by Diane Capri
“We checked US immigration records a while ago and came up empty.”
“He might not even have had a passport. He wouldn’t have needed one back then to enter the States.” He sipped again. “Of course, he shouldn’t have overstayed his vacation time. But that happened a lot back then. Happens a lot now, in fact.”
“He was born about 1939, we think,” Scarlett said. “Who knows whether he was born in a hospital or not? He might not even have a birth certificate. We might never find his birth family.” She sighed and shook her head. “I’ll see what I can do, but Canada’s a big place. Lots of open country up there.” Her voice trailed off.
“Be careful. Crane is desperate to beat Shaw. He’s not above killing to get there.” He took a breath. “And Shaw’s not above killing to keep Crane at bay, either.”
“I can take care of myself, Flint.” The stiffness returned to her spine. Good.
“Meanwhile, I need some sleep.” He shrugged again. “I’ll check in with you in the morning. I put a new burner phone in that bag. Keep it with you. Only use it once and then destroy it.”
“I know how to avoid phone taps, Flint.” She practically growled at him.
“Prove it. After what happened with Phillips today, I’m taking no chances. And you’re not either.” He knew she had her back up and he was a little surprised she didn’t launch off the sofa and pound him right there. He rubbed the scar on his chest absently. “Can you let yourself out through the front door? Crane needs to see you leave.”
She cocked her head briefly and then slapped her empty glass down hard on the table and did as he asked.
They’d never turned the lights on. But Crane would know she’d been here and he needed to see her go. He was watching her or tracking her or even had surveillance equipment aimed inside Flint’s home. Didn’t matter. Now that Flint knew Crane was always present, he’d use that to his advantage, too.
Scarlett had been inside his house for more than an hour, and Crane wouldn’t have been able to hear their conversation because of Flint’s defenses. Which meant Crane would be worried. He might keep watching Flint, just to be sure he was standing down as he’d claimed when he quit the job. Certainly, Crane would keep watching Scarlett.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Houston, Texas
Monday, 2:00 a.m.
The burner phone on the side table rang. Flint had left the number with only one person. He answered without opening his eyes. “This is Michael Flint.”
“This is Larry Manning, returning your call.” The long-haul trucker’s voice sounded rough and tired. “I’m sorry it’s so late, but I’ve been on the road all day. I just pulled in for the night and picked up my messages. You said the matter was urgent.”
“Yeah. Thanks for calling me back.” Flint put his glass on the table and raised himself up in the chair and put a bit of urgency into his tone. “I’m looking for a young woman who went missing after a robbery at Mildred’s Corner back in 1989. Your nephew thought you might be able to help me.”
“You’re talking about the Oakwood girl. That’s a bundle of trouble you’re opening up right there.” He paused and took a big swig of something. Flint heard him swallow. “Steve Tuttle is in the hospital with a bad concussion. Docs aren’t sure he’s going to be okay.”
Flint could feel Manning’s hostility through the wireless connection. “Three guys jumped my associate. He defended himself. Can’t fault him for that. He didn’t hit Tuttle, either.”
Manning took another big swig and his tone softened slightly. “That’s what I heard when I asked around.”
“Do you know why they did it?”
“Let’s come back to that.” He paused a long time. “Why are you looking for Oakwood now? You’re not a cop. She’s got no family looking for her, does she? If she was trafficked, you’ll never find her after all these years.”
Flint understood what he meant. If Oakwood had been a human trafficking victim, she’d probably have been dead long before now. Maybe without a trace. Normal people left a paper trail when they died, but human trafficking victims too often did not. She could be buried in a shallow grave in Mexico somewhere or out in the desert or a thousand other places.
Which could explain why no one had been able to find her.
But that answer didn’t feel right to Flint. For one thing, there was no hint in the investigation files that she’d been trafficked. Human trafficking technology wasn’t as sophisticated in 1989 as it was today. Traffickers were easier to find back then because they left a physical trail. Law enforcement would have found something to suggest she’d been taken instead of running away and trying to hide. If she’d been trafficked. Big if.
