Untouchable

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  She turned and started walking quickly toward the hall.

  “What the fuck?” Quinton said. “Sloan, come back here, you stupid bitch.”

  Victoria ignored him. She disappeared into the hall.

  “Victoria, what are you talking about?” Devlin called after her. “What do you mean, it’s a setup?”

  “She’s talking about the helo,” Jack said. “You were right. It’s not military. Cutler, Sutter and Salinas is paying for it.”

  Lights flashed in the fading daylight outside the windows.

  “Shit,” Devlin said. “Landing lights. I hate the fucking personal jobs.”

  He broke into a run and took off after Victoria.

  “Come back here,” Quinton shouted. “Lancaster is bluffing.”

  Devlin ignored him.

  Quinton lunged for the gun on the mantel.

  Jack hurled the bottle of brandy into the fireplace. It smashed against the back wall and shattered. The fumes of the hundred-and-fifty-proof spirits exploded in a fireball. Sparks and flaming debris showered the area around the front of the wide hearth.

  Jack seized the heavy wooden tray and did a quick calculation to anticipate Quinton’s next few moves.

  Quinton screamed, a shrill mix of panic and fury. Frantically he scrambled backward, brushing burning bits from his hair and clothing.

  It all made for a surprisingly predictable trajectory. When you knew certain things about a man—that he was obsessed with fire and that he was convinced he could control it, for example—you had a lot of data to work with. And then there was the fact that Zane was having trouble grappling with the sudden departure of his security team. His faith in his own ability to manipulate others was his greatest weakness.

  Last but by no means least, Zane was right-handed.

  Put it all together and it was possible to come up with a fairly accurate prediction of how he would move when he panicked.

  “Fuck you, Lancaster,” he shrieked.

  He somehow managed to grab the gun, but he was off balance and blinded by his panic.

  Jack moved in on Quinton’s left side, not his dominant side, and slammed the solid wood tray against Quinton’s head.

  Zane reeled and shrieked again when he realized he was about to stumble into the roaring fire on the hearth. He dropped the gun and grabbed the mantel to keep from plunging into the blaze.

  The portion of the frayed carpet nearest the hearth was now in flames.

  Jack scooped up Quinton’s gun and looked around. He wasn’t much of a shot but if he got close enough . . .

  Zane had vanished through a dark doorway. There was no time to pursue him. Jack ran toward the front hall.

  “We have to get the Tazewells and get to the roof,” he said. “This place is going to go off like a bomb when the fire gets to the gasoline in the hall, and that’s not going to take long. This whole house is a firetrap.”

  “Follow me,” Winter said.

  She ran toward the hall stairs.

  The thunder of the helicopter was very loud now. Jack heard a woman’s muffled scream for help.

  “The helo is coming in on the roof,” he said. “Where are Tazewell and his wife?”

  “Second room on the next floor,” Winter said. She spoke from halfway up the stairs. “I’ve got Victoria’s key.”

  “Another hypnotic suggestion?”

  “Yep.”

  Jack took one last look at the grand living room. The sofa was now in flames. There was no sign of Zane, but the smoke was starting to thicken at the far end of the room. The only thing that was certain was that Zane had not followed everyone else into the front hall.

  Jack glanced at the six containers of fuel stacked beneath the staircase and then he took the stairs two at a time.

  “I assume that helicopter is for us?” Winter said over her shoulder.

  “There’s a helipad on the roof of this place. Rich-guy amenity.”

  Winter turned the corner at the top of the stairs and vanished. Jack caught up with her in the hallway.

  A figure appeared at the far end of the deeply shadowed corridor. He was moving quickly but methodically, checking rooms as he loped down the hall, a gun in one hand.

  “Cabot,” Jack said, “they’re in this room. Winter has the key.”

  Cabot reached them just as Winter got the door open.

  Rebecca Tazewell rushed toward them.

  “Winter,” she said. “We heard shots. Are you all right?”

  Easton looked at Jack and Cabot.

  “The roof?” he asked.

  “Yes, and fast,” Jack said. “Zane has a stash of gasoline downstairs in the front hall.”

  “I get the picture,” Easton said. He grabbed Rebecca’s wrist.

  “Stairs to the roof are at the end of the hall,” Cabot said. He glanced at Jack. “What’s the status downstairs?”

  “The security people ran, thanks to Winter. They’ll be heading for the boat dock. For them it’s the only way off the island. Don’t know about Zane. He may get caught in the fire when the house blows, but we can’t count on it.”

  “We’ll worry about him later,” Cabot said.

  The four of them pounded down the shadowed hallway and up a flight of stairs. The door at the top was ajar. Cold, damp air blew in through the opening. Easton pushed the door wide and hauled Rebecca out onto the roof. Winter, Cabot and Jack followed.

  The sturdy helo was waiting for them, dancing a little on the old landing pad. The thundering rotors sent heavy waves of air washing across the rooftop.

  Easton and Cabot got Rebecca and Winter into the helo. The men climbed in behind them.

  “This is Sam,” Cabot announced, raising his voice to be heard over the rumble and thrash of the blades. He indicated the pilot. “Friend of mine. He did a lot of flying in the desert. He’s good.”

