Blue Smoke and Murder

86

SEPTEMBER 17

6:35 P.M.

Score yanked the ski mask back over his face and stalked toward the fourth cottage. Rage surged through him at being chewed out by some candy-ass lawyer half his age who thought a private investigator was another name for dumbshit errand boy.

Stupid lawyer about wet his pants when he saw my gun. Does he think the world is run by big words in his lying mouth?

The lawyer was a mistake.

Score figured he’d have to be the one to fix it. The thought made him smile.

A million bucks and South America was looking better every second. He’d eaten enough crap from way too many smart-mouthed suits.

He opened the door on cabin number 4 hard enough to bang it back on its hinges. Part of him was worried that his temper was slipping out of control.

The rest of him just wanted to bring it on.

The gloves are finally off. Any more shit goes around, I’ll be the one sending it.

Jill looked up from the briefcase full of bundled, used hundred-dollar bills. She didn’t know how much money was there, but she doubted it was two million. Even in hundreds, two million bucks was a lot of bills.

Twenty thousand, to be precise.

“Where are the rest of the paintings?” Score demanded.

“Where’s the rest of the money?”

“You’ll see it when I see the rest of the paintings.”

Jill didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried that she’d been right about the short money.

“Give me the keys to your car,” he said curtly.

“Why?”

“Fuck it,” he said, turning on his heel. “I’ll just trash it and burn what’s left.”

“Wait!” Jill reached into her belly bag. The gun felt cold, unreal against her fingertips. The keys felt ordinary. She launched them toward him. “Catch.”

Score nailed the keys with a vicious swipe of his hand.

Somewhere out back, an engine started up. Then another. The whine of a helicopter engine winding up drowned out the sound of the cars.

What the hell? Score thought. First the deputy bags it, and now Red Hill is getting restless.

He looked out the door just as a black Suburban accelerated toward the cottages and the dirt road leading back to the highway. Following the first Suburban was another, equally black, equally intent on leaving. The second vehicle stopped for men who swarmed up out of the desert, covered in dust and camouflage gear, weapons slung for travel.

With a vicious curse, Score pointed his gun toward Jill. “Go back to counting money, bitch. If you leave, you’re dead.”

Jill froze.

The front door slammed shut.

She grabbed the BlackBerry and ran to the front window.

“Something’s happening,” she said quickly into the bug. “The men in the Suburbans look like they’re leaving. Ski Mask blew out of here with the mask in one hand and a gun in the other. From what I can see, he’s totally lost it. Yelling at the sixth cabin, waving the gun around. Even in the dim light, his face looks flushed. Can’t make out the words. Now the well-dressed dude is trotting over. He’s got his cell phone against his ear and is yelling at Ski Mask. The helicopter is revving up. The Suburbans are driving toward the highway, ignoring the-”

Jill’s voice cut off in shock as a pistol barked once. The well-dressed man spun sideways, then went down hard.

“Ski Mask shot him,” she said numbly. “He just shot him. My God.”

The gun barked again. A head shot this time. The body twitched and went utterly slack.

Ski Mask looked down at the body, spat, then turned away.

The BlackBerry fell from Jill’s numb fingers. Something had gone terribly wrong.

And now the murderer was heading right for her.

She ran for the bathroom, grabbing the briefcase full of money and one of the wrought-iron chairs along the way. Once inside the bathroom, she locked the door, tilted the chair on two legs, and wedged it under the handle.

I’m safe for now, she thought, holding the briefcase like armor against her chest.

And trapped. Did I mention trapped?

The door creaked when someone kicked it hard. The next kick sent cracks screaming through the cheap wood. The man outside was cursing steadily, savagely.

Jill stepped onto the toilet seat and wrenched the sliding window off its tracks. She didn’t know if she could make it through the small opening.

She knew she had to try.

She grabbed the gun from her belly bag, banged it against the window frame, pointed the muzzle at the door, and pulled the trigger three times. Sound echoed around the small bathroom.

If Ski Mask had been standing in front of the door, he was badly hurt or dead.

A man screamed curses and returned fire. Bullets smashed through the door at waist level and below, screaming off porcelain.

Ski Mask hadn’t been standing in front of the door. And now he was going to kick down the door and shoot her until she didn’t move again. Ever.