“I have a client who wants me to find her. I told him I would.” Flint put a shrug into his voice. “Any chance you can help me out with that?”
“Any chance your client would make a donation to Road Warriors against Human Trafficking? We could use more funding.”
“I’m sure he would if you have information that leads me to Oakwood.” Flint held the connection open through a long period of silence on Manning’s end. “Can we meet up? You tell me what you know. I’ll follow through. If your info pans out, my client will be glad to write you a check.”
“I hauled a load of drilling supplies down here to Mount Warren and I’m laying over until tomorrow. I’m at the Texas Inn on the north side of town. In the morning, after I load up, I’m headed to San Diego.” Manning swallowed and paused, thinking things through, maybe. He belched. “Come out here and we’ll discuss it. Or we can talk when I get back from San Diego next week.”
“Next week will be too late.” Mount Warren? A town on the far west side of Texas that Flint had never heard of before his trip to Wolf Bend had now been mentioned three times in less than twelve hours. “I don’t have time for a trip all the way out there unless you have something valuable to offer. I’m working on a tight deadline.”
“I’ll put the coffee on.” Manning disconnected the call.
Flint considered what little he knew about Manning. Long-haul driver. In the business more than thirty years. According to his nephew, he’d been working to thwart human trafficking for a couple of decades. He ran the route that passed Mildred’s Corner back in the day.
Manning could know something useful. Or not. Could go either way.
Not much reason to go chasing across the state again, maybe for nothing, eating up the few hours left before Shaw’s option expired.
Then again, Flint didn’t have any better leads to chase.
By 3:00 a.m., he’d organized the trip. First, as a precaution, he’d run a few quick database checks on Larry Manning. No danger that the trucker would be given the Presidential Medal of Freedom in the next couple of days but nothing to suggest he was working for Crane either. On paper, Manning looked like a normal guy working hard and trying to do the right thing.
Maybe he was exactly what the paper trail suggested, but very few people were. Records were nothing but a place to start looking—and sometimes not even that much, in Flint’s experience.
Precautions were a way of life for him. No reason to change his habits now. To keep ahead of Crane, he’d need to improvise more than usual. Which was why he’d given the Clovis Ranch and the Canada-connection assignments to Scarlett. Like the sickle cell babies search, both were probably dead ends, just as she said. But they needed to be checked out and eliminated. The searching would keep her here in Houston, where she could protect herself and Maddy, and keep Crane on guard and out of Flint’s way.
He dressed in black jeans, black shirt, and sturdy boots. He collected cash, weapons, and other items he needed from the large safe in his bedroom closet and stuffed them into his pack. He left his personal smart phone in the safe. Too easy to ping off the cell towers. The burner phone he’d used to reach out to Manning was in his front pocket.
He grabbed cap, jacket, and gloves, slipped out through the back door, and engaged security.
Flint melted into the shadows and made his way across the neighborhood alleys. He stayed close to homes likely to have operational electronic interference. When he reached the brightly lit used car lot over on Alamo Street, he sidled toward the shadows there, too.
Drake was waiting in a black sedan with the engine running. Flint tossed his pack into the backseat and slipped into the front. Within moments, Drake had pulled away from the lot, headed north. They had a long way to go. First stop was the twenty-four-hour big-box store two miles from the private airfield. Flint needed supplies.
Among other things, he bought disposable phones. He penned a quick note and dropped two of the phones into an overnight delivery service for expedited delivery to Scarlett Investigations. She’d have them before noon.
Drake’s driving skills were honed. He could lose any tail, any time. He applied those skills on the way to the airport.
The drive was a little longer than ideal, but Flint was confident Crane didn’t know he’d left the city.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
An hour later, Drake and Flint were airborne, headed west in a Pilatus PC-24. Drake had turned the transponder off and flew VFR—visual flight rules—to keep the jet’s identity off the radar. Someone might see raw radar return, but they’d have no way to confirm that the return was this particular aircraft or to know who the plane’s passengers were. As long as they stayed clear of major airports and below eighteen thousand feet, the PC-24 could remain practically invisible.
