Blood Trails (The Heir Hunter Book 1)

by Diane Capri

  “The house in Saint Leo, Manitoba? Send me the photos.” Her voice was steely now. The tone he recognized from childhood. The one that meant she wouldn’t back down, no matter what he said or did.

  “Roger that.” He didn’t have the extra energy to fight with her tonight, anyway. Save that fight for tomorrow. “You get me the documents for the daughter. I’ll send the photos. We’ll get this one wrapped up in the morning. I’ll be back in Houston by tonight.”

  Scarlett didn’t reply. She was already immersed in something else.

  He called his FBI source again and tasked him with taking care of the mess at the Saint Leo house and a few other matters and dropped the cell phone on the bed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Peak, Montana

  Tuesday, 3:00 a.m.

  Flint turned on the shower and stood under the hot water to ease his exhaustion. He dipped his neck into the heat for at least thirty minutes.

  After the shower, he pawed through the owner’s fully stocked closet to find après-ski leisurewear he wouldn’t be embarrassed to be caught dead in. He settled for a pair of cords and a sweater owned by a man with deplorable fashion sense but close to Flint’s size. He slipped his feet into the guy’s lambskin flats and headed for the kitchen.

  Drake had also showered and changed. He’d unpacked the food. Flint fired up the grill and seared two steaks. The meal was ready in fifteen minutes. He opened a bottle of red wine and they carried plates to seats near the fireplace and tucked in.

  Drake was as hungry as Flint. They wolfed the food without conversation. When Flint’s plate was clean, he refilled his wineglass and moved to a chair closer to the fire. He leaned back. A full stomach and a couple of drinks, on top of the hot shower and the long day, relaxed him. He felt his eyelids drooping. His chin dropped to his chest. He floated to the edge of sleep and stayed there awhile.

  Until a voice interrupted. He raised his eyelids halfway.

  The voice belonged to a visitor, casually dressed in appropriately high-end ski resort wear, including a parka with a Peak Security logo patch on the left sleeve. Flint didn’t know him but recognized the signs of his Secret Service background.

  He was warming his hands by the fire. Drake approached with three crystal snifters filled with warm brandy. Flint opened his eyes and accepted the offering.

  “Flint?” He extended his hand. “Kevin Elliott. Sorry I didn’t get here sooner. We’ve got a private party going on up at The Lodge, and this was the first chance I had to get away. Bunch of guys here for their annual strut-your-man-stuff week, you know?”

  Elliott shook his head and Flint nodded forgiveness. “Anyway, we’re notified of arrivals and departures through our air space, and whenever one of the residences is opened, security’s supposed to check in with guests. Everything okay here?”

  “All good, thanks.” Flint nodded again, but he didn’t get up. “We’ve just settled in and had a bite to eat. Anything we should be aware of?”

  “Snow’s supposed to stop before morning. We’ve had more than twelve inches in the last twenty-four hours and some iffy weather lately affecting the snowpack. Which means keep an eye out if you’re planning any backcountry skiing, snowboarding, or whatever.” Elliott sipped the brandy. Flint pretended not to notice he was drinking on duty. “Officially, the avalanche condition level is moderate. People don’t come to The Peak to stay inside by the fire, so we do what we can to keep the groomed slopes free of hazards. We can’t do as much for backcountry. Too much land out there.”

  Flint nodded again. “Understood.” He didn’t expect to be engaging in winter sports. His plan was to get in, get the job done, and get out.

  “I have a message for you from one of our members.” Elliott shot a questioning gaze from Drake back to Flint, who shrugged. He knew and trusted Drake. He’d met Elliott three minutes ago. Whatever Elliott had to say, Drake could hear. “Sebastian Shaw will meet with you tomorrow morning at ten o’clock in The Grille at The Lodge.”

  The Grille was the private dining room in The Peak Lodge reserved primarily for sensitive business matters. Flint had been there before. Clients generally wanted to book at least one business meeting in The Grille to justify expenses to various tax authorities.

  Flint nodded and raised his glass but still didn’t drink the brandy. “Is he expecting you to deliver my reply tonight?”