  “Go,” Jack said, dropping into the seat next to Sam. “The place is going to blow.”

  “On our way,” Sam said. “Sit back and enjoy the flight.”

  The helicopter rose and moved forward.

  A moment later the mansion exploded in a fireball. The flames leaped and roared, a wild creature born of chaos and hellfire, grasping at escaping prey.

  “How did the fire start?” Easton asked. He had to shout to be heard above the noise of the helo.

  “A bottle of very expensive, very high-proof brandy,” Jack said. “Zane was drinking it when I got there. Figured he might be using it to celebrate his victory.”

  “Did you know he would have it on hand tonight?”

  “I noticed that a couple of bottles were missing from your dad’s collection at the Sonoma house,” Jack said. “Figured there was an eighty-two to eighty-five percent probability that Zane would want to drink that brandy in your father’s first house and that he would want to do it in front of me. He likes drama.”

  Easton looked at him. “My father is dead, isn’t he?”

  “I’m sorry,” Jack said. “Yes.”

  Easton looked back at the house in flames. “Rebecca and I knew from the start that it was never going to end well. I tried to tell Dad we couldn’t trust Zane but my father was obsessed with saving the company and he believed his long-lost son could do it.”

  “There was a fight in the Sonoma house,” Jack said. “Looked like your father finally realized that Zane was a con and tried to stop him.”

  Easton nodded. He didn’t say anything. Rebecca reached over and took his hand.

  “What happens now?” she asked. “Zane might have survived.”

  “There’s a plan B,” Cabot said. He flashed a brief grin at Jack. “With my brother there is always a plan B.”

  “Ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that Zane has one, too,” Jack said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

 
Zane stumbled through the thick woods. He wanted to howl his rage and frustration to the universe but he knew better than most that the universe did not give a damn about losers. And he had lost everything tonight.

  Everything but his life.

  He would recover. He was a survivor. He was the smartest man in the room; a phoenix capable of rising once again from the ashes.

  He had barely made it out through the old service door at the back of the house. In his blind panic he had not thought to grab a flashlight but he didn’t need one. The days were still long in the Pacific Northwest at this time of year. There was enough light left in the September sky to guide him.

  He was having trouble processing all the things that had gone wrong—there would be plenty of time for failure analysis later—but one thing was clear. Jack Lancaster had somehow managed to get one step ahead of him. Timing was everything.

  He had known from the start that Lancaster was going to be his biggest problem. But in the end the bastard had failed to kill him, just as Lancaster’s lying bitch of a mother had failed all those years ago. There would be another reckoning.

  Still, he’d never been so terrified in his life as he was when the fire he’d built on the hearth of his ancestral home—the house that should have been his birthright—had exploded out of control.

  Because of Lancaster.

  He had to concentrate on the path he had marked earlier. Every so often he stopped, gasping for breath, and turned to look back through the trees. He could no longer see the house, but the smoke and the hellfire of the flames told him that the mansion was fully engulfed. He wondered if the surrounding forest would catch fire. Not likely. There had been a lot of rain in the past month, and more was on the way.

  The distinctive whop-whop of the helo had faded into the distance. Presumably they had all made it to safety. So many witnesses. No way to get rid of all of them. He had no choice now but to leave the country. Again.

  He had made provisions for this eventuality but the truth was that he had never truly expected to have to implement another retreat.

  And all because of the sons of Anson Salinas.

  He knew the route that he was taking through the woods because escape from the old dock had always been part of the plan. From the beginning he had intended to be the only one who made it off the island. Lancaster had guessed right when he told Devlin and Victoria that they were not slated to leave the Azalea Island house alive. They did, indeed, know far too many of his secrets.

  He wondered if they had made it to safety in the cabin cruiser. If so, it meant there were two more witnesses. They didn’t know their way around the San Juans. When the authorities picked them up, they’d sell him out in a heartbeat.

  Really, you couldn’t trust anyone.

  A few minutes later he burst through the last of the trees and arrived at the little pocket beach. The old wooden dock extended several feet out into the water. He nearly collapsed in relief when he saw the sleek, fast cruiser still safely secured.

  He started toward the dock. In another sixty seconds he would be gone. He knew how to disappear. The authorities would find a capsized boat and conclude that he had gone overboard. Maybe he would make it look like a suicide this time. Change it up a bit.

  He stepped onto the dock . . .

  . . . and froze when a voice spoke from the trees behind him.

  “That’s far enough, Zane,” Anson Salinas said. “Been watching and waiting for you for over twenty-two years.”

  Quinton whipped around, stunned.

  Anson was not alone. As Quinton watched, shocked, Max Cutler emerged from the trees.

  “Jack said that if you made it out of the house alive you’d show up here,” Max said. “He was ninety-eight percent certain that you were planning to be the only survivor. He didn’t go with a hundred percent because there was a slight possibility that you might die when you set fire to your father’s house.”

  “We could tell from the aerial views of this island that this old dock was the only other place you could tie up a boat,” Anson said.

