“I considered it a management issue.”
Dalton just waits, gaze fixed on him.
Phil meets that gaze with an equally cool one. “There are management issues that I bring to you, and there are ones I do not, ones that seem primarily about supply and resource. I was under the impression you appreciated not being bothered with that.”
Dalton grunts. It’s a grudging concession. Yes, he’d been happy to turn that over to Phil, but in this case, supply and resource concerns implied something larger. It had not, admittedly though, grown to the point where anyone, including Phil, realized that.
As Dalton said, it seemed a normal fluctuation in numbers. If there are plans to shut us down, they’re restricted to a very small number of people, with the general council—and Phil—knowing nothing about them.
“What if we fix this?” I ask Émilie. “If we prove the Danes were behind the hostiles and they’re the ones who wanted to shut us down, then we’ll be okay, right?”
She doesn’t answer. She can’t, and I hear my words, and I hear a child’s hope in them.
I can’t get a dog because they’re too much work? What if I promise to look after it and, if I don’t, you can take it away?
Even as a child, I’d known that denying me a dog because they were “too much work” was an excuse. Is it the same here?
Émilie opens her mouth to speak. Then the phone jangles.
She answers it on the third ring, sounding breathless, the old lady who scrambled to grab a phone.
“Hello?” Even her voice is tremulous. “Hello?”
She holds the receiver from her ear so we can listen in. She wears hearing aids, very discreet and—I’m sure—the best money can buy. She doesn’t strain to hear with the receiver a few inches away.
“Is this Émilie?” a male voice says.
“Y-yes, yes it is. Please tell me you have my granddaughter.”
Petra calls out, “It’s me, Nan. Don’t worry. I have this under control. Whatever he says…”
Petra’s voice fades as he must be moving away. She doesn’t shout to be heard. She knows we got the message, and she also knows that if Émilie called this number, then we’ve realized that “Colin” isn’t a hapless pilot looking for his tourist clients.
Victor comes on again. “I’m guessing that detective did her detecting and figured out what happened, if you have this number.”
“Actually, no.” Émilie’s voice comes clearer, still with a quaver, but as if the savvy businesswoman is wresting control from the fretting grandmomma. “I know what’s going on. That’s why I’m in Rockton. To make sure Casey doesn’t dig deeper than she already has, which is quite deep enough, as I’m sure you know. She thinks my granddaughter has taken you hostage. I knew better, and I obtained this number, which I am using to negotiate my granddaughter’s release.”
A humorless chuckle. “All right, then. Let’s negotiate. I want one thing and only one thing. Get me out of this hellhole.”
“You don’t have a plane? Casey thought she saw keys.”
“Yeah, well, she didn’t just see them. She stole them. Doesn’t matter. That bird is a useless hunk of metal right now. Those people got hold of it. Fucking vultures. Picked the corpse clean. What I need is your plane, which your grandgirl here says you have, and she’d better not be lying because that’s the only reason I made this call. What’ve you got?”
Émilie tells him. He’s still suspicious, particularly about the possibility Émilie flew it in herself. So he quizzes her, and meets each answer with a sniff that reminds me of when guys quizzed me on guns. Instead of nodding at my answers with grudging acceptance, they’d give this sniff, as they watched their chance to mock me plummet. Victor might be really hoping Émilie has a plane, but he can’t help being annoyed, too, that she isn’t fitting into his prebuilt little-old-lady box.
Finally he says, “Fine. You know how to fly and you own a plane. Doesn’t mean you brought it here.”
“Would you like me to fly a loop over the forest for you?”
“Can’t fly loops in that.”
“Then might I suggest you’ve never flown one?”
She doesn’t say a Cessna TTx is out of his price range. She doesn’t need to. He mutters in Danish as she tugs control into her corner of the mat. He’d fooled us with his unaccented and idiomatic English, but that’s our fault—failing to remember that not everyone who speaks perfect English is a native English speaker.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll take the plane.”
“Borrow it, you mean.”
