Dead Money

by Smith, Dean Wesley

  Copyright Information

  Dead Money

  Copyright © 2015 by Dean Wesley Smith

  Published 2015 by WMG Publishing

  www.wmgpublishing.com

  Cover and layout copyright © 2015 by WMG Publishing

  Cover design by Allyson Longueira/WMG Publishing

  Cover art copyright © Superherotm/Dreamstime, Adam Vilimek/Dreamstime

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Contents

  Start Reading

  Kill Game Excerpt

  About the Author

  More Books by Dean Wesley Smith

  Copyright Information

  Full Table of Contents

  For Kris

  Who never should have been forced to go through this book with me.

  Thank you.

  Dead Money:

  A poker term referring to a player who has paid an entry fee into a tournament in which he has no real chance of winning.

  SECTION ONE

  THE GAME BEGINS

  Poker is not a game of cards. It is a game of people.

  PROLOGUE

  Central Idaho Mountains. August 17, 2009

  SILENCE.

  Silence, the absolute worst thing a pilot can experience at seven thousand feet in a single-engine Piper 6XT. A moment before, the engine had filled the cockpit with a solid rumbling, a vibration-filled sound that Carson Hill knew from hundreds of hours of flight time.

  The engine-monitoring system panel hadn’t given him a warning. The plane had shaken with what had felt like a small explosion. Then everything on the control board had just snapped down to zero. Black smoke had poured out of the engine compartment, covering the front windows with a thin, black film.

  Now the smoke was gone and through the film he could see the tree-covered ridgeline directly ahead.

  The slight creaking of metal, the faint sound of the wind rushing past the six-seater’s windows. Nothing else broke the deadly quiet.

  He forced down the panic threatening to overwhelm him.

  “Goddammit! What the hell happened?” His voice seemed extra loud.

  He took a deep breath. Losing control now would just make sure he died.

  In his hands, the plane’s controls felt heavy, unresponsive. His dead-stick training was from a book and a few sentences from his original flight instructor over three decades ago. He had never actually flown a plane without a working engine.

  Around him, the dark blue September sky contrasted with the green forests and brown rocks of the Idaho wilderness below. Normally, he loved this easy flight. He’d done it every year at the same time for longer than he wanted to admit. Now everything below him looked like a nightmare in the making, ready to reach out and tear him apart.

  The ridgeline loomed ahead, a wall of death. He wasn’t clearing that ridge.

  He forced himself to take a deep breath. Then, with shaking hands, he fought to get the plane into a very slow turn.

  Nothing wanted to move.

  The trees ahead filled everything in his sight.

  He kept fighting the controls, forcing the plane to turn by almost sheer will. It took every bit of his strength, as if the plane had a mind of its own and actually wanted to crash into the trees and rocks.

  Everything seemed to slow down.

  Finally, the trees were no longer growing threats filling his vision, but instead were flashing past the wing’s tip.

  He bet he didn’t miss the tops of the pines by more than a few feet.

  Somehow, between deep, sobbing breaths of oil-tainted air, he got the plane leveled and back over the deep valley, headed downstream. Sweat ran down his face and into his eyes as he tried the restart sequence.

  Nothing.

  With almost no control, no engine, no place to land but into trees and rocks, he was as good as dead.

  He pushed that thought away and grabbed the radio mike. “Mayday! Mayday!”

  Silence.

  No response from either the McCall or Cascade, Idaho airports.

  He clicked on the global positioning emergency beacon. At least Search and Rescue would find him quickly.

  Ahead, the narrow valley floor closed down tighter and tighter. He couldn’t be more than a thousand feet above the stream and dropping faster than he wanted to think about. It was taking every bit of his strength to keep the plane flying and not stalling.

  He wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve and tried to get a good look at what lay ahead through the oil-smeared window. Sharp rocks and thick forests covered everything. At this speed, and without any real control, the plane would be torn apart on impact.

  “Need an opening,” he said. “Just give me an opening.” His voice sounded loud and strained in the silence of the cockpit.

  The valley narrowed ahead into a rock canyon, but over the edges of the rocks he could see a meadow beyond. If he could make the meadow, he might have a chance.

  He tried to focus on the open area where the sun was shining, pushing the plane past the dark shadows of the rock canyon and into the light.

  But he was dropping far too fast.

  He tried feathering the controls to keep the plane up, but nothing seemed to work. Instead of something responsive in his hand, it felt like he was pushing against a stuck handle and pedals.

  The rock walls now loomed ahead, a tiny opening leading to the sunshine beyond.

  It was going to take a lot of luck to fit the plane through that narrow canyon opening. And after thirty-three years of playing professional poker, he didn’t much believe in luck.

  Then, quicker than he realized possible, he was in the canyon, the rocks flashing past. Ahead, the meadow seemed to call to him, the bright sunshine a beacon.

  A tip of one wing caught the rock cliff face.

  Before Carson had time to react or even cover his head and face, the small plane slammed into the rock wall.

