Strong Cold Dead (Caitlin Strong, #8)(60)

“Nothing’s changed,” Jackson said, his words ringing hollowly in Rawls’s ears, between smacks to the bag. “You said so yourself.”

“You know the biggest yacht in the world’s longer than a football field and cost a quarter billion dollars? That’s the kind of money I’m talking about. Enough to make your Texas oilmen kiss my ass, as long as you don’t cause me any more problems.”

Through his earpiece, Rawls heard the tinny click tone of an incoming e-mail or text message on Jackson’s end, followed by the return of Jackson’s loud breathing.

“What’s wrong now, Sam Bob?” Rawls asked.

“Er, we may have another one.”

*

“Masters did what?” Rawls asked, pounding the bag so hard he could barely hear Sam Bob Jackson on the other end of his Bluetooth device.

“I just got the call. He busted up a used car showroom, nearly killed the guys who were supposed to put a scare into him.”

“These being the ones who kidnapped his son.”

“They’re headed for the hills as we speak. That’s not the problem.”

“What is?”

“They told Masters I was the one who hired them to do the deed.”

Rawls let his gloves drop to his waist and leaned against the heavy bag to catch his breath. “I guess you can expect a visit too, then. Maybe Masters will take your whole building down this time.”

“I thought you should know, Cray, in case this leads back to you.”

“Only way that can happen is if you spill the beans. You wouldn’t do that, would you, Sam Bob?”

“Of course not. But…”

“But what?”

“The Texas Rangers are involved too. Do the math.”

Rawls began tapping at the heavy bag. “Why don’t you do it for me?”

“Adds up to us both being fucked here. Time to do some damage control, what you do best, Cray.”

Rawls started hitting the bag harder again. “The only damage of concern here was done by you, without my permission or knowledge. I’d say it’s not time for me to do anything.”

Dead air filled the line. Rawls heard nothing but Sam Bob Jackson’s heavy breathing, which fell into an awkward cadence that mirrored his own.

“Like you said, I’m the only one who can link you to all this, Cray.”

“Is that a threat, Sam Bob?”

“Call it an accommodation.”

Rawls started slamming the bag anew with his gloves. “I call it a load of shit. A Texas Ranger who thinks she’s Wyatt Earp and an ex-Green Beret with a hair across his ass—they’re your problems.”

“I messed up the Masters thing, for sure. But you should remember it was the Balcones land deal that poked Caitlin Strong like a stick. And, last time I checked, you were front and center on that one.”

“So what would you suggest?”

“Damage control, like I already said. Maybe I didn’t go far enough. Maybe you need to go farther.”

“Against a Texas Ranger and Rambo? Others who’ve gone up against these two haven’t fared so well, from what I’ve been told.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Cray.”

“I’m glad you said that, Sam Bob, because it gives me call to do what I should’ve done five minutes ago.”

“What’s that?”

“This,” Rawls said, and clicked off the call on his Bluetooth device.





57

OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN

“Hey, mister, you wanna play?”

Hatim Abd al-Aziz turned in his window seat in the big plane’s rear section to look at the young boy sitting next to him. The boy had set up an old-fashioned checkers game on his tray table. His parents and older siblings were sleeping abreast of one another, across the aisle in the plane’s center seating section.

“I’m not very good,” he told the boy.

“How can you be bad at checkers? And don’t let me win, either,” the boy said, making the first move. “Your turn, mister.”

Hatim Abd al-Aziz forced a smile, and then a move. That wasn’t his real name, and he’d done his best to strike from his mind and memory the one given him at birth, since that person no longer existed. He’d taken the name Hatim because it meant “determined and decisive,” while Abd al-Aziz meant “servant of the powerful.” Especially appropriate, because he lived to serve Allah and nothing else. He did as Allah willed, and always had, ever since the time, as a boy, when he’d loosened the lug nuts on the wheels of his soccer team’s bus and hid behind a tree to watch what came next. He’d been thrown off the team for fighting and figured that if he didn’t get to play, then neither should anyone else. The bus had spun across the road at fifty kilometers per hour, knocking vehicles from its path like the flippers on an old-fashioned pinball machine. Several of his teammates were hurt, but none had been killed.

Which disappointed the young man destined to become Hatim Abd al-Aziz.

“You really are bad,” the boy was saying now. “I don’t think you’re paying attention.”

“I have a lot on my mind.”

“Work?”

“I love what I do.”