  “Reply?” Elliott grinned. “He’s expecting you to show up.”

  “Of course he is.” Flint curled his lip and Elliott laughed. “You’re familiar with him, then.”

  “You bet.” Elliott nodded. “He’s got a group going out to the backcountry right after. Snowmobiles and a few snow bikes and skiers in the group, too, I think. So he won’t keep you overlong.”

  “I guess that’s something.” Flint felt his eyelids scraping his corneas and forced them open.

  Elliott drained his glass and set it on the bar. “Anything you need, just give us a call. Security is number one on the speed dial on all the house phones.”

  Drake said, “I’ll walk you out.”

  Elliott’s boots echoed on the slate floors all the way to the front door. After Drake locked up, he returned to the fire. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Can you watch Sally in the morning until I get back? Keep her inside the house. If the wrong people find out she’s here, things could get ugly.”

  “I can do that. Tell me what I’m watching for.”

  “Anybody trying to kill her, mostly.”

  Drake nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

  “This place has a massive garage. Let’s see what kind of transportation we’ve got available.” Flint pushed himself out of the deep, comfortable chair. They found the garage at the opposite side of the house from the covered outdoor deck that flanked the kitchen.

  He flipped the lights on inside the cavernous space. He’d seen two double and one single garage doors when they’d arrived earlier. From the interior, the storage options were more generous than the five-door setup suggested.

  Two full-size all-wheel-drive SUVs were parked closest to the entryway. Their candy-apple-red metallic paint sparkled. They’d be blindingly obvious in the snow, which was probably the point. But most of the roads here were not plowed for driving in the winter.

  Beyond the SUVs, winter transportation sat ready to ride. A lineup of six highly polished snowmobiles gleamed. Next to them was a group of motorized snow bikes.

  “Nice machines,” Drake said in the way a man might admire an attractive woman. “I’ve read about them, but these are the first dirt-bike-to-snow-bike conversions I’ve seen. Strange-looking creatures, but I’ll bet these puppies scream.”

  “When I get back in the morning, you should take one out. Give it a go.” Flint shrugged. “We’ll need to fly out by two, but you’d have time for a quick ride.”

  “Is it similar to mountain snowmobiles? Or more like a dirt bike? I’ve ridden plenty of both.” Drake was an excellent pilot. Of course he’d be interested in anything with a motor on it.

  Flint nodded. “They’ll surprise you. They’re light and nimble. Agile. More capable than you think for such a small motor, even on fresh powder.”

  Drake had knelt down to get a better look at the undersides. “This looks like essentially a motorized mountain bike, converted to use for snow, with a track system instead of wheels, right?”

  “Pretty much.” Flint nodded again. “Be careful, though. They go places many snowmobiles can’t and you can get into trouble really fast. You can take them into extreme terrain without even realizing it.”

  “Got it.” Drake stood and dusted his palms together. He looked beyond the snow bikes deeper into the garage and simply stared.

  Flint followed his gaze.

  Against the far wall was displayed the equivalent of an entire sporting goods store’s snow season inventory. At a quick glance, he noticed several pairs of skis, poles, boots, and outerwear. Snowboards, ice skates, sleds, and v
arious sized hockey sticks. Cabinetry lined the walls, probably to store more winter sports and safety equipment. At one end was a set of lockers and benches to use when dressing in the bulkier gear.

  “Looks like we can find just about anything we want here.” Drake laughed.

  Flint merely nodded again. The right equipment was essential in terrain like this. Good to know he had viable options, if he needed any of it.

  “I’m turning in, man. I’m dead on my feet. Another long day tomorrow.” Flint threaded his way through the garage toward the house.

  “You go ahead.” Drake had moved for a closer look at the snow bikes. “I got good shut-eye today while I was waiting around for you.”

  Flint kept moving until he reached his bed. He fell onto it and didn’t stir until seven o’clock. When he opened his eyes, he had three hours before his meeting with Shaw to get the new documents Scarlett sent to his secure server and prepare Sally Owen to execute them. After that, he’d deal with Crane.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Sunrise in the mountains was spectacular during snow season. Standing by the windows with a steaming mug of coffee, Flint saw the moon in the pale morning sky nestled between the peaks while the highest of nature’s skyscrapers was bathed in pink sunlight like a swipe of color applied by an artist’s brush.