  ***

  Steven leaned against a tall pine in the shade, trying to stay cool, watching impassively as Carson Hill’s plane struggled to stay in the air.

  From Steven’s position on the top of the major ridgeline dividing the Cascade Valley from the central Idaho primitive area, he could see clear to the Middle Fork of the Salmon over thirty miles away. He had picked the spot just for that reason.

  The day had turned beautiful, almost hot. He had waited patiently for six hours, slowly drinking bottles of water, until the signal had come in from the device he had planted in Carson’s plane that told him Carson had started up his engine at the Scott airstrip deep inside the primitive area.

  Steven felt no emotion as Carson Hill’s six-seater Piper Cub barely escaped crashing into the hill below him. He simply watched as the plane drifted silently down the valley. Carson was full of all kinds of surprises. He shouldn’t have been able to make that turn, not with his engine gone and his controls damaged in the small explosion Steven had set off in the plane’s engine compartment.

  The hillside below Steven had been the intended crash sight. More than likely the crash would still kill Carson, but it wasn’t going to be close enough for Steven to retrieve Carson’s key.

  Steven shrugged. That was only a slight glitch in his plans. Too bad. He had wanted to take the key from Carson’s dead, mangled body. There would have been a nice justice to that. But there would be other keys to give him that pleasure. There had been ten players in that poker game. Nine keys.

  Steven dropped the small remote detonation device he had used to set off the exp
losion in Carson’s plane into a three-foot-deep hole he had dug while waiting, then quickly filled the hole back up, covering it with pine needles. No point in carrying the device back down the mountain with him. No one would find it here, and even if they did, it couldn’t be traced to him. He had left no detail to chance.

  He trusted no one.

  He had learned that lesson well.

  Carson’s key would survive the crash, and even with Carson dead, someone would have the key very shortly, then take Carson’s position in the game.

  If Steven had to kill that person, as well, so be it.

  CHAPTER ONE

  River of No Return canyon, Central Idaho. August 18

  I COULD HEAR the shouts of excitement from the raft behind us over the roar of the churning white water.

  I had just come through the Elkhorn Rapids like water down a new drain, giving my three passengers a thrill without ever nearing trouble. Elkhorn was one of the toughest runs on the entire Main Salmon River during low water, and I loved the challenge of it, especially early in the morning.

  We had broken camp right above the rapids and the sun had just colored the tops of the mountains on both sides of the river with reds and oranges, promising another wonderful, warm day on the River of No Return. The air was still crisp with that morning bite of freshness. My life jacket didn’t provide much warmth, but I didn’t care. I loved these cool mountain mornings. They did wonders to clear out all the nights I spent at poker tables in the nasty, smoke-filled air of casinos.

  “Doc!” Hank shouted, pointing behind me. “Look!”

  I spun around in time to see the next raft in line behind me hit a rock, get shoved sideways into a standing wave, and flip over like a pancake, dumping Terry, the guide, and his three passengers into water so cold it shriveled parts men didn’t want shriveled.

  All four of the red life jackets disappeared into the churning white water.

  “Oh, shit! Hold on!” I shouted to my passengers. I got set, my feet planted, then pulled hard and fast on my two oars, shoving my raft back toward the base of the rapids, fighting the strong current. I had to get into position below the white water.

  “Grab the extra life jackets,” I shouted to Hank and my other two passengers without looking. “Rope them!”

  Every passenger had been given training the first day on what to do when another raft turned over. I had no doubt that Hank, a short, stocky accountant from Seattle, would do just fine, but I wasn’t sure about Ben and Julie, newlyweds from San Francisco. But it didn’t matter at the moment, since I didn’t have time to supervise them. Right now my focus was on the appearing and disappearing heads in the white water.

  One man came up, tried to shout, got a mouthful of water, and was yanked under again through the next standing wave.

  “That doesn’t look good.”

  Carl and Kenyon, in the remaining two rafts above the rapids, were pulling hard toward the right bank, just as I would do in their situation. The last thing anyone needed was two rafts over at the same time in the same rapid. Especially Elkhorn.

  Of the four rafts in our party, I was the only one in the calm water below the run. It was my responsibility to get to the four people when the churning white water spit them out like a half-used cough drop.

  Between two standing waves, Terry levered himself up and onto the base of the overturned raft, holding on like a cowboy riding bareback on a bucking horse. Then, with one hand, Terry reached out and yanked one of his passengers out of the water and onto the raft with him, a fraction of a second before the raft vanished under angry water.

  In thirteen years on the river, I had turned over five rafts. I knew exactly what Terry was going through, and it wasn’t fun. Especially this early in the morning.

  “Two out, two to go,” I shouted, glancing at my three passengers. Hank, bless his heart, had grabbed an emergency oar and was working hard to help me shove the raft against the current and closer to the rapids. Ben and Julie both had life jackets attached to ropes and seemed ready to throw. I knew this would be the story of their lives.

  If no one died. Otherwise, it was going to ruin a perfectly good honeymoon.