The Pilatus claimed to be the world’s first superversatile jet. It was designed to operate from short paved or unpaved surfaces and remote fields. Flexibility was key. The Pilatus could land in well under two thousand feet. This PC-24 was registered to a CEO client of a friend of Drake’s.
All of which meant it would be harder for Crane and Shaw to find him. Such precautions wouldn’t thwart them forever. But they’d help for long enough, he hoped.
The Pilatus climbed to cruising altitude and leveled out at about 425 miles an hour. It could travel faster, but after his experience with the Sikorsky, Flint was wary of pushing the engines too hard.
He calculated travel time to Mount Warren at eighty-five minutes. Touchdown should be well before 5:00 a.m. Sunrise was forecast at 7:56 a.m. under clear skies, temperature at seventy-one degrees, light wind. Excellent.
“How long will we be on the ground in Mount Warren?” The flying was easy right now and Drake was ready to talk.
“Hard to say. Not more than a couple of hours, I hope. Three, tops. By the time we land and get out to meet Manning and get back.”
“We’ve got two operatives on the ground. One will stay with me. The other will drive you. Both can provide backup, if we need it.”
“Perfect. Both already armed, right?” Flint watched the airspace through the windshield, but there was nothing much to see.
“Correct.” Drake rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his sore shoulders. “I’m not going unarmed anywhere with you ever again.”
“Good plan.” Flint grinned, but he was dead serious. “You’ve worked with these two guys before. You know them. Not another Phillips situation, right?”
Drake grimaced. “Look, Phillips came highly recommended. We’d worked with him before without problems. We didn’t know he was in debt up to his eyeballs.”
“Could have happened to anyone.” Flint shrugged, but he didn’t mean that literally. Phillips had been a mistake. Not that it mattered. Phillips was handled. But Flint wasn’t interested in a repeat. He knew Drake was not happy with the Phillips situation either. No reason to dwell on the problem.
Drake nodded. “What do we know about this Manning guy?”
“Not much. He’s an Army vet. Vietnam. Sixty-five-ish. Hardworking guy. Seems to have his heart in the right place, from what I could find in a short period of time.” Flint paused. “Claims he can help me find Laura Oakwood. For the right price.”
“Well, that would be refreshing.” Drake’s tone implied a shock greater than first news of the sinking of the Titanic.
Flint leaned back and closed his eyes. A nap seemed like a good idea. He hadn’t slept much since he left London. Flint could sleep anywhere, anytime. It was a skill he’d perfected while working for Uncle Sam. Fatigue caused mistakes, usually at critical crisis points. Fatigue was an unacceptable risk. He avoided it whenever he could.
Flint awoke as the Pilatus began its descent into the Mount Warren area. They’d been flying uneventfully for an hour. It was still dark, but the cloudless sky surrounded a full moon acting like a spotlight illuminating the flat scrubland below.
Drake pointed to the long, straight road that led to an abandoned oil well north of town. Flint had located the road on satellite images earlier. It looked hard-packed enough and long enough for the Pilatus to land and take off again later.
As the jet descended, Flint saw a black Land Rover, lights and engine off, parked well away from their makeshift runway. Likely occupied by the two operatives Drake had hired. The radio silence they maintained meant the identity of the Land Rover’s occupants remained unconfirmed. Flint pulled his weapon as a precaution.
Drake’s approach was textbook perfect, and he landed the Pilatus like Flint was a flight instructor he wanted to impress. He powered down the engines and Flint opened the exit door. The Land Rover was parked near the bottom of the flight stairs.
Drake and Flint disembarked as the two operatives left their vehicle. They met halfway, boots crunching on the scrub and gravel in the silent night.
Both operatives looked suitably professional, a bearing undeniably instilled by military training. They were dressed in dark clothing similar to Flint’s. The taller one was darker, bigger, and heavier. Straight, fit, clean-cut. No wasted movements. They exuded confidence.
