Doubleback: A Novel (31 page)

Georgia flashed back to Matt. She’d been in love with him, and he’d rejected her. She hadn’t been vengeful. Or had she? “I don’t know, Ellie. What about the elevator? The man with the missing finger? And what about Art Emerlich? He didn’t have anything to do with their affair.”

“Maybe Chris told Emerlich about it. Maybe Emerlich confronted Delton. And the man with the missing finger could be the hit man.” Ellie said. “About the elevator, I don’t know, but I have a feeling we’ll find out.”

“How do you figure that?”

“I called O’Malley.”

Georgia went rigid. “You did? When?”

“While I was at the hospital. I couldn’t reach you. And you said if something broke, I should.”

Ellie was right. But that didn’t do much to lessen Georgia’s disappointment. Still, she tried to suppress it. “You—you did the right thing. What did he say?”

“He’s bringing Delton in. And he wants to talk to you ASAP. Georgia, it’s time for you to come home.”

•   •   •

It made sense, Georgia thought after she disconnected. An affair gone bad put a new spin on the case. Especially when a surprise pregnancy was factored in. Now Geoff Delton would be under tremendous pressure. And while he probably considered himself a soldier of sorts, putting loyalty to his men and his mission above all else, it wouldn’t take the cops long to discover whether he’d engineered Chris Messenger’s death and her daughter’s kidnapping. There was always the chance that the other answers she’d been looking for would surface, as well. Ultimately, the four days she’d spent digging in Stevens probably
didn’t
matter. Ellie was right about that, too. It was time to go home.

She stopped at the hotel restaurant for dinner, but by the time she went up to her room after dark, she felt deflated and fatigued. She pulled out her card key and was about to slip it into the lock when she stopped. Each time she’d left her room, she’d used the old trick of placing a hair in the door jam. If the hair wasn’t there when she returned, she’d know someone had been inside. The hairs had been there each time she’d come back. Until now.

It wasn’t the maid, who’d cleaned the room before Georgia stuck today’s hair to the jam. It couldn’t be room service or the laundry, either. She hadn’t ordered or sent anything down.

When she heard a muffled thump on the other side of the door, her heart banged in her chest. Someone was in her room. She slipped her Sig out of her holster and gripped it in her good hand. Slowly she lifted her other arm and inserted the key. The latch unlocked. Grabbing the door handle, she twisted and opened the door an inch. She dropped the key in her pocket, brought her Sig up, and stepped inside.

She tried to wedge the door open with her foot, but operating with just one arm was problematic, and the door closed behind her. The shades were drawn, and the lighting was dim, but she could make out a man sitting on a chair. He was pointing a gun at her. She aimed her Sig at him. Neither of them moved. The window was open a crack. A car radio barreling past on the street below blared out a Latino rap.

She kept the Sig trained on the man, but she hadn’t chambered a round. Could she bluff her way through?

Before she could start, the man spoke. “Well now,” he said lazily, “I guess this is what you’d call a Mexican stand-off.”

“Drop the gun and get on the floor, asshole,” she said sharply.

“Or what? You’ll shoot me?”

“Do you really want to take that chance?”

“I think the more important question is ‘do you?’” He leveled his pistol at her. It was a semi-automatic. Maybe Heckler and Koch.

“The way I see it,” he went on, “We can both fire. Assuming you can rack your slide. Which, with your bum wrist, could be a problem. But even if you could, you’ll die. See, you don’t have a vest on. Or any other kind of protection I can see. I, on the other hand, am wrapped up in Kevlar where it counts.”

He had her.

“This might be a good time for
you
to drop
your
weapon,” he added.

Georgia had no choice. She went down on one knee and placed the Sig on the floor. He side-stepped over and picked it up, the barrel of his gun never wavering. He slipped her Sig into his vest and straightened up. “Normally, I’d cuff you. Stuff something in your mouth. But I’m guessing if you were going to scream, you would have done it already. And since you’re already incapacitated...,” he motioned to her cast, “... I’m willing to forego those things.” His voice hardened. “I haven’t miscalculated, have I?”

She stared at him as if it might illuminate the man’s soul. “You’re Raffi Peña.”