“Hell, no. I need to get out of this mess, and that baby is worth a pretty penny. That’s the price of your grandgirl, Miz Émilie.”
“All right.”
Hesitation, as if he realizes he should have asked for more.
Émilie continues. “I’ll tell the sheriff that I’m flying to search for my granddaughter. If they insist I take a copilot, I’ll bring the council representative. He isn’t aware of the situation, but his silence would come cheap. He’s been exiled here, and he’s rather desperate to leave.”
Victor grunts. “I know how he feels. I was brought in on this damn job by a buddy who swore the company knew the value of good employees. I have a feeling his opinion changed, but I can’t ask him, since he’s lying in pieces somewhere in this fucking forest.”
“I would point out that I am not your employer,” she says. “I have not been affiliated with your employer in thirty years. But that is hardly your point or your concern. You feel that you’ve been betrayed and you want out, and I am going to provide that. Tell me where you left your plane, and I will join you there in one hour.”
* * *
The plane isn’t within easy walking distance. The Danes must have been given an area to search for hostiles, and they’ve landed on the other side of it, as far as possible from Rockton. So we’re taking the ATV while Émilie flies.
Phil is not going with Émilie. Dalton is. He’s playing Phil. Yep, when I first suggested that, I got a split-second “Huh?” look from Dalton, as if I’d forgotten that he’d been there when we found Victor … who isn’t actually blind.
“You’ll be wearing shades and hearing protectors,” I say. “You should fit into Phil’s business clothes.”
A tiny whimper from Phil, who clears his throat to cover it.
“We’ll get them dry-cleaned after,” I say. “Or, more likely, replaced. If Eric has to wrestle Victor down, he might break a seam or two.”
“If that is a disparaging comment about my physique, I am in perfectly fine shape,” Phil says. “Eric is hardly Will. He won’t burst from my shirts like the Incredible Hulk.”
“Damn,” I say. “’Cause that’d be hot.”
A low rumble of chuckles as everyone relaxes a little.
I continue. “We’ll borrow your glasses, too, Phil, in case he needs to remove his shades.”
He hands them over. Dalton puts them on, and I say, “You owe me twenty bucks. Right?”
“Yeah,” Dalton mutters.
Émilie’s brows rise.
“We had a bet,” I say. “I said they were plain glass.”
Phil opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off with, “Let’s finish playing dress-up and get going.”
* * *
We take Anders. That’s a risk—it leaves the town exposed. But with Petra gone and Kenny less than fully ambulatory, there’s no one else I can trust to cover my back. Kenny will be in charge of Rockton, with others stepping forward to assist, and they all know that the priority today is surveillance. Watch our borders. Any trouble—from hostiles to unexpected planes—fire off a flare, and we’ll abandon our mission to get back.
Another person joins us. Maryanne. She knows the shaman, and while I argue that the hostiles have nothing to do with Petra’s kidnapping, they are out there, and they’re pissed off, and they may have Edwin and Felicity. We haven’t forgotten their plight. We just need to deal with Petra’s first. We’ll take
the ATV, while Storm runs beside us.
We’re almost at the stopping point before we hear Émilie’s plane. That’s still cutting it close. I make the executive decision to use the noise of the plane to drive a little farther. Soon, though, we’re off the vehicle and jogging on foot. There are no paths, and I’m in the lead, finding game trails, before Maryanne softly asks if she can take over. Of course she should—she is the expert out here.
As we run, the plane circles twice, as if second-guessing its landing spot. That’d be at Dalton’s command, making sure we see where to go. We do, and it helps that we’re downwind, because Storm catches Petra’s scent and gives a little whine of excitement. I tell her to stay on that scent, quietly, and she moves into the lead, deftly finding a path that her big body can pass through.
It’s Anders who sees Victor’s plane first, when a beam of sunlight strikes the metal. As Émilie’s plane lands, my heart thumps. I’d wanted to be in position before they touched down. I get Anders to cover me, and I tell Storm to wait with them. Then I slip through the forest, my gun out as I stay in the shadows.
