The morning sun crept over a ridge high above the town of Stevens. A breeze sighed through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and cedar. Aside from that, it was quiet, and Georgia could almost hear the yucca growing in the thin rocky soil. It was cooler than she’d expected; she pulled her now dry blazer close. She looked over at the gullies. Javier was right: the water that had gushed through them last night was gone. The creek bottom was barely damp.
She went back inside. Her Sig, which Raffi had confiscated last night, lay on the table beside two coffee mugs. She threw him a grateful smile and slipped it into her holster. He poured coffee, which was surprisingly good. He’d dressed in a flak jacket over jeans and a t-shirt, and he was loading extra magazines for the M4, a knife, and pepper spray into the pockets.
She tried to make small talk. “What kind of training do you need to work for Delton?”
“They trained me.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere in the Midwest.”
Georgia remembered how Ellie had discovered Delton’s private training facility downstate. “Central Illinois?”
“Maybe. Yeah. Sure.”
“How long were you there?”
“Ten weeks. They put me in charge of a team.”
She smiled. “You were that good.”
He nodded
“Is that where you met Wroblewski and Brewer?”
Another nod.
“You weren’t far from Chicago, you know. Where I live.”
“If I’d known, I would have visited.”
“Next time.”
Raffi attempted a pained smile, then fell quiet. He looked at his watch, scooped up one of the duffels, and went out. She watched him throw it into the pickup.
“Where are you going?” She asked when he came back in.
“To a meeting.”
“Where?”
He picked up his mug. His eyes were veiled.
“You’re distributing weapons. Or getting more.”
He didn’t answer.
“Let me come.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He stopped pacing and set his mug down with a thud. “Look, Georgia, I’m not your enemy. But there are others who are. Or will be if you hang around. Go home. This isn’t your fight.”
“Is it yours?”
He clenched his jaw. “I need to finish my job.” He headed back out.
Georgia followed him. “Why are you working alone? Where is Carmelita’s brother?” Again he didn’t answer. “Doesn’t he have the guts to help you?”
He opened the driver’s side door and hopped up into the cab.
Georgia hurried to the passenger side. Time to hit him with her theory. “That cashier’s check—Geoff Delton was paying you hush money, wasn’t he?”
Raffi hesitated just a fraction too long. “What Delton was doing is immaterial.”
“Is it?” She swung herself up into the passenger seat.
“Get out of my truck.”
“Listen, Raffi. Delton was ‘detained’ in Chicago last night. The police are questioning him right now.”
Raffi looked over. “Why?”
“He was sleeping with the woman whose little girl was kidnapped. The same woman who was murdered after she helped Delton set up the account your cashiers’ check was written against.”
Raffi looked like he was thinking. Calculating. Then he shrugged. “So? It has nothing to do with me.”
“The woman was pregnant,” Georgia paused, “with Delton’s child.”
He put the key in the ignition.
“Delton couldn’t risk the fact that she sent out the cashiers’ checks for him,” Georgia said. “He had her taken out. Her boss, too. But it’s all falling apart now. The cops have him. Which means you may not have any reason to—”
The engine fired up, cutting her off.
“Why was he paying you off, Raffi?”
He shook his head.
She persisted. “What was the package you sent your buddy?”
“You never quit, do you?” He looked exasperated. “You want to know? Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s a goddammed videotape, all right? Now get off my fucking back.”
“Grant’s on the tape, isn’t he? He’s got something to do with all of this. He and Delton realized your team wasn’t doing what you started out to do. That you’d been corrupted by the drug traffickers. The cartels. So Delton tried to paper it over with the money so no one would talk. And now you’re—”
“Fuck it, Georgia, stop. The less you know, the longer you’ll live.”
“Given that someone’s tried to kill me twice, your advice is a little late, don’t you think?”
“Everything I touch turns to shit, don’t you see?” His voice was raw. “I don’t want you to be part of the pile.”
But she’d already slammed the door and fastened her seat belt.
• • •
He drove fast through the mountains, zigzagging around switchbacks and rutted roads. The road was flanked by dense woods of pines and aspens. Sunlight sneaked through the branches every so often, and she could almost taste the heat-baked air. Although Georgia had no idea where they were, the terrain was starting to look familiar. Even beautiful.
Their conversation had been sparce and insubstantial, like a meal you didn’t eat enough of. It was ironic—she’d never tolerate that in Chicago; why did she here? Probably because, despite their intimacy last night, they were still strangers, checking each other out.
Eventually, the road wound around a narrow pass and Raffi stopped in a clearing. A faded hand-painted sign said they’d arrived at the Lanedo Camp. Behind the signpost were several wooden cabins, low and squat. A picnic table sat in front of the cabin. Georgia was surprised. The camp looked deserted. Who’d want to picnic here? She slid out of the pickup and shaded her eyes. The ground was studded with rocks, tumbleweeds, and tall grass. Across the clearing was a cliff with an outcropping high enough to look down on the twisty pass they’d just traveled. “Where are we?”
“An abandoned mining camp. Used to be bigger, but it was chopped into parcels when the mines closed.”
“What were they mining?”