  Fairview Estate had a fully equipped office, too. He located the new documents on his server, downloaded, printed, and prepared them for Sally’s signature. When he returned to the kitchen, she was already there. She’d showered and pulled her hair back in a ponytail. The clothes she’d picked out made her look elegant.

  Flint set up a video recording as Sally identified herself and signed the documents. Flint scanned them and uploaded everything to his secure server and sent a note to Scarlett.

  All the paperwork was completed by 9:30 a.m., Houston time. Well before the 11:00 a.m. deadline.

  “Do you really think I’ll collect fifty million dollars? It seems unbelievable to me that Mom could have been that wealthy all these years. We ate a lot of mac and cheese at our house.” Sally had poured more coffee and found eggs in the kitchen. Flint considered her appetite to be a good sign.

  “It’s not a sure thing, Sally. Your claim will probably be disputed.” She poured another cup of coffee for him, but he felt like he was swimming in caffeine already, so he pushed it aside. “But I’ll do everything I can to make sure you get what’s rightfully yours.”

  She patted his shoulder but said nothing more.

  He glanced at the clock. Time to meet Shaw.

  He bundled into a snowmobile suit, headgear, face mask and eye protection, socks, boots, gloves, and oversize mittens. He felt like a neon-green Star Wars Storm Trooper in the getup, particularly for such a short ride, but the gear kept him warm enough for the subzero morning temps, and his quick search through the estate’s clothing selection failed to uncover anything that was effective and less garish.

  He raised the smallest of the garage doors and pushed one of the snow bikes outside before starting it up. The engine noise revved through the quiet snow-covered morning like a chainsaw.

  At the end of the driveway, he glanced over his shoulder at Fairview Estate now that he could see it in the daylight. The home’s name, unlike everything else about the place, was woefully understated. The views were well beyond fair. Words like magnificent and breathtaking were inadequate to describe the vista in every direction.

  Flint had traveled extensively since he left Bette Maxwell’s grubby boarding school in West Texas all those years ago. He’d seen both horrifying and amazing places. But The Peak occupied one of the most majestic landscapes on the planet. Maybe money couldn’t buy love or health or happiness. But it surely could buy access to beautiful places.

  He revved the snow bike’s engine again and slipped it into gear. The Peak Lodge was only two miles west of Fairview Estate, around a few curves and up the mountainside. The snow bike quickly covered the distance.

  When he came around the last corner, The Peak Lodge revealed itself to be a larger and more astonishing version of Fairview Estate. Similar fieldstone-and-timber façades, expansive windows, and a uniquely perfect setting. The Lodge housed amenities and guest suites, as well as apartments for those members who preferred not to own individual estates.

  One lane of the long driveway approaching The Lodge had been plowed for road vehicles. Two lanes were groomed but unplowed, allowing for the use of normal winter daily transportation like snowmobiles and snow bikes.

  Flint rode the groomed lane and parked near the entrance, where at least two dozen snow bikes and snowmobiles were already parked.

  He made his way into The Lodge and trudged through the open interior toward the private elevator nestled in the stones to the left of the five-story central fireplace. The lobby bustled with early risers already back from the slopes. Many were dressed in similar Storm Trooper attire. A party of thirty or so rowdy men was having breakfast in the Elkhorn Cafe. Their raucous voices invaded the lobby, even penetrating the closed elevator until it reached the third floor, where the noise receded.

  The Grille was on the fifth floor. Baz Shaw was waiting at a table by the window wall that overlooked one of the stunning ski slopes. He was the very picture of a model for an expensive winter vacation catalog for active seniors. His dark hair and darker tan contrasted perfectly with the turquoise shirt that hugged his fit body. A pot of coffee and two cups rested on the table.

  When Flint approached, Shaw did not stand up. Flint placed his helmet onto a side chair and seated himself across from the magnate. He poured coffee into his cup and took a sip. Good coffee. He’d already consumed two pots this morning. But he’d been summoned here, and he’d be damned if he’d talk first. He shook his head. Baz Shaw was a piece of work.

