He figured two or three more conversations and Dylan would be envisioning himself as the new Starker.
And as Dylan’s manager, Jerry would still be on top—the trifecta of the century. He’d have Max’s wife, Max’s estate, and manage the business affairs of the hottest new star in the business.
They just had to find Max, and make sure they buried him deep.
AFTER DYLAN LEFT, Jerry called Gordon for a briefing. Gordon told him just about what he’d expected: there was no word from the kidnappers. And no word from Shaun.
“What do you think is happening, Gord?”
“I have no idea.”
Jerry could see everything going up in smoke. “You never should have trusted that crazy bitch. Anyone with half a brain can see she’s stark raving nuts. How many women do you know wear a fricking fade?”
“She’s done good work before. She saved my life not too long ago.”
“She did? When was that?”
“Long story. A guy from the Russian Mafia was after me.”
“And she killed him?”
“You don’t want to know, Jer. All I can say is, the Russian Mafia left me alone after that.”
Jerry absorbed this. She must be good. “But you said she has a kid with her.”
“He’s twelve, Jer. Not exactly a kid.”
“Not exactly a kid? I’d say that’s a kid. What’s the story there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I think she adopted him.”
“Adopted him. A lesbo killer like that? Can you see her going to an adoption agency and copping herself a twelve-year-old kid? What did she do? Steal him from someone?”
“Does it matter? She’s good, Jerry. You don’t have to worry about that.”
But Jerry worried. That was what Jerry did.
Chapter Twenty-Four
MAX MADE IT over the scrubby hill and out of sight of the house, leaning against a boulder in the sketchy shade of a mesquite tree. He thought about Corey again. Corey was wounded and had lost some blood. Maybe a lot of blood. What if the woman and the boy found the bomb shelter? He could see Corey shooting off his mouth, maybe even trying to overpower them, and that would end badly for Corey. Not to mention Luther and Sam P.
What did he care about them? They were kidnappers.
He should put as much distance between himself and the woman and boy as possible.
Had Gordon sent the woman and the boy to get him?
That made no sense. The woman and the boy had shown up within a half hour of Max’s last call to Gordon.
No way they could have made it down from Sedona.
Unless…
Unless they were already here. Unless they were already looking for him.
But who sent them?
That was easy. Gordon or Jerry or both. First, they’d sent the two guys in the limo, the ones the deputy routed.
But why that strange-looking woman? Why a boy?
Max knew he was overthinking this. Go by your instincts.
His instincts told him that the woman and the boy were looking for him, and that they were far more dangerous than the guys in the limo.
His instincts told him that the woman and the boy were killers. And he knew, if the woman and the boy encountered Corey, Luther, and Sam P., there would be a firefight.
And he knew who would lose that fight.
Max took one of the prepaid phones out of its cardboard box, found the number of the Bajada County Sheriff’s Office by scrolling through Luther’s smartphone, and punched it into the prepaid mobile.
A dispatcher answered. “Bajada Sheriff’s Office, may I help you?”
“There are two people trying to break into a house on Ocotillo Road. It’s the last house on the left.”
“Can you describe the two people?”
“No, I’m kind of far away.”
“Do they have a vehicle?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Your name, sir?”
He disconnected.
“I hope they don’t shoot you guys,” he muttered as he started down the hill toward another settlement of houses.
They were small plots of houses, on a few acres, little ranchettes.
Everything was still and quiet.
Max knew how to hot-wire a car, but first, he looked for keys in the ignition. He knew from living in the sticks when he was a kid and, more recently, on his ranch in Montana, that people who owned ranch trucks often left them unlocked with the windows rolled down.
He got lucky on the second try. The key was in the ignition, and no one was around. It was an old Ford F-250. He put it in gear and drove onto the dirt road. Knew the neighbors would recognize the truck, but in this heat, everyone was probably indoors, sitting under the fans and hoping for a breath of air from their swamp box coolers.
As he reached the highway, he saw a sheriff’s vehicle pull off onto Sam P.’s road ahead of him. A male deputy, not the woman who had arrested him—the woman with the memory like a steel trap.
Max turned the other way.
THE SOUND OF the bullet smashing bone ricocheted in the bomb shelter like an echo chamber.
Sam P. dropped like a sack of grain, his right eye gone and the other one staring up at them in glassy dismay.
But Shaun saw Luther behind him, flailing on the floor, shrieking like a banshee.
Half his jaw was blown off. The bullet must have gone through Sam P. and hit Luther as well.
Jimmy looked down in wonder at the .45. “Cool,” he said in awe.
Shaun saw Luther enmeshed in his own gore, trying to pick up the part of his jaw he’d lost, blood pouring out of him like a leaky spring.
Shaun took the .45 from Jimmy and put one through the center of Luther’s forehead.
Corey was half yelling, half screaming—a string of profanities came from his filthy mouth.
Shaun aimed and shot, but there was distance and the angle—he was below them—and she missed. She shot again, hit his good shoulder, and it spun him around.
She shot him three more times, center mass. He fell forward, dead.
The stink was terrible.
Jimmy looked at her. “I thought you said just one.”
She shrugged. “I changed my mind.”
MAX DROVE OVER a low hill and saw a crossroad ahead. A car was parked about twenty feet back from the stop sign. He saw a woman and a girl standing on the far side of the car—they must be having car trouble.
“Freeze!”
Max sat bolt upright, his muscles locking, foot mashing down on the accelerator. The truck he was driving shot through the intersection.
He hit the brakes. Skidded to a halt, tires smoking.
Shaking, Max looked at the crossroad, now in his rearview mirror.
There was no car.
He leaned his body over the steering wheel. His mouth was dry and sweat poured down his face.
Gordon.
Gordon had done this to him.
Why, though? Because he could? Max had always thought Gordon was a pompous ass. A sociopathic pompous ass.
Max tried to picture the car he’d thought he’d seen, but couldn’t.
He sat in the truck, letting his heart rate drop back to normal, and then he started up the truck and pressed on the accelerator.
But the truck didn’t respond right away. There was a catch in the engine. The farm truck coughed and slowed. Max pushed the pedal to the metal, but it sank uselessly to the floor.
Out of gas.
Now what?
He was out of gas and hallucinating: just another day in the life of Max Conroy.
He checked back in the rearview mirror—no car, just empty road.
He got out and started in the direction of town. He reckoned it would be three or four miles. He listened for the sound of a truck behind him—a new Chevy truck with a big engine. He didn’t know what he’d do if he heard it. There wasn’t much in the way of cover here. Just the empty road and some creosote bushes and a stunted mesquite or two. He scanned the roadside, back and forth, looking for cover, just in case. He’d have a little time. There were hills here, so he might not be in their line of sight.