Chapter 12

Twelve

Despite our agreement to deal with whomever had broken into her house, we’d found nothing actionable. At least, nothing they were sharing with me.

I’d left skin tracers on both. The trackers let me keep an eye on them and slip in to plant bugs when they were less on their guard. Aware they could have done the same to me, I made sure to use rubbing alcohol on all exposed areas of skin.

Then showered three times.

Most skin tracers didn’t last past a second thorough shower.

Still, I didn’t need them to last that long. I just wanted to approach from a different angle at a different time when their guard might be lowered.

Unsurprisingly, neither left Estes Park.

But more amusing was they’d chosen hotels within walking distance of each other, though I suspected neither was aware.

It let me pick a spot to park my rental car, listening equipment armed, with a cup of coffee and I began my observation. Locke had a lot of skills. The hard drives, despite being present, proved difficult to crack.

That did not surprise me. Patch would never let her work or information be compromised. The fact we’d all recognized the danger in attempting—and failing—to access those hard drives meant we’d secured them again without disturbing them.

McQuade had also set a couple of cameras up in her office, then more in the house. To keep an eye on it in case someone returned.

I managed to get a sample from the blood on the desk. Taking it to a lab to get it typed and to see if DNA could be extracted would take time. What interested me most—beyond finding Patch—was the absolute lack of personal items or personal identifying items in her home.

There hadn’t even been paper bills. The only paper trash from her mail had been in the recycling and it was addressed to resident. I’d swung by her mailbox before leaving and it was empty. So did she just not get snail mail here? Or did she have other arrangements for it?

The paper shredders in her office and kitchen suggested she had a method for handling personal data. But they were frustratingly empty.

“Locke,” the thief’s voice came over the bug, as clear as if I were in the room with him. “Thanks for getting back to me.”

Phone call.

“That’s all you got from the property records?”

Too bad I couldn’t hear the other side of that conversation.

“Really?” True curiosity kindled in his voice. “How far back?”

The silence was enough to make me grit my teeth.

“No,” he said after a long moment, sounding more thoughtful than anything else. “Leave it there. I don’t want to set off any alarms. I’ll dig a different way.” A pause. “Yeah, you too. Thanks.”

Then the call ended or at least the conversation did. His movement around the room carried over the bug. The shower kicked on and there was rustling. The sound of running water didn’t diminish though.

I dialed it down. I didn’t need to listen if he was the type to jerk off in the shower.

McQuade had been almost too quiet. He might have discovered my tracker. It wouldn’t surprise me. While I waited and watched, I’d also done my research. Locke had almost no internet footprint of any kind.

He might as well not exist, if Locke were even his real name. Patch’s work would be my guess. Then a thief would be better off without a high profile. It was all a little too neat, but also logical.

McQuade, on the other hand, had a reputation to rival my own and a history that suggested I never wanted him as an enemy. While he wasn’t an assassin specifically, he had been known to take wetwork jobs.

No, he was far more the grunt on the ground. He got dirty and went to places many others avoided. Nothing in his jacket suggested altruistic motives nor criminal. But the variety of jobs attributed to him over the past seven years were too chaotically chosen to not be the product of a somewhat disturbed mind.

A rescue operation in Angola. Taking out a drug lord and all the higher ups in a cartel in Panama. Months spent in and out of hot zones with no clear pattern. The most recent being a year in the Middle East. My contacts liked McQuade, found him useful and requested that I not take him out of play.

Interesting.

A knock on a door had me glancing at my own, but it was coming in over my earbuds. The hush of steps muffled by socks, but there was the faintest creak of a floorboard.

McQuade?

“Thanks.” Definitely McQuade. The sound of paper bags rustling. Sounded like food delivery.

No response, just the door shutting then the combination of sound created by the bags being upended. So, he didn’t order soup. There were a couple of soft thumps. A pair of harder ones, then the rattle of ice in a cup before he slurped the drink.

Shotgunning it from the sound of it. I grimaced. He finished it off with a lengthy burp that took a few seconds to complete.

Well, it fit his uncouth image.

Then there was ice hitting the sink or a bowl maybe.

“There we go.” His words were so low, I almost missed them. More plastic ripping, then his laptop booted up.

Dammit, McQuade had gotten some information. This was the time I wished I had eyes in those rooms so I could see what he was seeing.

Instead, I just worked on cleaning my guns. I was on the third and last. It was something to do to pass the time. My bags were packed. I’d had a new rental car delivered as well. Four of them—actually—under four different aliases.

If someone was tracking me. and I didn’t doubt someone was. If Locke could follow me, then clearly anyone with the resources, and the wherewithal could be as well. It hadn’t been that long since someone tried to snare me in a trap.

Better to not take chances. I wasn’t sure who’d gone after Patch or who’d taken her. Whoever they were, they were going to regret it. Based on my observations, McQuade and Locke were both on board. One or the other could also be a plant.

Of the two? I’d have suggested Locke, but he seemed less guarded than McQuade. Whatever, once we located Patch and secured her, I could eliminate them if necessary. I’d almost gotten my gun reassembled to the soundtrack of McQuade tapping his space bar.

