Jade Island (29 page)

“What?” Steve asked.

“Sector three just lit up.”

“And you think I should check it out, just like I did four, five, and six.”

“Fifteen bucks an—”

“Easy for you to say,” Steve interrupted angrily, “sitting on your ass all warm and dry while I’m chasing my tail in the rain. If there isn’t something in my flashlight beam this time, I’m going to bed and you can sit here and jack off all over the blinking lights.”

When Steve got to sector three, nothing was there but rocks, trees, and an empty dirt road. No boats. No people. Not even a damned deer.

“Murray, Steve. Not a fucking thing out here but me. Why the hell didn’t Farmer get some dogs? They don’t go nuts from a little rain.”

“Farmer hates dogs. Won’t have them on the place.”

Steve didn’t bother to answer. He was on his way back to the compound and he was mad enough to kick something. Murray’s lazy ass was first on his list.

By the time ten o’clock came, both guards were sitting at the console, betting on which sector would light up next. Neither man bothered to check out each hit physically anymore. After three hours of running around in the rain, both guards were ready to pull the plug on Dick Farmer’s security system.

Fifteen bucks an hour wasn’t nearly enough.

Archer came up out of the water and into the Zodiac with an easy motion that Lianne envied to the soles of her feet. She clung to the straps while the boat dipped and
wallowed, balancing beneath the additional burden. Even with Jake, Kyle, and Lianne acting as counterweights, two hundred plus pounds of man climbing aboard was bound to make an impact on a small boat.

“Everything okay?” Kyle asked quickly.

“No problems. Either they shut down the system or they’re ignoring it.”

“That’s my reading,” Jake said.

“You cold?” Kyle asked Archer. He had recent personal knowledge of just how chilly the water could be.

“Not enough to slow me down,” Archer said.

“Good. Let’s beach this bastard and get to work.”

F
rom overhead came the grinding drone of a propeller plane circling Farmer Island’s small, private runway. The sound cut out, picked up, stuttered, and steadied, only to cut out again.

Kyle looked at his watch. “Ten o’clock. Right on time.” He turned to Archer. “Take care of Lianne.”

“Every step of the way,” Archer said. “Go. If you get into trouble—”

“Just get Lianne out,” Kyle interrupted. “I’ll take care of myself.”

“Like hell,” Jake muttered.

“I agree,” Lianne said.

“The plan,” Archer said before Kyle could argue any more, “is that all of us leave or none of us leave. You’re wasting time.”

Kyle turned and walked toward the compound, sliding from tree shadow to tree shadow, closing in on the secluded building that was Dick Farmer’s personal residence. Glass gleamed weakly in the moonlight that managed to penetrate the windswept layers of clouds. Exterior lights triggered by motion sensors came on and off all over the compound, following invisible gusts of wind through the shrubs and trees.

Silently Kyle swore at the idiot lights. Their unpredictable flashing and dimming made the night goggles he had brought worse than useless. The illumination from just
one light swamped the goggles’ delicate light-gathering mechanism. The motion-sensing lights also made for jumps of pure adrenaline when they came on unexpectedly.

The only good news was that the guards obviously were accustomed to random lights flashing during windy times. And wind, like clouds and rain, wasn’t exactly a stranger to the San Juan Islands. In any case, the guards would be too busy scrambling for the runway to warn off the uninvited plane. They wouldn’t pay any attention to a few more security lights going on and off in the night.

At least, that was the plan.

Kyle didn’t have to look around to know that Archer and Jake were following. And where Archer was, Lianne would be, too. It wasn’t as safe as leaving her in Seattle, but it was as much safety as Kyle could arrange for his stubborn lover.

When Archer said he would take care of something, it got taken care of.

Even when wind gusted and lights flashed on, Kyle wasn’t too worried about being spotted. He wore dark slacks, a dark waterproof jacket, and a fisherman’s knit hat, also dark. Of course, if he got caught, he might have trouble explaining the heavy backpack and the neoprene dive suit under his street clothes, but he didn’t plan on getting caught. Or if he got caught, he wouldn’t stay that way for long. Archer and Jake were a lot better trained than Farmer’s rent-a-cops.

The temptation to look over his shoulder every few steps and check on Lianne was like an itch Kyle couldn’t scratch. But she was dressed in the same anonymous black as he was. She wouldn’t stand out any more than a shadow.

The front door of Farmer’s residence was made of fir carved in Haida totemic designs. There was no lock that Kyle could see, no handle. Very shortly, he would find out if he was nearly as clever with electronics as he thought he was.

Or if Farmer had changed the frequency on his personal electronic “key” in the past nine months.

Kyle reached into his jacket pocket to check that the key was in place. The slim little transmitter was powered by a Polaroid battery pack, just like the best letter bombs. Only this one didn’t go boom; it quietly, discreetly, opened the compound’s doors for Dick Farmer…or for anybody else who happened to be wearing it.

