Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(108)

No sign of life at all.

He couldn’t even see the golden drone. Maybe it was up too high, he thought. Maybe it was outside the valley, watching for Chip’s men. Maybe the drone didn’t matter if there were no people out there.

The shed roof wasn’t a great vantage point, he thought. Not high enough. He glassed the rocky outcrop Lewis had found on the map, where June’s father had watched raptors. It was at least a hundred feet up, maybe more. The view would be far better. He couldn’t see any people, but he did catch a brief flash of light. Maybe Lewis was there already.

He had a bad feeling.

Like this entire thing had been orchestrated by an unknown conductor.

The bike took him most of the way before the ground became too rough and steep. The valley floor rose toward the encircling ridges, the rich black alluvial soil turning to stone. He left the bike leaning against a boulder and continued on foot, hurrying now, his leg beginning to ache as his mind turned over what he thought he knew.

Until an hour ago, he’d thought the Yeti was behind everything. Had hired Chip to do his dirty work, to kill June’s mom and to track down the algorithm. But unless the Yeti had a split personality or had completely fooled both Peter and June, he was not a player, except maybe peripherally. So who had hired Chip? Had Chip started this whole thing? Had Chip manipulated the Yeti, who was just keeping an eye on his estranged daughter in his own slightly creepy high-tech way?

But how had Chip found out about the algorithm?

The trail up to the rocky outcrop was steep and winding, less a trail than a slightly evolved upward scramble with waypoints marked on the stone in fading blazes of white paint. Like June’s ropes in the redwood, pointing the way up. He climbed quickly, the medical boot a hindrance, his fractured leg complaining steadily now. He could smell the scrub cedar that grew from the cracks in the sun-heated rocks, along with the stink of his own sweat.

Nearing the top he could see a rough-framed shelter, an open rectangle of unpeeled cedar logs bolted together with a tin roof on top, like a screened porch without the screen. Peter wasn’t exactly quiet, not wanting to be killed by friendly fire, but there was no sign of Lewis yet.

He rounded the last bony shoulder of the ridge, approaching from the rear, and saw Sally Sanchez sitting on a rock in the shade, big binoculars in her hand, smiling at Peter and looking very comfortable. “There you are,” she said. “I was expecting you earlier.”

Beside her stood a man Peter hadn’t seen before. He was maybe ten years older than Peter, bulky but not fat, like a career sergeant whose knees were going but he could still pump iron. He kept his weight on his toes, his feet slightly spread, big hands open and ready. His nose had been broken at least once. He wore a starched khaki shirt, faded desert camo ACUs tucked into well-worn desert combat boots. He also carried a handgun in a shoulder holster on his left side, which meant he was right-handed.

He didn’t introduce himself. He didn’t look particularly friendly. His hair was colorless and so short he probably buzzed it himself twice a week. He watched Peter with great interest.

Peter was very conscious of the trucker’s .357 on his own hip.

He said, “June told me the view was great up here, and she was right.” He extended his hand to the bulky man. “I’m Peter.”

The bulky man took a step back and glanced at Sally. Which answered one question. Now Peter knew who was in charge. And they were a little afraid of him.

The outcrop was a jumble of rocks with a group of wide stones in the middle and a large flat cantilevered boulder at the outer edge. Peter stepped past the man to the top of the last boulder and looked down at the valley. He was hoping to see Lewis, or Manny and his people.

Instead he saw Oliver climbing silently up the path Peter had taken a few minutes before. Oliver made it look easy. Peter’s leg had begun to ache with a low, steady throb, and the scramble up the rocks hadn’t helped his ribs any, either.

He turned back to look at Sally.

She now held a small matte-gray automatic pointed thoughtfully at his chest. He saw the greenhouse dirt on her strong, capable hands. She still looked very comfortable on her rock perch.

She gave Peter a pleasant smile.

“Here’s an idea,” she said. “Take that hand cannon out, nice and slow, and toss it off the cliff.”





53





JUNE



She hadn’t seen him for fifteen years, but she’d loved him and feared him for most of her life.

Laptop under her arm, she followed the Yeti into the black barn.

No, she told herself. Not the Yeti. The Yeti is a monster, or maybe a myth.

He’s my dad. Let’s try that for a while.

He led her through the big open work bay where the golden drone had parked itself. Two more drones could have fit comfortably in there, even with all the other stuff. Large boxy equipment filled two walls, plastic and stainless steel with hatches that opened. Wheeled tables occupied most of the rest of the space, holding sections of an articulated assembly that looked like the partial skeleton of a giant bird, either extinct or not yet in existence. The room smelled like her new computer had when she’d taken it out of the box, the pleasing chemical tang of new technology.

“I make the parts for the airframes on 3-D printers,” he said, waving his hand at the machines. “Some plastic, some titanium. That extra-wide one prints the skin, it’s only a few molecules thick.”