Cut and Run

“I never had her cell phone. If I did, she’d be dead, and I’d be offering it as proof.”

Philippe had trained the man well: He showed no signs of breaking even under the threat of the gun.

“Let me help fill in some of the blanks,” Paolo offered.

“That’s the idea.”

He extended his arms. “Are you going to do this or not?”

Philippe lowered the gun. Paolo might have hidden her cell phone in the Mercedes, so that it wouldn’t be found on his person. But a second explanation presented itself, however improbable. “If it’s not a plant, then it’s her. She’s here. Could you have been followed?”

“No way.”

“Could the girl have signaled someone, gotten word to someone?”

“Impossible.”

“Because if she’s here, you have to tell me how she found us, you see?” Philippe talked to himself, working this out. “One of our guys could have given us up, I suppose.” He answered Paolo’s puzzled expression: “We suffered a setback last night in Florida. It was messy. Two of our guys and the professor. The phone could be her and this marshal, I suppose.” He considered this further. “Might even be intentional on their part. Or just plain reckless. We’d be stupid not to find out-to pass up the opportunity, if that’s what this is.”

“If she’s on this property, I owe her,” Paolo said. “Cut me in on this.”

“Your face? Your eye?”

“Can wait.”

“Collect your things,” Philippe said. “Hurry.”

Paolo scooped his belongings off the desk and jammed them into his pockets. All but the razor, which he delicately returned to its hiding place behind his belt buckle.

Philippe’s hand shook slightly as he returned the.22 to the small of his back. On this, of all nights…

“If she’s stupid enough to show up at the house, I’ll call you. We’ve got it locked down tight for the meeting. One marshal and a witness are not going to present much of a problem. You back up the bunkhouse, just in case this marshal’s luck holds out a little longer.”

“Consider it done.”

Philippe debated calling off the auction, but to do so would be a sign of weakness. He had ten men; Ricardo, another six to ten. If possible, they would sweep the property one more time before the meeting. He could put off canceling until then. If they caught and killed Hope Stevens in the process-the only remaining living witness who could give them all jail time-he’d have a major a

“Did you say something?” Paolo stood at the door to the study.

Had he? He wasn’t sure.

“The bunkhouse,” he said, then watched as Paolo walked briskly away. A man on a mission.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Larson moved before the double-wide’s motion-sensitive lights switched off because after that, if he approached the building, the sensors would bring the lights back on. Although the windows were blacked out, he couldn’t rule out a visual or audible alert co

He worked around the near side of the building past four plastic trash cans, some discarded truck tires, and pieces of plywood used for target practice. Wedged between the trash cans were the cardboard and Styrofoam from packaging that had contained a microwave oven.

The double-wide was a glorified shoebox with a flat roof that extended in short eaves on every side. Larson followed with his eyes a black wire that attached to a video splitter under the nearest eave. Next to the cable wire ran a power line extending from the same pole.

To crash through the door and attempt a rescue was not going to help anyone. Even if he reached Pe

Where were Stubby and Hamp?

Larson found a stout branch to use as a club, preparing to carry out his developing plan. He then crept to the back of the structure and placed his ear to the glass, hearing only the low rumble of television and nothing more. No small voices. No kids crying.

The front floodlights clicked off. But because of his continuing movement, the back lights remained on. He wondered if this gave him away.

He leaned the wooden club against the trunk of the tree nearest the structure and climbed quickly. Several of the evergreen’s stout branches hung over the building’s sloped roof. Larson reached five branches up and then worked his way out along the thickest of these to where he could make the transfer from tree to roof. The back lights now went dark, leaving Larson literally out on a limb over the roof in the pitch black.

He could sense that the limb he stood on was taxed by his weight. It sagged too low, bent too far. Somewhere just below and to his left was the edge of the roof. One last step was all he needed. But if he jumped in the dark, it would make for a loud landing.

Slowly his eyes adjusted. First, geometric shapes. Then, the branch. The roof, directly below. The roof’s edge.

Larson slid his left foot out and stepped off. On the roof now, he moved like a ballerina toward the eave and lay on his stomach. He reached under the eave and fished around until he found where the cable was attached. He unscrewed the cable from the splitter but only partially removed it.

Inside, the television had either lost its picture or gone extremely fuzzy. That would be significant. Larson knew protection work. Live by the tube, die by the boob tube.

The darkness left nothing but shifting shapes and made the going difficult as he worked his way over the edge of the roof. He squatted, prepared to jump.

He could hear grumbling and bumps from inside. He waited.

When the front floodlights popped on, Larson let himself drop to the carpet of spongy pine needles.

A male voice complained loudly to the others inside. “Where’s the fucking cable again?”

Larson grabbed the club like a bat and stepped up to the plate.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

DELMONICO’S DELIVERS

Hope read the name on the back of the panel truck, her patience draining. She stabbed the small keys on the BlackBerry, spelling out:

caterer? @ gate

and sent the message to Larson.

She’d not returned to the van as Lars had asked. The next time she saw Pe

The panel truck was kept waiting while the gate guard, dressed head to toe in black, circled it. Finally arriving at the back, he rolled open the back door and shined a flashlight inside. Hope was prepared for a team of military operatives to storm out, take down the guard, and open the gate. Instead, the powerful flashlight beam found stacked plastic boxes, collapsible tables, flats with serving trays, and bags of ice. His inspection concluded, the guard pulled the rolling door back down. In his haste, he did not secure it, and as he rounded toward the gate, the back door bounced open, first a crack, then a foot or more.

Hope looked left and right. Nothing.

With Pe