ll save that for another time. I know he’d love to finally meet you, Emily. I’ve spoken about you in the last few years, and he highly admires your work.”

“That’s lovely, thank you for telling me. I would have liked meeting him, too. But since I can’t, I wonder if there’s any way I could have a peek at his private gallery before we leave?” Emily asked hopefully.

Norcroft pulled a face, making him appear charmingly boyish. “It depends on how long you’ll be in the area. Unfortunately, we were installing Antelami’s Deposition from the Cross and some of the floor joists cracked from the weight. We have a contractor working on it but I’m afraid the floor is too unstable and I would be remiss if I allowed you to go into the gallery. I’m so sorry, Emily. Please come back soon, and I’d be delighted to walk you through the museum at a leisurely pace. I’m sure Mr. Tillman would like to accompany us when you come back. He’s very proud of the work he’s doing, donating his precious art, so the world can enjoy it.

“Let me take that.” Norcroft took the floral plate from Emily, turned, then reached for her purse. In the process, the purse fell to the floor, its contents spilling everywhere.

Flustered, he quickly dropped to his knees and began placing the items back inside the Coach bag, muttering apologies as he inched along the edge of the carpet.

“It was an accident,” Emily chased down a tube of lip gloss. “I can do this.”

“No, no,” Norcroft countered, gripping the purse under his arm as he reached beneath the sofa and retrieved a ballpoint pen. He groaned once as his arm extended fully beneath the couch, then stood, shaking the bag to settle the contents before handing it back to Emily. Then he brushed the front of his shirt, straightened his tie, and smiled.

“There. Good as new. Everything is as it should be. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

 

“MAX TAURUS?” EMILY SMILED AS SHE SETTLED INTO THE CORNER OF the backseat, tucking one leg under her. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and her eyes were filled with amusement as she looked at him.

Max felt a thump in the region of his heart. If he’d had one. Which he didn’t. God damn it. “As good a name as any. Niigata, what did you uncover?”

Niigata turned in her seat. “First, the thermostat was set at seventy-four but the temperature was hovering around fifty-seven.”

Max nodded. “House that size? Someone turned the heat on after Emily called. Probably thought we wouldn’t notice with the fire roaring. What else?”

Niigata wriggled for a few seconds, then produced a small, rumpled slip of paper. “Found this delivery receipt in the kitchen trash can.”

“You went through the trash?” Emily asked.

Niigata shrugged. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”

Max scanned the receipt. “Bread, deli ham, mustard, coffee, sugar, cream, salt, pepper, mayonnaise…”

“Hell, Max,” Niigata interrupted. “I’m never home but even I have most of those staples on hand.”

“Maid’s uniform was new.” Max sounded distracted.

“How could you possibly know that? Do you have a little device that tells you how much sizing there is on a garment?”

“Probably.” His lips twitched. “But in this case the ‘inspected by’ sticker was still attached to the tie of her apron.”

“There was dust on the brass toilet tissue stand and the pipes rattled and sputtered when I turned on the water.” Niigata turned to Emily. “When a faucet isn’t used for a while, the water settles and air collects in the pipe. Turn on the faucet and it chokes the air out of the pipe before you get a steady stream.”

“So that whole scene back there was staged,” Max concluded. The other operatives agreed.

AJ asked, “Why hide Tillman senior? Unless he’s dead. But why hide that fact? Especially if junior has his boxers in a knot over the donations. As sole heir—I’m assuming—junior could nix the philanthropy and keep everything for himself with Daddy dead.”

Max frowned. “I didn’t get the impression that Prescott Tillman was into keeping up appearances. If the old guy was dead, he wouldn’t waste a lot of time letting the world know he controlled the estate. There has to be a reason for the charade. If there is a charade.”

“Got any ideas?” Niigata asked.

Max pulled in an audible breath, then exhaled slowly. “Working on it.”

 

“OKAY. NOW WHERE?” EMILY ASKED AS NIIGATA PARKED CLOSE TO the jet out on the runway at Denver International.

“Monta—” A sharp sound of rifle shot cut off her words like a hot knife through butter. “Down. Shit!” He shoved her to the ground, at the same time he switched the Glock over to full auto and answered fire. With thirty-three rounds in a single pull and hold back on the trigger, the shots were literally “hosed” onto the target.

The spent magazine dropped to the ground with a ping, and he drove another one into the grip, and started firing again almost without pause.

“Keiko’s been hit!” AJ yelled over the sound of her own bursts of answering fire.

Yeah. He’d seen her drop. Still firing at the unseen sniper, he reached down and hauled Emily to her feet by her elbow. “Keep low. Get inside!” He pushed her halfway up the metal stairs with his free hand, blocking her back with his body as he shoved her up the stairs ahead of him.

“Go. Go. Go.” He turned fully and fired off covering shots in the direction of the last shot as he boxed Emily in. The snipers had a helluva lot better line of sight than he and AJ had. The runways were clear, but the edges where the fresh snow was banked were blinding white. The sharpshooter could be behind any number of snow-covered barricades. It was impossible to see a muzzle flash in the iffy light.

Niigata was facedown on the tarmac thirty feet away. Max only needed a second to know she was dead. Shot through the back of the head. God damn it.

“Get on the floor and stay down,” he yelled at Emily, shoving her inside the open door. He took the stairs in two jumps. He spared a quick glance at the gangway to make sure Emily was inside. She was. But if the pilot and copilot weren’t starting the engines, or hauling their asses out of here guns blazing, it meant they were dead.

“Give me your weapon,” Max instructed AJ. “I’ll cover you.” Max shouted to AJ. “Go make sure there’s no one inside—”

Bang!

“Jesus! Cooper?!”

With a look of startled annoyance she grabbed her chest. The M16 skittered out of her limp hand as she went down and lay still.