“And you’re Georgia Davis.”

He watched her with a curious expression. Georgia had the feeling he was assessing how much of a threat she posed, even with her broken wrist. Still, the fact that she was alive, at least for the moment, gave her some hope. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I know.”

Carmelita or her brother must have contacted him. “I have questions. About a case I’m working.” She wanted to keep him talking while she figured out a way to stay alive.

“Nice try, but I’ll ask the questions. Who are you and why are you here?” His gun was inches from her chest.

He wasn’t going to give. “I’m a private investigator from Chicago. I’m looking into the kidnapping of a little girl and the subsequent murder of her mother. She was a banker, and she issued three cashiers’ checks, each for a million dollars. One of them was made out to you.”

He grunted.

“I know you work for Delton Security. I know your two buddies are dead. And I know you’re on the run. I want to know if that’s because you killed them. Kidnapped the little girl. Killed her mother.”

“And I should tell you these things because...” His voice was laced with irony. “How do I know Delton didn’t send you?”

Georgia frowned. Something was off. “Why would Delton be coming after
you
?”

He hesitated a moment, as if he realized he’d said the wrong thing, then pulled back the slide and chambered a round. “Give me a reason not to take you out.”

Georgia took a breath, wondering if it might be her last. “Because if you do, we’ll have both failed in our missions.”

He seemed to ponder that. “Why did you get a phone message about Delton from someone named Ellie in Chicago?”

“How did you know about that?”

“Answer the question.”

She thought fast. Ellie must have called the hotel at some point when she couldn’t reach her cell. It was probably on the room’s answering machine. Which Peña had obviously listened to. “Ellie’s my—partner. She’s working the case in Chicago.”

“And?”

Georgia shook her head.

“What?”

“Nothing more until we deal.”

He almost laughed. “Deal? What do you have to deal?”

“Intel. About Geoff Delton.”

Now he did laugh. “You’re willing to risk your life in a flea-bag hotel in Stevens, Arizona, over some intel you think I need?”

She wondered if there was any way to gain an advantage but decided there wasn’t. Better to stand her ground. She wouldn’t beg for her life. “That’s right.”

He didn’t reply, but he didn’t shoot, either. After a moment he motioned with the gun. “Sit on the bed.”

Georgia went to the edge of the bed, sat down, and flicked the switch of the lamp on the bedside table. She wanted to see her killer.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” He growled.

She ignored the comment and took stock of Peña. Under the black Kevlar vest he wore a black t-shirt and jeans. Desert boots on his feet. Thick black hair tied back in a ponytail. A well-trimmed goatee. But his most striking feature was his eyes—dark pools that captured and gave off light as if a fire raged behind them. Right now they were focused on her like a laser. She could tell he liked what he saw.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he repeated.

“I have the right to see the man who’s going to kill me.”

He inclined his head toward the window. “The light tells them you’re back.”

She weighed his comment. It could be a ruse, to trick her into giving him what he wanted. Whatever that was. “Who?”

He didn’t answer.

“Peña, the least you can do before you kill me is tell me why you got a million dollars from Delton. Why Wrobleski and Brewer are dead. And what you’ve been doing for Lionel Grant.”

A lazy smile crept across his face. “Those are fair questions.”

She was waiting for his answer when the room exploded. The shade billowed out, then fell off its track. The window shattered, and shards of glass blew onto the floor. Another explosion tore through the window. Georgia dropped to the floor

“Davis!” Peña hissed. “Are you all right?”

Adrenaline surged through her, rendering her momentarily speechless.

“Answer me, Davis!”

“I’m—I’m okay.” She stammered.

“Then turn off the fucking light!”

Georgia crawled over, stretched up her good arm, and snapped off the light. Once again dark shadows cloaked the room. Warm air gusted in, scented with rain. She tried to peer out of the space that used to be the window, but all she could see was the black of the building next door against a deeper black that was the night sky. A hazy glow came from the street below. “Who’s the shooter?”

He didn’t answer.

Her anger mounted. “How do I know they’re not after
you
?” More silence. “Who the fuck are you, Peña? What game are you playing? If you—or your goons—are planning to kill me, let’s just get it over with, okay?”

