The Wrong Hostage

44

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

SUNDAY, 11:51 P.M.

GRACE PULLED THE NOZZLE out of the gas tank, racked it on the gas pump, and waited for her receipt.

“Ready,” she said.

“Almost done.”

She watched while Faroe removed a translucent plate and loosened a lightbulb in the back of the SUV. He put the plate aside with the others he’d worked on.

“You drive,” he said.

“Thank you, God,” she said, sighing.

“Hey, I got us here on time, didn’t I?”

“At slightly less than the speed of light,” she muttered, climbing into the driver’s seat.

Faroe slid into the back of the SUV and left the tailgate ajar. “At least I’m positive that nobody followed us.”

“Is that good?”

“No. They should have been all over us like a rash.”

“I had to ask, didn’t I?” Grace turned the key and the big engine growled to life.

She turned onto the city street and drove in silence. After five minutes she turned onto a two-lane county road.

“You’re sure Ted hasn’t installed any security since the last time you were in Lomas?” Faroe asked.

“Yes. The summary of assets for the divorce was exhaustive.”

“Remember the signals we discussed?”

“Yes.”

Faroe shut up.

When Grace turned off the road into the long paved driveway, he looked over her shoulder. The dashboard clock read 12:04.

“If I’d been driving, you’d be on time,” Faroe said.

Grace gave him a look in the rearview mirror.

He smiled, touched the nape of her neck beneath her short hair, and heard her breath break. Her responsiveness made him want to haul her into the back with him for the kind of sex that would steam every window in the fancy SUV.

“As you approach that big oak up ahead,” he said in a husky voice, “slow down to walking speed. When you hear the hatch close, pick up the speed again. Act like you’re alone. Go ahead and get the weapon out of the bedroom, but keep the gun out of sight, somewhere he won’t expect you to have it. He or someone else may be watching you from somewhere outside the house. If you see anyone, signal me.”

“Where are you going to be?”

“Out in the brush, right behind anyone who’s watching. I’ll start well outside an ordinary surveillance perimeter.”

Grace was still traveling at more than five miles an hour when she heard the faint whisper of fabric as Faroe stepped out of the back of the vehicle. In the dark glow of the taillights, she saw him come out of a running crouch and match the speed of the vehicle as he punched the button that automatically lowered and closed the tailgate. Then he slipped into the shadows of the big oak tree, vanishing into the spaces between moonlight and darkness.

Motionless, Faroe watched the Mercedes continue on up the gravel driveway to the deserted ranch compound. The chaparral lay on the coastal foothills in giant camouflage patterns, inky black and gray-green in the light of the moon.

He settled into the night. It was like going back to war again, where the choices were simple and the battle lines clear.

Infiltrate and exfiltrate, thrust and parry, win and lose.

Live or die.

I’ll let Ted take care of the dying part, Faroe thought. He has to be good for something, right?

Silent, motionless, Faroe watched the taillights of the Mercedes flicker when she made the turn into the little traffic circle. The turnaround ran in front of the large California-style Tuscan villa. He bit back a laugh at some architect’s idea of a ranch house. The stucco monster held the high ground overlooking the stables.

When Grace stopped, porch lights and several interior lights snapped on in welcome.

Motion sensors, right on time.

He watched her get out of the car and stretch like she’d gone a long time without a break from driving.

Okay. Nobody in sight.

She went into the house. Over the next several minutes, Faroe tracked her by watching lights come on downstairs and then on the second floor.

Nobody inside, either.

Faroe climbed soundlessly over a paddock fence beside the oak and headed for the stables a hundred yards away. He stayed in the shadows of the fence line and the cover of a head-high oleander hedge.

Something exploded under his feet.

Jesus, what-

A rabbit raced off, kicked out of its midnight nibbling by Faroe’s boot.

It took thirty seconds for Faroe’s heart rate to return to its normal measured pace.

He circled the stable quickly. Finally he reached a row of pencil cypress trees that burned like black flames against the moon-bright sky, defining the inland side of the property. He was about to slide into their cover and approach the house from the uphill side when he realized that he wasn’t the only predator at work.

Cool night air slid down the slope toward him. He smelled the faint edge of recent, yet not fresh, tobacco smoke. Someone had been smoking nearby.

Faroe froze, waited, heard nothing.

He took a slow look around a cypress trunk. Thirty yards away, a figure materialized from the shadows of the tree line.

Someone was watching the house from the same spot Faroe had chosen to be his own observation post.