Dead air, then: "Whaddya want?"
"Four flip phones with fully juiced batteries, a car power cord, a USB adapter."
He spit out a colorful word. "You starting a telethon?"
"Something like that. While you're at it, I need a few others things. I'll make it worth your while." She told him what she wanted.
The man reluctantly agreed and quoted an extravagant price. He was trying to allay his concern with cash.
"Fine," Julia said. "Bring them to the Hungry Farmer on Henley Street at five." Their taxi had passed the restaurant on their way out of Knoxville. She knew through Bonsai that the cops were onto Dorsett's clone-phone business. She couldn't risk their seeing her at his counterfeit storefront.
"Hey, I don't make house calls, lady. I don't care who you know."
"Tell me business is booming after 60 Minutes ran that piece on clone-phone crackdowns. No way, buddy. Make a swing by the Farmer for me, or I'll spend my money somewhere else."
It's what eventually got them alclass="underline" greed.
"All right, five o'clock, but I ain't coming in. I'll be driving a red convertible Camaro. Come out when you see me, cash in hand."
"See you then," she said, sweet as candy.
fifty-one
Allen just didn't get it, and Stephen shouldn't have been surprised. He shook his big head and steered the van onto Broadway Avenue. After the Vega, it was a pleasure to drive such a smooth-running machine; that he actually fit in it was icing on the cake.
"It's not like I assaulted the guy," Allen said, continuing their argument.
"You said his van was a piece of—"
"That's called negotiation."
"You were antagonizing the man!" A light turned red, allowing him to turn the full force of his gaze on his brother.
"Oh, bull," Allen countered snidely, which was really no counter at all. "He didn't take offense."
"He almost decked you."
"I would have let him if it lowered the price."
"How can you spend so much money and be so cheap at the same time?"
"How green do you want it?"
Stephen glared at him a moment, then realized he was talking about the traffic light and accelerated through the intersection.
"Besides, he could have told us to take a hike if he didn't like my attitude," Allen said.
"Some people don't have the luxury you do to turn their backs on cash. Not that you ever have." It was a wonder they had come from the same family. The next light turned yellow, and he slowed for it. He seemed to have caught the red side of Broadway's traffic-light cycle. Fortunately, they were only a few blocks from the motel.
Abruptly, Allen fell to the floor between the two front captain's chairs. "Turn your head to the left!" he yelled, motioning wildly in that direction. His terrified expression compelled Stephen to obey.
"What?" he asked.
"Don't look, but the motel . . ."
He flicked his vision at the Motel 6, catty-corner on the right. The massive figure of the Warrior filled the open office doorway. He had his head cranked around, looking into the parking lot, toward where Stephen waited for the light to turn green. Stephen turned his head away. He felt the skin on his arms rise rapidly into goose bumps. There were maybe fifty yards between them. The Warrior could look right at him if the thought crossed his mind.
A horn behind him blared.
"Oh—" Green light. He glanced over. The Warrior was talking to someone in the office. Stephen made a panicked decision to turn away from the motel, instead of driving past it. He checked for cars in the left-turn lane, signaled, and edged into the intersection. A pickup was approaching from the other direction, and he braked for it, realizing too late that he could have darted across ahead of it. If a siren erupted from the van and flashing lights sprang up on its roof, he would not have felt more exposed. Another car pulled out from a liquor store, filling the gap between the truck and a knot of cars racing forward from the intersection a block away.
"Come on, come on," he said under his breath.
"Just go!" From his position on the floor, Allen was blind to the traffic.
Stephen hunkered low in the seat and looked over. The Warrior
had come out of the office. He was standing in the sunlight, squinting at the cars in the parking lot.
The car behind him honked again. Stephen jumped. The Warrior turned to look. He put his hand against his brow to block the sun. The horn blared again, longer. Now the Warrior was striding forward, across the motel parking lot, directly toward Stephen.
Why is this guy honking? Can't he see the traffic?
He realized the rear of the long van was blocking the lane that went straight through the intersection. Deciding to turn had been a mistake.
He calculated he could cut through the traffic behind a car and pray the oncoming drivers were attentive enough to slam on their brakes hard enough and fast enough to avoid colliding with him. He saw an opening and knew there wasn't room. He was going for it anyway.
Dear Lord, don't let anyone be hurt.
He moved his foot off the brake and glanced quickly at the Warrior, thinking he may have to duck away from a gunshot. He was gone. Stephen jammed the brake pedal. Then he spotted him: staring into a parked Toyota. The Warrior moved around it to examine the interior of the next parked car. He seemed to have discounted the commotion in the street as being none of his concern.
Stephen closed his eyes, let out a long breath.
"What? What's happening?"
"Nothing. We're outta here." The light had turned yellow, stopping the surge of oncoming cars. Stephen roared across and into a residential neighborhood.
Allen grunted as he began pulling himself up.
"Stay down, Allen!" Stephen said, urgent, wide-eyed. There was something about his brother sprawled on the floor of the van that lifted his spirits. He turned his head to hide his smile.
The roar of a big engine and the squeal of tires beckoned
her to the window. Pistol in hand, she pressed against the wall, flicked her head around the sill, and pulled it back again. A dark blue conversion van, idling directly in front of the room, not parked. Had to be the guys. But why the Jeff Gordon theatrics? A car door slammed. Allen ran around the front of the van. She holstered her weapon and swung the door open.
"Let's go!" he said, still outside. "The Warrior! He's at the Motel 6."
"That was fast. He'll know we didn't check in."
"Then he'll start checking around." He was grabbing the few items he and Stephen owned, tossing them into the drugstore bag.
"He may not be alone," she said, disconnecting computer cables with one hand, pushing components into the gym bag with the other. Allen stepped into the bathroom, used his forearm to sweep whatever was on the counter into the bag, and followed Julia out of the room.
Stephen pulled away before she had the side door shut, and that was fine by her. He bounded over a curb onto Broadway, jostling her headfirst into one of the plush rear seats. For a while she watched out the tinted rear windows for a vehicle pulling up fast or following at a consistent distance. Nothing.
"You saw only the Warrior?" she asked.
"Isn't he enough?" Allen had a smudge on his cheek, but his hair was perfect. It came to her that she'd never seen it any other way, even after crawling out from under the car.
"I need some navigation," Stephen said.
"Knoxville."
"You gotta be kidding. The airport?"
"Hungry Farmer Restaurant. I've arranged to pick up some new phones, ones that can't be traced back to us."
"And then?"
"And then we find out who wants us dead so badly."
Neither man had seen her withdraw her pistol, and both jumped when she jerked the slide back and let it return with a resounding ka-chink!