No sound.

No reading or mumbling under his breath.

Just tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Irritat—

The soft shoe of motion in the hall had me flicking a look to my door. I’d stuffed a pair of towels at the bottom to block the light from getting in. It didn’t really muffle the sounds of other guests and staff in the hall.

I didn’t want it to, either.

Other guests passed by talking and laughing. Staff called to each other or their radios went off. Their oversized carts creaked and groaned.

This footstep?

Someone was concealing it.

I set aside the gun I’d been cleaning, it was almost reassembled and screwed the suppressor on the gun I’d already finished, reloaded and had sitting on the table next to me.

The hush of the step hesitated outside my door. I pointed my gun at it as the lock ticked once.

Twice.

Then freed itself.

I had the security bar on, and the way the door opened, the only thing my visitor would be able to see is the bathroom, but I’d angled the mirrors on the closet to give me a view via the mirrors in the bathroom.

It wasn’t perfect. But the woman on the other side of the door was actually wearing a maid’s outfit. At least a facsimile of one. The colors were right, but her name tag was missing.

“Maid service.” Yeah. They tended to knock first, not just let themselves in. Especially when I had the “do not disturb” on.

“Oh, sorry,” I called as if I’d just noticed the door when it hit the limit of the security bar. “Naked in here, gimme a sec. I had the sign on.”

“My apologies, sir. I don’t see it.”

Bullshit.

I kept my steps light as I moved around the edge of the door.

“I can come back,” she offered and I nudged the closet doors so the mirrored door was tucked behind the other. She couldn’t see me and I checked via the crack at the hinged side of the door.

She had towels but only three and they were covering one of her hands.

Yeah. Not a maid.

“No, it’s fine,” I called as if careless of how close I was. She actually gave a little jerk. The dickish side of me enjoyed that. “One sec.” I pushed the door closed abruptly, and only used my left hand to unlatch it.

If she decided to shoot through the door, I didn’t want to take a hit. I had about ten seconds, maybe less to choose my course of action.

She was an assassin and she was here to scratch me off. No question. You didn’t walk into a room with a man like me with your gun drawn if you didn’t intend to use it. I could take her out as soon as she was inside, that would leave me with a body to deal with and no answers.

Alternatively, I took her down and then removed her from the hotel to somewhere quieter for interrogation. A name would be ideal to let me know who sent her.

The door opened and she pushed it all the way back, keeping me in the closet. That was fine. “My apologies again for disturbing you,” she said and I didn’t answer.

She started forward and made it just two steps. The minute the door began to close behind her, she seemed to realize her mistake.

Smart.

Not that it would do her any good. I had one arm wrapped around her and locked over her throat as I gripped her gun arm with my free hand and kept it aimed at the bed. She slammed her head backwards, but I was ready for that move.

She impacted a few times against my collarbone. Definitely gonna leave a bruise, but it didn’t affect my hold. I increased the chokehold. Squeezing tighter.

Even with the suppressor on, the gun sounded unnaturally loud in the room as she fired at the bed.

Four bullets before she slumped. I didn’t let up until her hand spasmed and dropped the gun. Another thirty seconds, because playing possum would be smart.

With that in mind, I didn’t waste time getting her restrained and tape over her mouth. I emptied my larger suitcase after sizing her up then stuffed her inside it. It was going to be a tight fit, but she was on the tinier side.

I had her packed, secured and my weapons ready in under fifteen minutes. Checking my bugs, I could hear them, breathing, moving, and occasionally farting.

These men needed new diets.

That much gastrointestinal distress could not be good for them.

I was about to walk the suitcase out to one of the rental cars when a familiar sound of a door hitting a safety bar hit me.

“Maid service,” a woman called.

“Not interested,” Locke replied. “There’s a do not disturb.”

“Oh, I’m sorry?—”

Yeah, I didn’t believe in coincidences. I texted him at the number he’d given us with a warning and sent another one to McQuade, then invited them to the cabin I’d rented further up the mountain with or without their plus ones.

I had questions for mine.

The sounds of the struggles echoed in my ears as I headed out and down the hall—a fresh do not disturb sign on the door. The smell of gunpowder was going to linger in that room. I’d have to pick up a new bed topper thing and then just replace the sheets.

As long as they left everything where it was, the new mattress cover and topper should hide it. Long enough to disappear. The ID I’d checked in with would be burned, but a small price to pay.

I whistled when I hit the door for outside and because a complaint came from inside the bag. Another followed when I bounced it down three stairs.

No one was around though and when she landed in the trunk. I leaned closer to say, “I’d work on breathing, and keeping it nice and shallow. Not sure how much carbon monoxide this car emits. Could be a bit nauseating.”

I patted the bag, then closed the trunk before I headed around to slide into the driver’s seat. The sound of smashing glass, and grunting echoed over my earbuds.

They were going to be paying some fines on their rooms. Still humming, I pulled out of the parking lot.