St Kilda Consulting 04 - Blue Smoke and Murder

head. I see a barn and—” Her voice broke. She swallowed. “There are two really big black SUVs, smoked windows, waiting in the barn doorway. And what looks like the rotor of a helicopter. Are you listening, St. Kilda? This is a trap. ”
    And she couldn’t see a way out.

85
    BEAVER TAIL RANCH
SEPTEMBER 17
6:34 P.M.
    A white Lincoln Navigator wheeled up beside the Skymaster almost before the plane stopped. Zach flung off his seat harness, shoved open the door and leaped out, duffel in hand.
    All the windows of the Navigator were rolled down. You could shoot into a car with closed windows, but it was hell to shoot back that way.
    A man bailed from the front seat and pushed into the already full backseat, making room for Zach next to the driver.
    Zach jumped in front and slammed the door. He didn’t recognize anyone, and didn’t need to. Their weapons were clean and carried professionally. Body armor bulked up their clothes.
    Zach wished he and Jill were wearing some. But he hadn’t taken his on the vacation that had become a job, and Jill probably didn’t even know what body armor looked like.
    The Navigator turned onto the ranch road and accelerated, its headlights looking frail against the dusk.
    “Red Hill still in place?” Zach asked the driver.
    “Last I heard,” she said.
    “Craptastic.”
    “That’s what Faroe said.”
    “Anything new?” Zach asked.
    “The client—”
    “Jill,” Zach cut in. “Her name is Jill.”
    The driver gave him a sideways glance. “The BlackBerry bug on her works fine. She spotted the Red Hill vehicles and helo and described them. She’s in the fourth cottage on the right. She looked for a back way out. Didn’t find one. There’s an extra com rig for you in the glove compartment.”
    Zach opened it, put on the familiar lightweight headset, and adjusted the voice pickup. Now he could communicate with the rest of the team, as well as with St. Kilda.
    “Any idea who hired Red Hill?” Zach asked.
    “If Faroe knows, he isn’t sharing.”
    “Then he doesn’t know,” Zach said.
    The Navigator hit a rough patch and shuddered hard.
    The driver kept the accelerator halfway to the floor.
    Jill’s voice whispered through Zach’s earpiece. “Ski Mask is coming back toward me. His body language is all about rage. So is the gun in his hand. Whatever happened in the sixth cabin really punched his buttons.”
    “Faster,” Zach snarled.
    The accelerator slammed to the floor and the Navigator surged forward.
    Zach had a cold feeling in his gut that it wouldn’t be fast enough.

86
    BEAVER TAIL RANCH
SEPTEMBER 17
6:35 P.M.
    S core 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