I spot Victor. I don’t see Petra, but I trust she’s nearby and safe. I position myself to come out behind Victor as he keeps his gaze—and a gun—trained on Émilie’s plane, idling in place, doors shut.
The second plane sits ten meters away. Even from here I can see the damage, and I remember Victor saying he couldn’t leave because the “vultures” had picked it clean. Hostiles taking what they could? Or intentionally disabling it?
I glance back and wave for Anders to join me. Maryanne and Storm will stay where they are.
I don’t wait for Anders to catch up. While those propellers are turning, the whoosh of them drowns out all sound, and I need to get into the best possible position to defend Dalton. Yes, Émilie and Petra are there, too, but my attention is on Dalton. I know Victor’s is, too—faced with an eightysomething woman and a thirtysomething guy, he’ll focus on the male part of the equation.
Victor has made a mistake, though. He’s on the wrong side of the clearing, opposite the pilot’s door instead of the passenger’s. He takes a step toward the front of the plane, realizing his tactical error, but there’s no time to correct it now.
“Get out of the plane,” he shouts.
The pilot’s door opens, and Émilie waves a gloved hand. “Show a little patience, young man. It takes me awhile to get anywhere these days.”
She takes her time sliding from the seat, and when she’s on the ground, he shouts, “Are you turning off the damned plane?”
She throws up her hands. “You told me to get out.” She turns. “Phil? Please shut off the engine.”
“You get out, too,” Victor shouts over the engine noise.
“Before or after I turn the engine off?” Dalton calls back, and his usual drawl is clipped with Phil-like annoyance.
“Turn the fucking plane off, get out, and come around where I can see you. Hands raised. If you have a gun, I’d suggest you leave it behind because if I see it, I’m shooting.”
Hesitation, and then Dalton lifts a gun and puts it aside. Even through the windows, I can tell it isn’t his revolver—the barrel is too short.
See, I’m disarming. You’re in control here.
“Where’s my granddaughter?” Émilie says.
Victor waves toward the other plane, his gaze never leaving Dalton as he walks around to the front.
Émilie starts to hurry over and then catches herself, moving slower as she makes her way to the plane. Dalton stays in the shade with his hands raised. He is indeed dressed as Phil, in new jeans and a button-down shirt. He’s taken off the shades and put on Phil’s glasses instead. He’s also shaved, and it gives his face a babyish look that, with the outfit, is a far cry from the wilderness sheriff Victor saw earlier.
Victor grunts, satisfied that this is the right guy. That means he’s nervous—too nervous to insist Dalton come closer and too nervous to question. Dalton looks like a pencil pusher, so that must be what he is.
Gun still trained on Dalton, Victor looks over at Émilie as she yanks on the other plane’s passenger door.
“Not there,” Victor shouts. “The cargo hold.”
She goes to the next door and pulls, grunting with the strain.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. It’s open. Just pull.”
Another grunting tug. Victor curses some more and stalks over. The moment he walks away, Dalton slides out his revolver. He points it at Victor, who doesn’t even glance back, distracted and intent on his mission. Émilie steps aside, and Victor yanks open the cargo door.
“She’s right— What the hell?”
He leans into the cargo hold. “Where the fuck—?”
“Behind you,” says a voice.
Victor backs out and slowly turns toward the tail of the plane, where Petra holds a little Beretta Pico on him. Then she sees Dalton over Victor’s shoulder.
“Shit,” she says. “Way to ruin my moment, Eric.”
Victor looks over and spots Dalton, revolver trained on him. Victor’s gun arm swings up on Émilie, but she’s already five feet away, and Petra yanks her back.
“Casey?” Petra calls. “I’m guessing there’s a third gun on this bastard?”
“Third and fourth,” Anders calls back as I walk from the forest.
Petra shoves her tiny pistol into her pocket and makes sure Émilie is safely behind the plane before she goes after Victor. He still tries to raise his gun, but she’s on him, and the gun’s wrested free.