  A woman in a red life jacket appeared out of the lowest wave not more than fifty feet away, coming fast on the current. She was floating on her back and looked a little shocked at the sudden violence she had just been put through. I didn’t blame her a bit. Riding a class III rapid without a boat can beat you up something awful.

  I pulled on the oars as hard as I could, moving toward her. “Throw it over her head!” I shouted to Ben when I got a little closer.

  The life jacket hit the water two feet beyond the woman and the rope smacked her in the face.

  Perfect shot. First try. Maybe there was hope for young Ben after all.

  “Julie, has he been practicing that at night?” I asked, giving Ben a smile and wink as I kept rowing.

  Ben just smiled and Julie, bless her, laughed.

  The woman in the water grabbed onto the rope and all three of my passengers pulled her with enough force to get her skimming on the water.

  The man who had taken the mouthful appeared a dozen feet behind her, face down. I shook my head. The dumb idiot couldn’t even figure out a way to get on his back and ride out the rapids on his life jacket.

  There was no way I was going to get the raft over to him before he went past on the current.

  “Take these!” I shouted to Hank over the roar of the rapids. I shoved the handles of my oars forward just as Ben and Julie hauled the woman from the water.

  “Pull for the right bank as fast as you can!”

  “Got it!” Hank shouted to me.

  With that, I did a shallow dive into the cold water.

  Even after thirteen summers of working part-time on the river, I was still not used to the breathtaking cold of the water, and that first contact with what had been snow not many days before. I doubted I was ever going to get used to it, to be honest. The sensation could suck the breath right out of you. And on top of that, the sun wasn’t even up yet.

  I aimed at a point I knew the current would take the man in just a few seconds, then put my head down and swam as hard and as fast as I could. Considering I was in top shape for my thirty-one years and was certified as a top scuba instructor, that was pretty darned fast, if I do say so myself, even with the drag from my life jacket trying to slow me down.

  I timed it right and got to the floating body before it went past. I grabbed the guy first by the right arm, then by the shoulder. With a little leverage, I flipped him over so that his face was out of the water.

  His name was Bob. He was an overweight, ex-football player who sold insurance and had hit on every woman in the entire party, even when his wife was watching. I considered for a half second doing the world a favor and letting him slip from my grasp. But only a half second. He wasn’t worth the nightmares I’d have.

  Just above me, Terry and the other passenger broke out of the white water on the overturned raft. They both looked shaken, but fine for the ride.

  “Now let’s try some breathing,” I said to the limp body of Bob in my arms as we floated into the calmer water. He didn’t seem to have any injuries, so more than likely he had just swallowed a bunch of the river.

  I put him in a Heimlich-like hug and then squeezed, doing my best to not break any ribs, while at the same time giving him enough force to shove the water from his lungs.

  Once.

  Nothing.

  Twice.

  Still nothing.

  “Don’t be playing with me now, Bob. I’m not giving you mouth-to-mouth.”

  On the third shove, it finally worked.

  Bob coughed, blinked, looked at me, then coughed some more, water pouring from his lips like a drunk trying to talk and drink at the same time.

  “You’re welcome,” I said, letting Bob float on his back so his life jacket would hold him up and keep his head out of the water. “Now relax. You and I just got our ev
ening dips into the river a little early today. Actually, way early.”

  I gave Bob credit for managing to nod and smile a sickly looking smile. I turned around to see how far my raft had made it toward shore. To be damned honest, I wasn’t looking forward to towing dear old Bob to the riverbank like so much whale blubber.

  Hank was pulling hard on my oars, doing a fairly good job, actually. Julie and Ben had the emergency oars out and were managing not to hit each other with them as they tried to help Hank. They were coming for me and my tow, not heading to the shore as I had ordered them to do.

  I smiled at them. Thank heavens they hadn’t listened to me. But I was going to have to talk to them tonight around the fire about following orders next time.

  The woman they had pulled out of the water had a life jacket on a rope ready to throw, but she was shivering so hard, I doubted she was going to be a very good shot.

  “Doc! You all right?” Terry shouted as his overturned raft drifted past about twenty feet away.

  I gave Terry a thumb’s up. “I got hot, decided to go for a swim.”

  Terry laughed. “Glad I could give you an excuse.”

  Everyone helping everyone, trusting each other, working together. True frontier spirit.

  I had to admit, it felt damned good.

  Of course, right at that moment, I didn’t know everything about my life was about to change.

  CHAPTER TWO

  River of No Return canyon, Central Idaho. August 18

  I LEANED AGAINST the gear stored in the back of the four-man raft, my feet stretched out down the middle, my hands holding my two oars, letting one act as a sort of rudder working against the current to keep the raft drifting toward the bank.

  Ben, Julie, and Hank sat talking, the excitement, the shouting, the adrenaline rush of Growler rapids a quarter mile behind them. The craziness of the start through the Elkhorn run was now just a distant memory of a long-ago morning. I loved how the river did that, changing one moment of thrills and replacing it thirty minutes later with another, and then another.