Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(60)

I studied the photo, trying to come up with even one theory that could explain why a closed-for-business strip joint would help Kane in a job interview. Then, still clueless, I set the photo aside.

The remaining pictures were even less forthcoming—multiple long-range shots of a building and a few smaller structures on a flat stretch of prairie, God knew where. The photos were almost identical, and were taken from such a distance that I had to stare at them for a while before I could see anything in them at all. Faint geometric forms, the same color as the prairie. When I squinted and used my imagination, I thought I could make out the wings of a small plane on the far side of one of the structures. Or maybe it was another building. Or a bit of fuzz on the camera lens.

I leaned back and rested my clasped hands on my head, trying to imagine Kane’s interest in these places, and why he had hidden the photographs. Defeated, I set the pictures and brochures aside and decided to see what I could learn online.

I powered up my laptop.

The screen flashed, and a cartoon video of a beheaded woman appeared, blood pumping in spurts from her severed neck.

Underneath were the words This could be you.

I slammed the lid down.

“Shit,” I said.

Clyde opened one eye.

I squeezed my own eyes shut. I saw Haifa’s and Resenko’s severed corpses in Habbaniyah. Saw Malik weeping in the front room, only feet away from his murdered mother. I saw Angelo’s body in the alleyway, his face a ruin.

No one should die the way they had.

But maybe someone thought it was my turn.

Whoever had broken into Cohen’s place had found my laptop. The cartoon clip was only for shock value. But it meant he’d no doubt copied everything on the hard drive and placed a Trojan horse inside to monitor key clicks and take screen captures. Since he’d chosen to advertise his invasion, I figured this was part of his ongoing campaign to remind me who was calling the shots.

I opened my eyes and looked over at Clyde, still enjoying his bone.

“They don’t get to win, Clyde. Not this time.”

If the Alpha had hoped to intimidate with that clip, he’d failed. All he’d done was piss me off. Reinvigorated by rage, I shut down the computer. Reluctant to take Clyde away from his bone, I told him to wait, then went back out to the truck for my work laptop.

Outside the door to the tavern, I paused to take in the parking lot.

The sun had just set, and dusk bathed the world in lavender. Moths flapped at the light over the tavern door, and a few mosquitoes buzzed. Nothing else stirred.

Moving quickly, I unlocked the driver-side door and reached under the seat for my work laptop.

A whisper of movement, and something hard jabbed my ribs.

“We have to talk,” a man said.

Only four words, but I knew that voice. I should have shot Sarge last winter when I had the chance, then chopped his body into pieces and fed the parts into a wood chipper.

It worked in the movies.

I raced down my list of options. They were distressingly few. Scream. Give in. Fight back.

“Didn’t expect you to be this careless, Parnell.”

I knew I should be afraid. Sarge was dangerous. Even deadly. But I was too far into my anger to back off the cliff.

“I’m in the mood to hurt something, Udell,” I said. “And you just pissed me off.”

Sarge snorted. “Not asking to be your friend. Just need a few minutes of your time. I figure coming at you this way means we can have a conversation without your dog trying to take off my face.”

Vowing to never leave Clyde behind again, I pushed aside the laptop and groped for the backup pistol I’d taken from the Land Cruiser. “You want to talk, then get away from me.”

“Fucker killed Kane,” Sarge said. “Now he’s chasing Crowe halfway across the country. This shit ends now.”

My fingers scrabbled against carpet. Where was the damn gun? “Give me a name. I’ll pass it to the police.”

“I don’t have a name. That’s why I’m here.”

My fingers brushed cool steel. I worked my hand around the grip.

Another dig in my ribs from Sarge.

“I figure you’ve got a gun under that seat,” Sarge said. “But you shoot me, and every answer I have dies with me. Think about that. I’m going to step away now.”

I slid the gun free. Sarge’s feet kicked against gravel as he moved back. I swung around with the weapon up.

He had his own gun raised.

We stared at each other over the barrels.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Truce?”

“Fuck that.”

“Fuck all.” Sarge lowered his weapon.

“Toss it,” I said.

He did. I let it hit the ground.

“Hands on the truck,” I said. “Spread-eagle.”

When he complied, I patted him down, but found nothing.

I bent and scooped up his weapon.

Around us, the parking lot remained quiet save for a dove cooing its satisfaction with the warm evening. No one came or went.

“Where’s Malik’s video?” I asked, curious to see if he knew.

“Ah, fuck.” Sarge closed his eyes. “You don’t have it? Word was you ended up with it.”

An image of Dougie’s compass flashed in my mind. The key was safe in the duffel in Paul’s office, guarded by Clyde.