When he walked through the open, welcoming front door, Kyle discovered that the little unit also turned on lights, music, and wallpaper, giving him an adrenaline surge so sharp that his hands tingled. He looked around quickly, spotted a manual control panel, and killed the lights. The music continued, Dvorak’s New World Symphony, all crashing notes and urgency. The wallpaper was Broadway at night, traffic patterns shifting and glowing realistically, crowds rushing, everything but horns honking—and the symphony supplied that.

Lianne hurried through the door. Archer and Jake were right on her heels. The heavy backpacks the men wore made odd, almost musical sounds as their loads shifted.

“Dial down the music,” Jake muttered.

“As soon as I find the switch,” Kyle agreed.

“Screw the music,” Archer said. “The guards can’t hear it. They’re headed toward the runway. Find the shroud.”

With Kyle in the lead, they went through door after door, carrying with them a cocoon of wallpaper and music doing ghostly transformations. None of the rooms that opened magically at Kyle’s appearance held a Han burial shroud made of precious jade.

“What kind of ego needs this many bells and whistles?” Jake asked when the eighth door opened and
Thus Spake Zarathustra
poured from hidden speakers.

“Somebody with a tin-god complex,” Kyle said, turning off the lights automatically. “But don’t knock it. It’s making our lives easy. One key fits all doors.”

He started to turn away, then stopped. The room looked
like a plush college-lecture hall with a semicircle of seats rising steeply away from the podium. Forest-green curtains fell from ceiling to floor, shutting off the small stage.

Thoughtfully, Kyle pulled out a small pencil-beam flashlight.

“What are you doing?” Lianne asked.

“The curtains. Wonder what’s behind them.”

“You think he’d put something as valuable as the suit in an open
classroom?
” Lianne asked.

“Why not?” Kyle followed a thin beam of light down the central aisle. “As far as Farmer is concerned, this whole compound is a hell of a lot more secure than Wen’s vault.”

The curtains didn’t spring apart at Kyle’s appearance. He had to search the lectern before he found a series of switches. The first one turned on the podium light. The second was for the microphone. The third opened the curtains.

Lianne’s breath caught in a wondering sound as the slim beam of Kyle’s flashlight stroked gleaming shades of green from center stage. She ran down the aisle and up the stage stairs, her backpack bumping every step of the way. She hardly noticed the awkward weight. Her whole attention was fixed on the jade shroud that lay like a radiant, articulated suit of armor on top of a steel utility table.

Kyle was right on Lianne’s heels. As she reached out to the shroud with reverent hands, he took the stage in a long leap that ignored the weight of his backpack.

“Is it a go?” Archer asked from behind his brother.

“Yes,” Kyle said, not waiting for Lianne to answer. The look on her face said it all.

“Then let’s get to work,” Archer said, shucking off his own heavy backpack. “Walker will be taking off in an hour.”

Kyle reached for Lianne’s backpack. “Hold still, sweetheart. We’ll start with the head.”

By the time Murray and Steve arrived at the airstrip, Walker had the Piper Aztec’s engine compartment open, a battery-operated work light clipped on, and a few greasy parts laid out on a tarp under the wing. Swirls of rain and wind danced across the tarmac, lifting the edges of the tarp. Bent over the engine, Walker presented the guards with a view of long legs and a lean, denim-clad butt.

“Hey,” Murray yelled out of the Jeep’s open window. “This is a private airstrip! You’re trespassing!”

Walker took his time straightening up and turning to the guards. Beneath the short, dark beard, his smile was welcoming—if you couldn’t see his eyes. They were a blue as cold as it was clear. He looked at the men, cataloging them in a single quick glance. They were both under thirty, already going slack from their butt-broadening jobs, and not expecting any more trouble than they could handle.

“Sorry, boys,” Walker said, deepening his normal West Texas drawl. “The engine started choking on me. No warning, just stuttered like a bitch. I was real glad to see this little ol’ runway on my chart.”

“This is private land,” Murray said again.

“I hear you. I’ll be glad to pay a tie-down fee or whatever, but I can’t go anywhere until I straighten the kinks out. Fuel supply, is my guess.”

“How long will that take?” Murray asked.

“I’m working on it.”

Murray chewed on that while Walker bent over and began fiddling with the engine again.

“’Course,” Walker said after a minute, “if you boys were of a mind to help, it might go faster.”

Wind and rain swirled again, plastering Walker’s lightweight rain shell to his body and darkening his jeans.

“We’re not mechanics,” Murray said.

“Fucking-A,” Steve muttered. “I’m not going out in this slop again.”

But the guards didn’t feel comfortable just driving off and leaving the trespasser on his own. Besides, they knew
what was waiting for them back at the compound. Nothing. Murray rolled up his window, shut off the lights and the engine, and settled in to make sure that the stranger didn’t steal any of Dick Farmer’s private runway.

