Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(61)

Swonger tossed his gun at Deja’s feet.

“Your turn,” she said to Gibson.

“I’m not carrying.”

“That a fact?”

Gibson lifted his shirt and turned slowly in a circle.

Deja looked at him pityingly. “Show up for a meeting, you ain’t even strapped? Like I’m Sears or some shit? You disrespecting me?”

Gibson felt himself being sized up. She looked from him to Swonger and back again, trying to make up her mind about something.

“You setting my brother up, Swonger?” she said. “Is that what this is?”

“What? No!”

Even Gibson didn’t believe him. Deja took a step forward and drew her gun.

“There’s no need for all that,” Swonger said.

“Oh, there’s need when small-time white-trash car thieves who knew my brother once in stir call up out of the blue, looking to make a deal for a major piece of hardware. And I’m not supposed to wonder what’s what? Wonder if maybe my brother’s trusting nature isn’t being taken advantage of?”

“It ain’t even like that. This is on the level. He needs it.” Swonger pointed at Gibson.

“Oh, and I’m supposed to believe you two are friends?”

“Why not?”

“One thing, he’s got all his teeth.”

“We’re not friends. Believe me,” Gibson said.

“I got most of my teeth,” Swonger said, hung up on the wrong part of the conversation.

“So, what . . . ? You just business associates?” she asked. “That what I’m supposed to believe? Please. Tell me a bedtime story. Tell me how you got rolled up stealing cars again and cut a deal to serve up the Nobles to save your narrow ass. And after what my brother did for you . . .” There was cold fury in her voice as she strode forward and pressed the muzzle to Swonger’s forehead like the cold finger of God, forcing him to his knees.

She’s going to kill him and I’m next. Gibson believed it beyond a doubt until he saw her staring at him, calculation and purpose in her eyes.

“You police?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know this fool?”

“Hammond Birk.”

“Judge that lost his mind?”

“That’s the one. I owe him.”

“Owe him how?”

“That’s private between him and me.”

“That a fact? And what’s that got to do with Swonger here?”

Gibson shrugged. “Believe me, I’ve been asking myself the same question. I mean, you ever try and get rid of him? Can’t be done.”

“Hey!” Swonger said.

Deja’s piercing black eyes narrowed for a moment before she burst out with a laugh. “Well, that’s the damn truth.”

“Hey!”

Deja let the hammer down and stepped back. “Oh, don’t be sore, Swong. Had to make sure. Go on and get up out the grass.”

“I got my teeth,” Swonger muttered to himself. He stood and dusted himself off, pale and shaken.

Deja slapped the side of the van three times, and a man in camos emerged from the woods with a scoped hunting rifle. Pointed at the ground. Gibson took that as a good sign. The man strolled over and leaned against the van as if he’d just happened along and was taking a break before continuing his hike.

“Terry,” Swonger said.

Terry nodded but didn’t answer.

“So are we okay to do some business?” Gibson asked. “Or are you going to scare the piss out of Swonger some more?”

“Is he for real?” Deja asked Swonger.

Swonger shrugged. “Can’t do nothing with him.”

She gave Gibson another look. “Truth is, ordinarily we don’t have time for this kind of thing, you understand.”

“Swonger said the Nobles were the people to talk to.”

“Well, I appreciate good word of mouth, but our business model is pretty straightforward. We like it like that. And your needs are kind of specialized. A goddamn cell-phone interceptor? You know what a Stingray costs?”

“About three hundred thousand,” he said. “Give or take.”

“Give or take if you’re law enforcement, which we just established you ain’t. Gonna cost you a half mil on the street, easy.”

“That’s what I figured. We don’t have that much.”

“That’s all right. I don’t have one to sell you.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Well, these are what you might call special circumstances.”

“Special how?”

“An opportunity has presented itself to my family. Might be, we can help each other. You were in the military? Some kind of computer expert?”

“Something like that.” Gibson glared at Swonger, who looked guiltily away.

“I don’t have a Stingray, but I know who does. Owners aren’t going to sell it to you, but you might be able to liberate it. If you’re willing to cross the line.”

“What line?”

“I need a little something; you need a little something. Your lucky day because so happens they’re in the same place. Should be a cakewalk if you’re as good as Swong says.”