“Copper mostly, but a little gold and silver, too. Even turquoise. But nothing now.”
“Which makes it a safe meeting place.”
He looked over. “Who said this was my meeting place? This is the end of the road for you. You’re staying here.”
She stiffened. “You’re—you’re ditching me?”
“You’ll be safe here.” He went to the back of the truck and pulled out a smallish 40 caliber Glock and a pair of binoculars. He came back, handed her the semi-automatic, and draped the field glasses around her neck. “Do some bird watching. I’ll be back.”
“I can’t believe this. I told you—”
“You’re not coming.”
She glared, making sure he felt her anger. “You’re a piece of work.”
He grinned as he made his way back to the pickup. “That’s what they tell me.”
“Why the Glock? I’ve got my Sig.”
“You might run into a snake or two around the camp. You’re supposed to leave them alone. It’s illegal to kill ’em.”
She called out. “But?”
“But I figure you’re pissed off enough to want some target practice, and I wouldn’t want you to waste your ammo.”
“Is this a joke?”
“You can’t kill gila monsters either. But they move pretty slow. You should be okay.”
“You live in a state with monsters?”
His grin broadened. “Yup.” He hoisted himself back into the pickup, keyed the engine, and put it into gear.
“Where’s the ammo for the Glock?” She yelled out.
He stuck his head out the window. “You’ve only got the one mag. Use it wisely.”
“Fuck you, Peña.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” He saluted and drove away. As he accelerated, the truck kicked up a cloud of dust.
• • •
Georgia watched the truck disappear around a bend. The whine of the engine faded but resurged a moment later. He was rounding the switchback they’d driven on the way up. She went to the edge of the cliff and saw him a few hundred yards below. As the road straightened out, he picked up speed. She watched, caught between annoyance and amusement. Then she tucked the Glock into her waistband. She would poke around the camp. Maybe shoot a gila monster, just for the hell of it.
She was just about to turn back to the cabin when a dark-colored SUV appeared around a curve. It was heading toward Raffi. It wasn’t traveling fast but it was hogging the road. Raffi would either have to pull over or brake.
As the SUV approached, it slowed to a crawl. Georgia went on alert. She grabbed the field glasses. Focusing in, she spotted a man in the passenger seat cradling something long and thin. A rifle. The hair at the back of her neck stood up. The SUV’s passenger window lowered. A rifle barrel emerged.
Everything went into slow motion. The SUV stopped. The rifle angled toward the pickup. Georgia wanted to shoot, to yell out a warning, but she was too far away. Paralyzed and helpless, she screamed wordlessly.
Raffi must have realized what was happening because the pitch of his engine shifted, as though he’d abruptly downshifted. It was too late. Yellow muzzle flashes, visible even in the bright sun, spit from the rifle. Staccato cracks echoed through the hills.
For an instant, there was silence. Then a horn blast shattered the quiet. A flock of frantic birds lifted into the sky. Georgia started to call 911, then realized she had no cell service.
The SUV’s driver door opened and a man got out, aiming a pistol in Raffi’s direction. He jogged to the pickup. Georgia sharpened the focus on the binoculars. He looked vaguely familiar— compact, dark, wrap-around shades. As he drew close to the pickup, she prayed for a burst of rounds from Raffi’s M4, but there was nothing. He was still hunched over the wheel, unmoving. His horn was still blaring.
The driver holstered his gun and gestured to the shooter, who got out and joined the driver at the pickup. Together they dragged Raffi out of the truck. The shriek of the horn ceased, replaced by a stony silence. Even the breeze was hushed.
Georgia tried to focus on Raffi, but all she could see was his black ponytail. The top of his head was gone. Her mouth went dry; nausea climbed up her throat. She watched the men carry him to a stand of trees at the edge of the road. The shooter lugged him by his shoulders, the driver had his legs. His body trailed blood on the road. She upped the glasses’ magnification and watched. The man gripping Raffi’s legs was missing part of his left index finger.
She dropped the glasses, turned away from the cliff, and vomited. When there was nothing left to come up, she brought the binoculars up again. The men were rifling through Raffi’s flak jacket. Something flashed in the sun. His cell phone. They pocketed it. They took his hand guns, his ammo, and what might have been a grenade. Please, God, she prayed. Don’t let them detonate it. She needed the pickup to get back to town. They didn’t. Instead the men backtracked to Raffi’s pickup and searched the bed of the truck. The driver and the shooter exchanged words, after which the shooter scooped up Raffi’s duffel and threw it in the SUV.
The shooter got back into the passenger seat, but the driver halted at his door, looking around, as if checking to make sure he’d attended to everything. When his gaze swept up the hill, Georgia ducked and stepped back. For an instant, she thought he’d seen her. She dropped the binoculars and raced to one of the cabins. If they came this way, she’d pick them off one at a time from inside.
She yanked on the door, but it was locked. Her stomach twisted. She ran to the back of the cabin, braced herself against the wall, and pulled out her Sig. Nothing happened. From a distance, she heard an engine cough to life. A moment later the noise subsided to a hum. The SUV was going back down the road. She waited until it faded altogether. The silence stung her ears.