Walker didn’t look at the guards again. Whistling tunelessly, he pulled out parts, wiped them off, stacked them on the tarp, and turned back to the engine. Making sure that his back was to the men, he checked his watch from time to time. His hands were cold and his face was so wet that rain dripped off his nose, but he never slowed the easy rhythm of take out, wipe off, set aside, and dive back into the residual warmth of the engine compartment.

Occasionally one of the guards rolled down a window to call out a question. Each time, Walker assured them that he was getting closer to the problem.

And he was. His watch was getting closer to eleven o’clock with every sweep of the second hand. When he judged the time was right, he began reassembling the pieces a good deal faster than he had taken them out in the first place. He unclipped the work light, folded the tarp, pulled the chocks away from the airplane’s wheels, and stowed everything in its proper place. There was plenty of room. Where four passenger seats normally would be, there was nothing but blank space. Tonight the Aztec was a two-seater.

The guards watched while Walker climbed into his plane. They were bored, but boredom was a big part of their job.

“Don’t suppose you could turn on the runway lights?” Walker called out.

“Only for Mr. Farmer,” Steve yelled back. “You landed in the dark. You can take off the same way.”

“Thanks, y’all,” Walker said, smiling. He had expected just that answer from the lazy guards. “I sure do appreciate your help.”

“Fuck you.”

Walker started up the Aztec, listening carefully to the
engine sound. He was accustomed to servicing the plane himself, but not in the middle of a strange runway at night in the rain. The tough little plane growled with eagerness, straining to be up and doing what it did best.

With a last glance at the Jeep, Walker began to taxi down the runway. He went the complete length, turned, and paused for the final run-up. Holding the Aztec stationary, he increased the revs until the thunder of twin engines ripped through the night.

A figure slipped out of the wide drainage ditch that paralleled the runway. Walker opened the door of the plane in time to grab the dark backpack that came hurtling out of the darkness. Even though he had been prepared, he grunted as he caught the backpack.

“Heavy bastard,” Walker muttered.

“Tell me about it,” Kyle retorted. “I’ve been hauling it at a trot for the last fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah, that Archer’s a mean son of a bitch, isn’t he?” Walker asked cheerfully.

“I heard that,” Archer said. “Catch.”

Walker snagged the second backpack and stowed it next to the first.

“Incoming,” Jake said, shrugging out of his backpack.

“That you, Mallory?” Walker said.

“Yeah.”

“Heard about your marriage. My condolences.”

Jake gave a low crack of laughter. “Haven’t changed, have you?”

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Shag your butts, boys. Those guards might get curious.”

“Hold still, sweetheart,” Kyle said.

“Sweetheart,” Walker drawled. “Sugar boy, you’re a real piece of work. We haven’t even been formally introduced and already you’re coming on to me.”

“Screw you, Walker. I’m talking to Lianne.”

She laughed and wriggled out of her backpack, only to gasp as Kyle tossed it up into the plane. “Be careful!”

From the far end of the runway, blades of white light
sliced through rain and darkness, outlining the Aztec. Jake and Archer dove into the ditch. Kyle was a half step behind, dragging Lianne. They went down flat, but Kyle was up instantly, peering out at the runway. Archer was right beside him.

“We got problems, children,” Walker said. “I can’t take off with that Jeep on the runway, and there’s no time to unload the backpacks. You want those two guards healthy or real quiet?”

“Healthy,” Archer said. “If possible.”

Lianne ripped off her jacket and began kicking out of her dark, loose slacks.

“Get the hell out of here before they see you,” Walker said. “I’ll think of something.”

“I don’t like it,” Archer said.

“Come on,” Kyle said to Lianne.

“Help me get out of the wet suit,” Lianne said, dragging at the top.

“What?” Kyle said.

“Help me!”

He didn’t know what she had in mind, but he knew a fast way to get out of neoprene. He yanked out his dive knife and started cutting. Within seconds Lianne was wearing nothing but rain and the bottom of her bikini swimsuit. She grabbed her jacket.

“Take everything else and go,” she said urgently. When he hesitated she gave him a push. “Just do it! Hurry! They’re almost here!”

“But—”

“I’ll be all right,” she interrupted. “Get out of here. Please, Kyle. Just go!”

He would have argued, but Archer and Jake were grabbing up pieces of wet suit and crawling off into the darkness. They knew there wasn’t any time to object to or add to whatever Lianne had in mind.

With a savage curse, Kyle grabbed the slacks she had abandoned and followed the other two men into the darkness beyond the reach of lights.

Lianne gathered herself, shrugged into her lightweight jacket without zipping it, and climbed out of the ditch. Headlights silhouetted her, picking up the creamy length of her legs and turning the windblown jacket into a breathless striptease that revealed and then concealed her breasts and hips. Ignoring the guards scrambling out of the Jeep, she held her hands up to Walker.