Malone scrambled back to the cover of the building. Studying the men he had shot to make sure they weren’t moving, he realized that Sienna was next to him.
Jeb was next to him also. “The third man took off through the woods. But the ones at the house are running this way.”
“They work for Laster,” Malone said.
“How do you know?”
The thought that had nagged at Malone became clear. “The men I shot wouldn’t have used sound suppressors unless they didn’t want the men at the house to hear them. Laster’s men managed to fight off the attack.”
“Yes,” Jeb said. “I see Laster.”
“Go out and tell him we’re safe,” Malone said.
“You’re not coming with me?”
“Sienna and I need a minute by ourselves.”
Jeb hesitated, massaging his left thigh, where he’d been shot the night Malone had saved his life in Panama City. “Sure.” He hesitated longer. “You’ve earned it.”
He stepped into the dusky rain, heading toward the rapidly approaching men, who were outlined by the smoke of the burning house.
Watching Jeb walk away, Malone led Sienna deeper into the stable. “They had their chance. They can’t protect us. Your husband couldn’t have found us this fast unless he has an informant in the Agency.”
Sienna’s eyes darkened at the thought of Bellasar.
“He’ll learn about every other place the Agency tries to hide us. The only way we’ll be safe is on our own – where we won’t be in prison, where nobody’ll keep us apart.”
“I don’t want to be separated from you ever again,” she said.
Malone took her hand, leading her toward the back door. The cold rain lessened to a drizzle as they ran out toward murky trees. In a few minutes, it would be too dark for Laster and his men to see to follow. Maybe we can circle around to the front and steal a car, Malone thought. Or maybe we can… Vague possibilities encouraged him. He had the wallet from the dead man in the house. He had money, credit cards, a new identity. He knew that Laster would eventually figure out whose identity he was using. Bellasar’s spy would pass the word. But that was a problem to be worried about tomorrow. For now, the two of them were free, vanishing into the mist-shrouded woods.
EIGHT
1
The hypnotic clack-clack-clack of the train’s wheels reinforced Malone’s exhaustion. He and Sienna slumped next to each other in a locked compartment, barely noticing the lights of towns that flashed past. It was almost midnight. They had boarded the train an hour earlier at Washington, D.C.’s Union Station, where they had driven after Malone had followed his first impulse and stolen a car from the front of the burning house while Laster and his men searched the woods. Hoping to conceal his trail, Malone had left the car in a restaurant’s parking lot and taken a taxi to the train station. There, he had used the credit card in the dead man’s wallet to buy two tickets to Dallas. Despite the rain, the burned house wouldn’t have cooled enough for Laster’s men to search it. They wouldn’t find the body for quite a while. Even then, there was a good chance the fire had so charred the corpse’s clothes that no one would realize the wallet was missing. When the credit-card charges persisted after the man’s death, Laster would understand what had happened, but by then it would be too late. Meanwhile, Malone and Sienna were together. That was all he cared about.
“Hungry?”
Sienna looked at the bag of sandwiches they’d bought. She shook her head no. “Tell me what we’re going to do.”
“It depends on your expectations. We’re not going to be able to live the way you did on your husband’s estate.”
“I wouldn’t want to.”
“I don’t mean the tension you went through. I’m talking about the absence of luxury. I’ve got plenty of money in various places, but I can’t think of a way to get to it without letting your husband or the CIA know where we are. They’ll have computer experts watching for any transactions in my accounts. The instant I order a wire transfer – to a bank in Dallas, say – they’ll be after us. The airport, the train station, the car-rental agencies – they’ll all be watched.”
“You make it sound hopeless.”
Even in her damp, rumpled blazer, her hair combed with her hands, Sienna somehow managed to look more beautiful than ever. How do I hide one of the most striking women in the world? he thought. “I promise, there is a way out of this, but it’s going to be a lot less first-class than you’re used to.”
“Is that why we’re going to Dallas?”
“We’re not going there.”
“But our tickets -”
“We’re getting off before then. At a town called Braddock.”
“In case Derek finds out we took the train and he’s waiting for us in Dallas?”
Malone nodded. “And because there’s someone I have to meet in Braddock.”
2
The Texas sky was cobalt blue as they stepped from the train and studied the small depot and waiting area. Beyond were low buildings: a gas station next to a car-repair shop, a hardware store next to a bar. A few trucks moved along the street. Otherwise, the town seemed deserted.
“A place this small, it’s a wonder it has its own train station,” Sienna said.
“Clint’s got the influence to make sure he gets what he wants.”
“You’re telling me people other than actors actually have names like Clint?”
“Chase, ol’ pal, it’s been too damn long,” a man’s voice said in the deepest, twangiest drawl Sienna had ever heard.
She turned toward the open door to the waiting room, from which a man in cowboy boots, jeans with a belt buckle shaped like a saddle, a denim shirt, a leather vest, and a cowboy hat stepped grinning into view, embracing Malone, slapping his back.
“Why didn’t you let me send the jet to pick you up?” the man asked. “And how come you phoned collect? All the money I paid you over the years, you can’t be short of cash.”
“Sort of.”
The man looked puzzled.
“A long story.”
“Well, I hope you’ll be stayin’ long enough for me to hear it.” Still smiling, the man turned expectantly toward Sienna. “And what a lovely lady you’ve brought along.”
“Clint, this is my friend Beatrice. Beatrice, I want you to meet Clint Braddock.”
“I’m one of Chase’s biggest fans.” Braddock’s smile was even broader.
Sienna was tall enough that she wasn’t used to looking up at most men, but for Braddock, she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eyes. His cowboy hat made him seem even taller. He had grainy tan skin and a bushy salt-and-pepper Zapata-style mustache.
“Clint, you did what I asked, right?” Malone’s tone was serious. “You didn’t tell anybody about my phone call. You didn’t let anybody know I was coming.”
“Hey, this is me, compadre, remember? When have I ever let you down? You’re the man. What you say goes.”
Malone visibly relaxed.
“But what’s goin’ on? When I offered to send the jet, you said you couldn’t go near an airport. I couldn’t help wonderin’ if you’re in trouble.”
“You’re not far wrong. Where’s your car? I don’t want to stand around in the open.”
“Around the corner, pard. Where’re your bags?”
“We don’t have any.”
The wrinkles around Braddock’s eyes deepened. “Yeah, you’re in trouble all right.”
At the side of the depot, they reached an almost empty gravel parking lot, the prominent vehicle in which was a gleaming red pickup truck with fence posts in the back. As Braddock got in the driver’s side, Malone guided Sienna toward the passenger door, whispering to her, “Don’t let the drawl and the getup fool you. Clint’s real first name is Peter. He was born and raised in Philadelphia.”