Drake greeted the two men and introduced them by last name only to Flint, nodding toward the taller one first. “Brady, Davis, this is Flint.” They shook hands all around. “Davis, you’re with me. Brady, Flint will tell you more on the way. Meet back here. Give me twenty minutes’ notice, if you can, and we’ll be ready for takeoff.”
Four heads, four nods.
Brady turned and led the way back to the Land Rover. Flint glanced at Drake and Davis, who were already climbing into the Pilatus.
“Drake.” He turned his head to look at Flint. “Stay alert. We don’t know what’s coming at us.”
“Got it,” Drake said, without breaking stride.
Brady had the Land Rover running when Flint tossed his pack into the back and settled into the passenger seat. He’d lost count of how many vehicles and passenger seats he’d traveled through in the forty-eight hours since he landed on that London rooftop.
“Where are we going?” Brady’s voice was a deep baritone, almost a bass. The kind of voice Scarlett wouldn’t kick out of bed for eating crackers.
“We’re meeting a guy at the Texas Inn.” Flint gave him the address. “Do you know it?”
“It’s not exactly the Ritz.” Brady’s frown used his entire face, not just his brow. He put the Land Rover in gear and drove around the back of the Pilatus onto the abandoned road. “Who are you meeting?”
“Truck driver. His name is Larry Manning. Know him?”
Brady shook his head slowly. “Why?”
“He’s a witness. Says he has information about a missing person.”
“You believe him?”
Good question. “Not yet.”
Two miles west, the abandoned road connected with another, better graded road. Brady turned left and drove south for three miles until they reached a paved two-lane. He turned west. The land was flat and dark and empty. They hadn’t met another vehicle of any kind.
Ten miles from where the jet had landed, Flint could finally see evidence of civilization. Road signs. A few buildings and a couple of intersections. Homes, most of them dark inside, but a few people were stirring, early risers preparing for the work day ahead.
Brady pointed to the right side of
the road. “The Texas Inn is up there in the next block. You’re armed, right?”
“Always,” Flint replied. “You?”
“Yes.” Brady wasn’t a sparkling conversationalist, which was fine with Flint.
The Texas Inn was an old-fashioned motel, the kind travelers might have seen along Route 66 in the 1960s. A one-story L-shaped block building, with an office at the short end of the L and a string of rooms running the long leg. The office was closed. The sign in the window announced “Vacancy” in steady-glowing red neon.
In front of each room was a single parking space. Only two of the parking spaces were occupied. Both vehicles were pickup trucks of the rusty-but-trusty kind.
The room doors were numbered from one through twenty. On the wall, left of each door, each room’s window faced the sidewalk.
“My witness is in room fifteen.” Flint nodded his head toward the far end of the row.
Brady parked the Land Rover in the empty space in front of the room. “What do you want me to do?”
“Stay with the vehicle. Keep the engine running.” Flint opened the door and put one foot onto the pavement. He turned to look directly at Brady. “But at any time, if you think you should come inside, do that. You’ve got good training and good instincts, Drake said. I’m counting on both.”
“Roger that.” Brady nodded.
Flint left the vehicle and closed the door. He stood in the parking lot for a moment, scanning the area. There was a restaurant across the street. He saw lights on in the back, probably the kitchen. It was 5:30 a.m. They’d be preparing for the breakfast rush, such as it was.
The other buildings within his line of sight were dark and quiet, even the two all-night topless bars south of the Texas Inn. Parking lots were empty. He didn’t see a tractor anywhere that could belong to Manning. Which didn’t necessarily mean much, but in Flint’s experience, long-haul drivers tended to stay the night pretty close to their rigs, even if the tractor didn’t have a sleeper bunk inside.
Flint walked the few steps to the sidewalk and rapped the knuckles of his left hand on the door of Room 15. A heavy curtain covered the window. The room’s air-handling unit below the window was rattling loudly. The door stayed closed.
