Beautiful Sacrifice

your ass.”
    “Yeah, yeah. Help me down. If we’re late to pick up your sister, she’ll kick my other leg.”
    Both he and Jase were careful to keep their back to Landry’s door, but Hunter had unusually good peripheral vision.
    One of the men knocked hard on Landry’s broken door.
    “You want to lean on me?” Jase asked.
    “I’ll walk. You get ready to catch me.” Hunter took a tentative first step and then hobbled very slowly down the steps, toward the busted street door.
    Behind them Landry’s apartment door scraped open.
    As soon as Hunter and Jase got out of sight of the building, they walked quickly to his Jeep.
    “Let’s keep an eye on this place,” Hunter said softly in English. “The liquor-store parking lot down and across the way should work.”
    “You like those dudes for something? They sure were too expensive for around here.”
    “No crime to be a dude. But if their business is with Landry, then hell yeah, I like them.”
    Hunter waited in the parking lot while Jase went inside. He came back out with a box of incredibly greasy burritos and something in two brown paper bags. Jase climbed in, handed over half the grease and one paper bag. They sat swigging water from the anonymous brown bags, wolfing down lousy food, and waiting.
    Half an hour.
    No one reappeared.
    An hour.
    Nothing but locals.
    Another twenty minutes.
    “I’m going in,” Jase said.
    “What’s your excuse?”
    Jase touched his shoulder holster under his wind jacket. “It’s called a nine-millimeter warrant.”
    Hunter started to argue, but got out instead. It was Jase’s butt on the line, so it was Jase’s call.
    They walked back slow and quiet. The afternoon was settling into heat with a slanting promise of evening. Eventually. The river birches that had been planted along with the buildings were the only break in the concrete and dirt.
    The car with the squeaky brakes was still parked in front of the apartment building. The steps leading from the street to the apartment were still dirty, the security door was still broken, and the staircase to the second floor still complained. The only thing that had changed was the opening in Landry’s door. Now a small pony could walk through without sucking in its breath.
    Beyond the door was chaos. Overturned table, chairs, TV knocked down, bedroom door wide open, ripped sheets, and trashed mattress.
    “This was a message, not a search,” Jase said.
    He drew his pistol, holding it parallel to his leg in case any civilians opened an apartment door. He and Hunter stepped into the destroyed apartment. Hunter went straight to the bedroom.
    The blue duffel was gone.
    Jase began swearing in the kind of gutter Spanglish his mother wouldn’t have allowed. Hunter joined him.
    “Can’t believe they walked out right past us,” Jase said.
    “Bet there’s a fire escape at the back. Or they just walked into a ground-floor apartment, threatened the occupants, and went through the window,” Hunter said. “Either way, they’re gone and we’re standing here with refried beans on our face.”
    “What now?” Jase asked.
    Hunter didn’t point out that it was the other man’s case. “Give me the paper towels and piece of pottery. I’ll drop you at your apartment. Or use mine if it’s too soon for you to be home. Can you run the plates on their vehicle from there?”
    “Ten to one it’s stolen.”
    “No bet. It’s a piece of junk. The two men were expensive.”
    “I’ll do it anyway,” Jase said. “And I’ll see what I can shake out about LeRoy Landry. What are you going to do?”
    “Find out what Dr. Taylor can tell me about the pottery.”
    “A hot Latina and all you can think about is a broken pot. My man, I taught you better.”
    Shaking his head, Hunter stalked out, leaving the apartment as he had found it.

C HAPTER S EVEN
     
    L INA SAT IN HER OFFICE, STARING AT THE LINES SHE HAD SO hastily entered into her electronic notepad. She printed them out and stared some more, hoping to see something other than Hunter’s slow grin and long body.
    Nothing new or old spoke to her.
    The artifacts have to be fake, she thought.
    Unfortunately, Hunter didn’t really care. Fake or straight from the ground on a sponsored dig, he wanted them.
    If they’re fake, it doesn’t matter where or how they were “found,” she reminded herself.
    The relief was intense.
    But she couldn’t afford to assume the artifacts were fake. If they were real, and her family was