by Diane Capri
The uncertainty was what bothered him.
He’d been able to find Otto 24/7 since the first day they’d teamed up back in November. She’d become a part of his family. She could take care of herself, but he felt responsible for her anyway.
He knew she felt the same.
She had never deliberately tried to avoid him before. Was she doing that now?
Possibly.
If it served her purposes, she would have deep-sixed her phones and failed to reconnect.
Perhaps he was unnecessarily tense about the situation.
Still, this felt different.
Gaspar flipped through the sequence of events again, searching for something he knew wasn’t there because he’d done the exercise several times already.
It was as if Otto had fallen into some black hole when she’d stepped into that limo and never emerged. Which wasn’t necessarily an indicator of the truth on the ground either way.
He’d poured yet another cup of Cuban coffee. The milk and sugar and caffeine had kept him on track, but he was no closer to finding Otto.
Gaspar’s cell phone rang. “About time,” he mumbled as he punched a button and spoke into his headset. “What’s up, Burke? You still with the Audi?”
“Stayed with it until your guys picked it up. Figured you could follow it from there,” Burke replied.
“Did you tell Cooper?”
“You asked me not to,” Burke said, which wasn’t exactly an answer.
Nothing Gaspar could do about it if Burke had blabbed to The Boss, so he moved on. “We may have results later today or tomorrow.”
Reacher’s DNA wasn’t on file anywhere. Now that Gaspar’s contacts had impounded the Audi to collect samples, they might have solid DNA evidence. It was only one-half of a matching equation. They’d need a known sample from Reacher, too.
But it was something concrete Otto could use in a case without solid evidence. Which was more than she’d had before.
Burke asked, “After they ditched the Audi, Petey Burns probably stole another vehicle. His preference is German luxury cars, according to his rap sheet. Any BMWs or Mercedes reported stolen near where we found the Audi?”
“Nothing’s turned up on the various databases so far,” Gaspar replied. “But across the street from that shopping mall is a luxury apartment complex. Ten minutes before Reacher and Burns abandoned the Audi, he circled that lot. None of the video cams supply a good viewing angle for all of the parking areas, so it’s hard to say what he found.”
“Drove through slow like he was looking for a replacement vehicle, you mean?” Burke asked. “I’ll go over there. See if I can chat up the manager. Maybe one of the residents left his car home while he went on vacation or something like that. He wouldn’t know to report it stolen until he got back.”
“Keep in touch,” Gaspar replied and hung up. Then pulled up the video recordings of the black SUV and zipped through them at four times recording speed, just in case he’d missed something before.
The girl in Jade Chen’s apartment, Mika, had overheard a conversation about Las Vegas. The stretch SUV had traveled west on the Interstate out of Denver. Could have been headed for Las Vegas.
The lead was tenuous, but it was the only lead he had. Following up gave him something to do instead of waiting for trouble to strike.
Drive time from Denver to Vegas was ten hours and forty-three minutes, according to his map program. The SUV had been on the road about eight hours since it rolled away from Denver Tower.
The video feeds Gaspar could access were more helpful when the SUV had been closer to Denver. As civilization thinned, traffic cameras did, too. He transitioned to downloading satellite feeds, which was a slower and more complicated process. Mostly because of government controls on the satellite feeds that he had to circumvent to hack into them.
He took a break from the screens and stretched his weary muscles. His leg was aching more than usual. He popped a couple of Tylenols and washed them down with the cold coffee. He didn’t allow himself to take anything stronger.
Everything about this situation was too slow for his liking. Otto could be in total control of the operation. Which would be okay. Or she’d been abducted, which was definitely not okay.
Either way, Otto had gone dark inside that limo for too many hours. Was she alive and in control? Or not?
From personal experience, Gaspar knew human life could be terminated in the blink of an eye. Torture lasted much longer. Disposing of the body of an FBI agent was way more complicated.
All he knew was that every minute she remained out of touch was a minute too long. There was nothing he could do about it from Miami. Burke was closer to the limo now but not close enough.
“What’s this?” he said as he rolled up on four hours into the video.
Near Grand Junction, Colorado, the limo had exited the Interstate.
“Probably getting gas. Maybe food,” Gaspar murmured under his breath as he searched for the next traffic cam to pick up the limo on reentry.
The next time any available video feed showed the SUV was Fruita, Colorado, a town Gaspar had never heard of. From there, the limo continued west along Interstate 70 toward Utah.
He followed the SUV until it turned south on Interstate 15, headed toward Las Vegas.
Mika’s guess was looking more likely.
His phone rang again. “Yeah, Burke, what do you have?”
“Good call on the apartment complex. I had to juice him up with two hundred bucks, but the manager says one of the residents has been working out of state for a couple of months. Drives a Mercedes SUV.” Burke said. “The SUV is missing from its parking place. Got the plate number, too. Ready?”
“Yeah,” Gaspar replied, jotting down the plate number. He ran it through the Colorado DMV. “Late model Mercedes GLC. A damned hybrid.”
“Surprising. I figured Burns for a purist.”
“With all the bells and whistles. Cardinal Red Metallic.”
