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Sliding the woman's cell phone—Jessica? Devi?—into his pocket, Gator watched her safely stowed under the cover in the back of the truck, alongside the shovels and explosives. Maybe they could bury her in the wreck after they'd gotten what they wanted from it. Rowe's body would need to be documented first, to claim their due.
Rowe's location matched what the old woman said, but he wanted time. Dawn was still a couple of hours off.
How far away could he possibly be? The longer they gave him, the more chance he'd find some allies or get his own guns up. The guy was a decent shot, good enough to be concerned about. Right. "Monty, shotgun." Gator jumped into the driver's seat.
Monty had brought her to them, exactly like he was supposed to, but he seemed off in a way that made Gator uncomfortable. Made him not want Monty behind him, just in case.
"What's the brief?" Monty stared straight ahead.
"He doesn't know that we know where to go. We get to the panel, we're not waiting. No reason we can't go out to greet our new best friend, and make sure he's not planning anything."
"You think he could?" Flick asked from the back.
"Gotta say, that man can harmonize," Smitty remarked. "He can improvise. Yeah, I think he could."
"Seriously? He might be the brains of the outfit, but she's the muscle." Gator steered south, pushing hard. "He's got squat for resources out here—you know how hard it's been to get anything we need, and it's the middle of the night. Whatever he took from the hotel, that's it. We've already got her gun, no idea where she stashed the Jeep."
"He could have other firearms," Monty pointed out.
"You saw how surprised she was that he even knew how to shoot. If he's armed, I'm a monkey's uncle."
Laughter echoed in the truck. His crew might be smaller than before, but still strong, like a Damascus blade, layered in danger and quenched in blood.