  Five full minutes passed before a word was spoken, and it was the waiter who broke the silence.

  “Are you gentlemen having breakfast this morning?” He looked first to Shaw, of course.

  “I’ll have my usual order, Brian. Thanks.”

  Brian looked at Flint. “Make that two,” Flint said, simply to avoid prolonged discussion.

  “Very well, sir.”

  When the waiter left, Shaw leaned forward, placing both forearms on the table. “Why are you here at The Peak, Flint?”

  “I found Laura Oakwood.” Flint watched Shaw for his reaction. He’d told Scarlett that it was Crane’s men who killed Laura Oakwood, but he had no reason to share that information with Shaw. Let him sweat.

  Shaw’s eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened. “Is that so?”

  “It is.” Truth was, Crane was ruthless and so was Shaw. Crane would kill to get what he wanted. So would Shaw. Flint didn’t trust either of them.

  “Excellent,” Shaw said. An expression Flint interpreted as pleasure occupied Shaw’s face. “You have her signed consent to sell me the mineral rights, then?”

  Flint didn’t know what games Crane and Shaw were playing. But he did know they both had hidden agendas. “No. Unfortunately, I don’t.”

  The delight ran away from Shaw’s face, leaving no trace. “Katie Scarlett has less than one hour left to deliver what she promised when I gave her this job. She relied on you.” Shaw’s tone was as hard as those granite mountains soaring outside and twice as lethal. “If Crane wins the right to buy Garcia Field, I’ll ruin you both. Make no mistake, Flint. I’m not gracious in defeat.”

  Flint smirked. What a shock.

  He cocked his head and narrowed his gaze. He had delivered bad news to powerful men before. Some reacted better than others. Here in The Grille, and in all of The Peak, Baz Shaw was well known and at least feared, if not respected or beloved. Which meant he was unlikely to have a full-on hissy fit right at the moment.

  Flint believed Shaw had been happy to know that he’d found Oakwood. He was pissed now, too. Neither of which reactions he would have had if he’d already known that Oakwood was dead.

  Maybe Flint and Scarlett we
re on the right side of this particular fight after all.

  The waiter arrived with their two plates. “Anything else I can bring you?”

  Shaw cleared his throat, but he kept his glare aimed at Flint. “Thank you, no.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then. Bon appétit.” The waiter withdrew.

  Flint pulled out his digital camera, turned it on, and laid it flat in front of Shaw. The photo showed Laura Oakwood, wounded and dying in her kitchen, held in her daughter’s arms.

  Shaw glanced at the photo. If he knew or cared what it was, he gave no visible sign. He noticed the time and date stamp on the photo and zoomed to read it.

  Flint pointed his chin at the photo. “That’s Laura Oakwood. She was killed before she could sign over her rights to you. She wanted to sell. She simply didn’t have the chance.” Flint picked up his fork and cut off a piece of the Denver omelet and ate it. The food was amazing here. And he was hungry.

  Shaw looked at the photo again, then handed the camera back. Flint flipped to the next photo and slid it across the table. Shaw glanced at the two dead shooters. “Who are these guys?”

  Flint swallowed another bite of omelet and said, “You tell me.”

  Shaw scowled. “How the hell would I know?”

  “Never seen them before?”

  “Never.” Shaw shoved the camera toward Flint.

  Flint swallowed another couple of bites while he let Shaw’s curiosity simmer. “That’s what I thought.” He didn’t show Shaw the third man’s photo. Laura Oakwood had killed the other two, but the third was on Flint. He needed to clean that situation up, not splash the evidence around.

  He found one more photo and showed it to Shaw. The photo he took while he was in the Barnett house of Sally Oakwood and her mom on Sally’s eighteenth birthday. “That’s Laura Oakwood and her daughter.”

  Shaw had seen the age-progressed images of Laura Oakwood, and the images of these two women were very close to the computerized versions. He seemed to understand where Flint was going with this and nodded. His features softened a bit. “Can we prove the relationship between them?”