  “Jack was right,” Max said. “Guys like you are so damn predictable.”

  Quinton stared at the two men in disbelief. Anson and Max both held guns and, unlike Jack, they knew how to use them. They couldn’t miss, not at this distance. All they needed was an excuse to pull the triggers.

  He told himself to stay calm. He was smart. He would find a way out. Worst-case scenario, he could go for an insanity plea. Getting out of a hospital for the criminally insane would be a simple matter, given his talent for manipulating others.

  He raised his hands, secure in the certainty that Anson Salinas and Max Cutler would not shoot an unarmed man. They were way too old-school for that.

  A violent rustling of underbrush, the crunch of leaves and the snapping of twigs underfoot caused all of them to look toward the trees.

  “You lying, cheating bastard.” Victoria stormed out of the woods, gun in hand. “Did you really think you’d get away after what you did? You promised me a whole new life.”

  Quinton stared at her, hope leaping. He knew how to handle Victoria.

  “You’re safe,” he said. “I was afraid they had picked you up. Take care of these two and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Put the gun down,” Max said to Victoria.

  She ignored him and calmly, coolly pulled the trigger. Twice. Quinton was dimly aware of the crisp, professional shots punching into his chest. The impact slammed him onto his back on the dock.

  It took him a couple of seconds to realize what had happened. By that time a cold that was more intense than the waters of the sound was icing his body.

  Through the strange fog that was closing in he saw Max take charge of an unresisting Victoria.

  And then Anson Salinas was crouching beside him.

  “You’re bleeding out,” Anson said quietly. “Anything you want to say? Any message you want me to give to someone?”

  “There isn’t anyone.”

  “Okay,” Anson said.

  He put his hand on Quinton’s shoulder.

  “It wasn’t supposed to end this way,” Quinton whispered.

  “You chose the ending, Zane. You made that decision a long time ago.”

  Quinton wanted to argue, to explain what had gone wrong, why he really was the smartest man in the room, why he was the strong one. But he could no longer fight the fog. It had become too thick, too heavy. It was pulling him under.

  The last thing he knew was the feel of Anson’s hand on his shoulder. He wondered why, after all that had happened, the old cop would offer the simple comfort of human touch at the end.

  And then there was nothing.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  “The timing of the helo’s arrival was the most complicated part,” Jack said. “We couldn’t risk putting any kind of tracking device on me and, of course, the first thing Knight and Sloan did when I got to the meeting point was smash my phone.”

  “Not that it would have done any good,” Xavier said. “No cell service on that island.”

  “But we had the advantage of knowing Zane’s probable location,” Jack said.

  They were gathered in the reception area of Cutler, Sutter & Salinas. Investigations. Over the course of the past few hours Winter had met all the various members of Jack’s family—Max Cutler and his wife, Charlotte; Cabot Sutter and his wife, Virginia; Xavier, Cabot’s nephew; and the patriarch of the clan, Anson Salinas. Octavia Ferguson, Virginia’s grandmother, was also present. It was clear that she and Anson had a very personal, very intimate relationship.

  They had come together as a family to defeat Quinton Zane and now they were processing the whirlwind of events that had taken place in the last few days.

  The agency’s offices were located in an older, established neighborhood near the Seattle waterfront. Wint
er was interested—and rather disappointed—to discover that the interior of a real-world private investigation business looked a lot like the interior of any other service business. The space could have belonged to a small law or accounting firm.

  There was a handsome desk for Anson Salinas and some rather stylish leather-and-steel chairs for clients. The wall-to-wall carpeting was a soft gray. A series of opaque glass-paned doors marked the individual offices. There was, she noted, one unmarked door at the end of the hall.

  The pictures on the walls featured warm, vibrant Pacific Northwest landscapes. Winter did not consider herself an expert when it came to art but the paintings looked very good to her—interesting and evocative. She suspected they had been selected for the room by Cabot Sutter’s wife. Jack had mentioned that Virginia owned an art gallery in Seattle.

  All in all, Winter thought, it was a very pleasant, quietly sophisticated space, but it definitely lacked the ambience of a nineteen forties Hollywood version of a private eye’s office. There were no wooden venetian blinds on the windows. No well-worn fedoras and trench coats hanging on the coatrack. No sparking red neon sign identifying a low-rent bar outside in the alley. There wasn’t even an alley down below the windows. She had checked earlier when they had arrived. It seemed to her that any self-respecting PI needed an alley in which to meet shady informants.

  What did look very real were the men of Cutler, Sutter & Salinas. Max Cutler, Cabot Sutter and Anson Salinas were obviously tough, smart and relentless. If you were a bad guy, you would not want any of them looking for you, she thought. And if you needed help, these were the men you could count on.

  Although Jack was not officially a member of the firm, he was definitely a member of the family—tough, smart and relentless. In addition, he was going to look like a very real, very hard-boiled PI because of the interesting scar he would no doubt have when they took the stitches out of the left side of his face. Victoria had done some damage when she had slashed him with her pistol.

  The sons of Anson Salinas did not have a biological relationship, but they were brothers in all the ways that mattered.