“Pricey,” Burke said. “But the good news is you should be able to find it easily enough, right?”
“Depends. Burns disabled the trackable tech in the Audi and the Jetta and BMWs he’d stolen before,” Gaspar replied. “The good news is that the Mercedes will stick out if you see it on the road. Can’t be many of those floating around out there.”
Gaspar was already searching the earlier video recordings near the apartment complex. He heard Burke start the engine on the rented Lincoln he was still driving.
“No point in stealing another car just to take a joy ride with Petey Burns,” Burke said, as the Lincoln’s big engine accelerated. “I’m gonna guess that Reacher went after Eleanor Duncan. He came to Denver for her because he thought she was in trouble. Her situation got worse with the fire. Now she’s been kidnapped. He’ll be on that like white on rice.”
“We still need to find your partner. Where are you going?” Gaspar asked, peering at the traffic on the screen, looking for a pricey red German SUV.
Burke said, “I’m entering onto I-70 west. Get a head start now that I know what I’m looking for. I’ve got fifty bucks that says Reacher is following the black limo. He’ll be making better time, too. That big black tank isn’t as fast or nimble as the Mercedes. When you find them, I’ll be within range.”
Gaspar was preoccupied working the keyboard when Burke’s words sunk in. “Within range for what?”
CHAPTER 33
Wednesday, May 18
Las Vegas, Nevada
3:00 p.m.
Rossi had returned to his office. Two beer caps rested on the tray. He’d reviewed his various business matters and chosen a good book to read tonight after dinner. It was an old favorite. Too Many Women. Under the circumstances, the title amused Rossi as much as the familiar story, which he had read many times before.
Dolly knocked on his office door and opened it before he had a chance to object. She walked in and closed the door behind her, despite the nasty scowl he directed her way.
>
“Mr. Rossi, Alan Chen is here. He’s demanding to see you,” Dolly said in her real voice, which was octaves lower than her fake Dolly Parton. Her lip quivered. “I told him absolutely not, but he looks…well, he’s absolutely terrifying.”
“Call security, Dolly. And show him in,” Rossi nodded. He reached down and opened the second drawer on his desk where he kept a loaded Glock.
She nodded, blinking back tears, and opened the door. Chen walked in and she scurried out, closing the door behind her.
“Mr. Rossi,” Chen said respectfully enough. He did not apologize. He stood in front of Rossi’s desk, legs apart, weight balanced, hands folded in front.
Rossi pursed his lips and breathed noisily. Chen’s impertinence could not be tolerated. No one showed up in Rossi’s office uninvited. Never. He waited for Chen’s inadequate apology.
“The two bodies. The ones they found in Jarbidge canyon. Who were they?” Chen asked, his voice gravelly as if he was holding his emotions in check.
Not even the most abject apology would have been sufficient, but Chen should have offered one. And begged forgiveness. He did neither. Rossi’s anger mounted.
Killing Chen in his office would make a terrible mess. But he’d done it before. He had a cleaning crew on call, 24/7. Which meant he was fully prepared to take all necessary action at any time.
The Glock rested comfortably in Rossi’s grip as he replied, “Why do you ask?”
Chen said calmly, “I want to see my family. I will not perform for you again until you allow me to see them.”
Rossi cocked his head, his anger burning hotter. “Your family? You have no family.”
“I have two sisters and two brothers. And a niece. You transported us from Thailand. You can deliver them here to me,” Chen said as if he was in a position to demand compliance. Which he wasn’t, although he didn’t seem to realize the full import of his fragile position.
“You give me too much credit,” Rossi replied through gritted teeth. “I can do many things but raising bodies from the dead is beyond even my considerable skills.”
Chen resembled a crouching tiger, prepared to pounce and tear his prey apart with fast, vicious blows. His eyes widened and the muscles in his jaw flexed. He unclasped his hands and allowed his arms to fall to his sides, fists clenching.
Rossi relaxed further into his chair, left thumb tapping rhythmically on the buttery leather, and raised the pistol in his right hand. He held the weapon steadily and pointed the barrel toward Chen’s torso.
“I’ve seen you kill many times, Chen. You’re fast and you’re strong. But you’re not faster or stronger than the bullets from this gun,” Rossi said, his cadence relaxed and his words delivered with steady precision. “From this short distance, I won’t miss.”
Chen glared into Rossi’s fleshy face. “Those boys they found at Jarbidge…”
Rossi replied, barely moving. “They were your two brothers. You didn’t care who they were. You never even asked. Not before you killed them and certainly not afterward.”
Chen’s stare never wavered. He didn’t blink. His fists continued to clench and release, and his breathing was as tightly controlled as the rest of his body.
The door opened and two of Rossi’s security team entered.
“Let’s go, Chen,” one of the burly men said as he grabbed Chen’s arm.
Faster than even Rossi would have believed, Chen screamed as he lifted one leg and kicked the man solidly in the solar plexus with his full body weight and all the force of his impotent rage.
The man dropped Chen’s arm and bent double, forehead to knees, holding his belly. Chen kicked him viciously in the head and he toppled to the side, hitting his head on a corner of the metal side table before he hit the floor. He landed in a widening pool of blood that would stop as soon as his heartbeat ceased.