She heard rather than saw his grin. “All in good time.”

Another shot screamed through the window. Georgia ducked. She thought she smelled cordite. “Fuck it!”

“They’re just trying to scare you. If they really wanted you dead, they wouldn’t be firing randomly into the room.”

“How do I know you didn’t set me up?”

“You don’t.” He paused. “But I’m thinking now might be a good time for us to make our exit.”

Us.
He said us. “How do you plan to do that? As soon as we show ourselves, they’re going to use us for target practice.”

“I might have a trick or two left up my sleeve.”

“Well, this would be a good time to pull them out.”

chapter
38

T
en minutes later Peña peeled out of the lot in a battered Dodge Ram with Georgia in the passenger seat, rigid and tense. They’d crept down an unmarked staircase she’d cased when she first checked in. By the time they got to the ground floor, a storm had blown in, and the pounding rain made it impossible to see in any direction. There was no hail of bullets when they ran from the building, and they sprinted safely to his pickup.

While Peña sped through the streets of Stevens, Georgia twisted around looking for a tail. She couldn’t spot anything. “I think we’re clear.”

“The monsoon helps.”

The feeble beam of the truck’s headlights dissipated in the dark, but Peña drove confidently. It was only through brief flashes of lightning that Georgia could see where they were. Once they reached the outskirts of town, Peña drove toward Bisbee, and a moment later climbed into the hills. As they ascended, the storm grew more violent. Rain drenched the pickup, lightning crackled, thunder exploded. Peña hunched over the wheel and squinted through the windshield. Georgia gripped the edge of her seat.

After what seemed like an hour but was probably just ten minutes, Peña turned off the paved road. The truck jounced down a dirt path, made several turns, and finally slid to a stop in a muddy clearing.

Except for the exchange about the tail, they hadn’t spoken. Now he said, “We’re here.”

When Georgia climbed out of the pickup, her feet promptly sank into mud. She tried to slog through it, but the muck sucked her down so deep her shoes disappeared. Over the thud of rain she heard a rushing, flowing sound. “What’s that?”

“Water filling the gulleys. It’ll dry up after the rain stops.”

Peña trudged to a small cabin with a corrugated metal roof. Georgia followed, her steps plodding and heavy. Rain soaked her clothes. A makeshift window near the door trickled light from inside.

“Where are we?”

“An abandoned mining cabin. Kick off your shoes.”

Georgia did and followed him inside, shaking herself off.

The cabin was even smaller than Carmelita’s place: two rooms separated by a primitive bathroom. In the main room was a table, two chairs, a hot plate, a sink with a couple of cabinets underneath, and a five gallon gas can. An M4 assault rifle was propped up against the table, and a small arsenal of hand guns, along with accessories for the M4, lay in a duffel on the floor. Another duffel contained a Mag Lite, a grenade launcher, a knapsack, night vision goggles, binoculars, and a video camera with a Mini DV label.

Peña walked past the gear into the other room. Georgia thought about helping herself to a couple of guns while he was gone, but he returned with a towel before she could. He dried his face and arms, then tossed the towel to Georgia. She caught it with her good hand and waved it in the direction of the gear. “Christmas presents for the family?”

He glanced over. “Things are not always what they seem.”

“Why are you hiding out here?”

“My mission isn’t finished.” A sudden crash of thunder seemed to emphasize the point.

Georgia faced him. “Did Lionel Grant pay you to kill illegal immigrants in the desert?”

He seemed to sense her mood. A strange light came into his eyes. “Yeah, it’s time. You deserve some answers.”

She hung the towel around her neck and waited.

“I am Mexican. My family is from the Sonora. That is where many who cross come from. Do you think I could kill my own people?”

He seemed sincere. Still. “Why should I believe you?”

“Who do you think teaches them to take a brush to erase their footprints? To make sure they bring plenty of water? To sleep during the hottest hours and walk at night?”

“I thought you were working for Delton Security to
stop
illegals from crossing the border.”

He smiled at her confusion. “I was a
migra
. After Delton got the contract from Grant, they recruited me from Border Patrol.”