“Your turn to put your hands up,” Dalton says as he tugs out a wrist tie.
Victor peers at the handcuffs and then up into Dalton’s face. “Fuck.”
“Yep,” Dalton says. “You’ve seen me before, and you don’t even have the excuse of blindness. You were just in too big a hurry to get your plane. Now turn around and—”
Victor staggers back, and everyone jumps, three guns training on him. Dalton barks at Victor to stop. Then we see the blood blossoming on Victor’s shoulder. He thumps against the plane, metal clanging.
Blood on his shoulder, not from a bullet, but from the arrow embedded there.
THIRTY-FIVE
“Will! Get down!” Dalton shouts as he pushes me toward the open plane hatch.
I give him a shove toward the front of the plane. Dalton nods and runs around front, leaving Petra and me at the back. Victor stumbles after us until the thwack of a second arrow has him slamming into the door. I glance over to see him sliding to the ground.
I get around Victor’s plane and find another cargo door. It opens before we can reach for the handle. Émilie’s holding it for us, and we scramble inside. Dalton’s there a second later, and I pull him in.
The first thing Dalton does is look into the cockpit, as if hoping he could fly us out despite the external damage. The panels have all been smashed, though, wiring pulled out. Definitely intentional. We aren’t going anywhere.
Outside, Victor whimpers. I glance through the dirty window, but I don’t see him. He’s on the ground, shot twice, possibly dying. I don’t care. Can’t care. Anyone who helps him will risk the same.
“Will,” I whisper to Dalton. “Will and Storm and Maryanne are out there.”
His nod is curt. He is very aware of who we’ve left in the forest. I think about Felicity and Edwin, but push them from my mind. Later. They must wait for later.
Seconds pass, and then comes the thunder of running paws. Storm bursts from the forest. I lean out the far hatch, and she runs straight to me, clambering in.
“Tight quarters,” Émilie says with an even tighter smile, as we rearrange ourselves in the cargo hold.
“Fish in a barrel,” Petra mutters.
I shake my head. “We’re fine. I’d like that other hatch closed, but as long as someone’s guarding—”
“Got it,” she says, turning her gun that way.
“You okay?” I murmur as I lean toward her.
“My ego is on life support, but I
’m fine. Asshole.” She scowls toward the hatch, and then shakes her head and inches that way.
Dalton glances at the other plane, as if wondering whether we could get to it and escape. It’s too far and too dangerous for all of us to make that run, even if we would all fit, which I doubt.
I lean out the back as Dalton covers me. I listen for Victor but hear nothing. Then I listen for Anders. Still nothing. Is he lying low with Maryanne? I hope so. I pat Storm, reassuring her, and she nuzzles my hand.
“I’m coming out!” a voice shouts. “And I have a hostage. Fire at me, and I fire at him.”
It’s Anders. My heart thuds, and Dalton tenses, rocking toward the front hatch. Anders is coming that way, and there’s nothing either of us can do to stop him. Leaping from the plane would only give our attackers a second target without protecting the first.
“You folks can see me?” Anders says. “Just stay cool, and he’ll be fine.”
Anders appears through my angled vision out the hatch, and when I see him, my heart does a double thud. His hostage is the young hostile. The boy isn’t small, but beside Anders, he looks like a child, his face blank with terror as Anders hustles him along, positioning the boy between him and the forest. Between him and whoever is out there with bows and arrows.
Whoever? No, we know who it is now. The shaman and her troop of hostiles.
A soft noise behind us has me spinning, gun up, cursing myself for not monitoring that open back door. But Émilie is—she has Victor’s gun, which Petra must have given her, and she already has it trained on the newcomer. Or she did, until she saw it’s Maryanne. That’s part of Anders’s ploy. Create a distraction so Maryanne can get to us.
I let Émilie help Maryanne in while I cover Anders. When Dalton eases forward, I resist snatching him back. Yes, he’s moving into a more exposed position, but Anders needs that. From our vantage point, Petra and I can only survey the left side of the forest.
A Stranger in Town Page 30