The second bouncer advanced, pulling a gun from his belt. Chen chopped the weapon from his hand, breaking the bouncer’s wrist in the process. The man howled with rage and pain as his hand fell limp. Bones broke through the skin and blood spurted everywhere.
He lowered his shoulder and rushed toward Chen, attempting to tackle him.
Chen stepped adroitly to the side and the big man stumbled past. Chen delivered a solid kick to his kidneys, knocking him to the ground, and kicked him again in the same spot, harder than before.
Then he stomped on the guy’s neck and the bouncer stopped moving.
With both bouncers neutralized, Chen turned again to Rossi.
“Impressive.” Rossi nodded, still holding the gun aimed toward Chen.
Then he fired two shots in rapid succession. One passed Chen’s right shoulder, skimming the air near his sleeve. The other passed Chen’s left shoulder half a moment later.
Chen didn’t flinch. Instead, he continued to glare at Rossi.
“I could easily have hit you both times. You’re still alive because I chose to miss,” Rossi said, still holding the Glock pointed at Chen. “You are scheduled to fight tonight. We have important guests attending. They, and I, expect you to win. When you stop winning, you will no longer be of any use to us.”
Chen stood as still as a redwood for another couple of seconds, glaring at Rossi with pure hatred.
“Would you like to stop winning right now?” Rossi inquired menacingly.
Without another word, Chen turned and walked out.
Rossi pressed the intercom. “Dolly, call security. Send up eight men.”
“Yes, Mr. Rossi,” she said, terrified and teary.
Rossi opened another beer. He’d downed half of it by the time the burly security guards arrived. He waved toward the floor. Four guards heaved and grunted to remove their fallen co-workers.
Rossi posted two men outside his office door. The last two were some of his best. Huge specimens who could quickly quell a riot with brawn alone.
“Alan Chen is reluctant to fight tonight,” he said to the two guards as if discussing a misbehaving child. “Find Chen. Keep him in sight at all times. Deliver him on time.”
“Yes, Mr. Rossi,” one of the men replied. “What if he doesn’t want to show up?”
“Whatever it takes,” Rossi replied with a final nod. “And afterward, return him to his rooms and keep him there until I send for you.”
“Understood,” the other man said before they turned and left.
When Rossi was once again alone in his office, he reloaded the pistol and returned it to the drawer with the others he kept there. He opened another bottle of beer and swallowed half of it, licking his lips with appreciation.
“Such a shame,” he said aloud as he studied his roster, checking the lineup for the rest of the week and the rest of the quarter.
Personnel would be shifted to meet demand. Three big fights were planned. Heavy bettors arriving from Asia had certain depraved tastes that only Rossi’s stable could satisfy and for which they were willing to pay handsomely.
Chen had never failed to deliver the fatal blows to his opponents at the end of a death match, but tonight would be his last performance. Tomorrow, replacement killers would be installed.
This was the kind of problem Rossi managed with ease. He very quickly made the changes and drained the beer.
Chen was the best boxer Rossi had ever owned. But he wasn’t the only one who could kill opponents with a single blow and bring in the cash from gamblers with gleaming eyes which craved watching strong young men die.
Rossi always had a plan B. For everything.
And no one was indispensable. Not even Alan Chen.
CHAPTER 34
Wednesday, May 18
Fruita, Colorado
4:10 p.m.
After she’d extinguished the signal fire, Kim had persuaded the red-haired woman to give her a lift on the quadbike. They’d rejoined the woman’s friends and then rode too many long, dusty miles. Eventually, they passed a sign that proudly welcomed them to Fruita City.
The place was bigger than Duncan, Nebraska,
but it was still a small farming town located in the middle of a whole lotta nothing.
The miles of land between where she’d been dumped in the desert and where she climbed off the quadbike in Fruita could have been the end of her.
She’d been lucky to find a way out and to survive. Incredibly lucky.
Her new friends had been full of questions. They’d wanted to know how she came to be out there and what the hell she was doing hiking alone with no food or water and didn’t she know she could have died, and so on and so forth.
Kim deflected the questions and thanked them profusely when they finally dropped her off and waved goodbye as they returned to their campsite outside of town.
She stood in the parking lot of the diner and watched until they were out of sight.
The quadbikes’ lifesaving engines had been revving in her ears for hours, drowning out all other sounds. When they finally faded into the distance, she felt as if someone had pushed the mute button on the entire world.
Kim dusted herself off as well as she could and made her way to the Lapham Chuck Wagon, established May 1, 1884, according to the cracked stencils on the glass.
The date surely must have related to an earlier enterprise. Kim guessed the construction on this one had been completed sometime in the mid-1970s and it could certainly have used an upgrade.
She pulled the front door open and walked inside, standing for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust after the blinding sunlight.
The Lapham Chuck Wagon was organized like diners everywhere. A row of booths along one wall and a long counter with stools along the opposite side. The kitchen was in the back. The booths were covered in cracked red vinyl and the tables were flecked laminate, once white but now yellowed with age and use.
