Chapter Seventeen

“Yeah, I’ve heard of them.” Chance held his breath, hoping that Tennyson wasn’t that stupid, that he hadn’t enlisted foreign thugs to end York. The Rio Brothers were nothing but stone-cold killers.

“I did not!” Baritone squealed from inside.

“Shhh,” Chance told Pagan. “Something’s up. Hang on.”

“You did!” York roared.

The door to the rig burst open as a thin, olive-skinned male ran into the weather. He wore two jackets, the top one pink with a fur hood and cuffs. No boots. Gray socks on his feet. He pivoted, his palms raised and forward. “I didn’t tell her nothin’, I promise.”

“The Rio Brothers will be in Portland on Tuesday, too,” Pagan whispered.

“You want to bet this is all about Tennyson taking over York’s Colombian drug business? That he’s setting York up for a hard fall?” Chance asked, keeping his eyes and his weapon on the shivering man who had to be Baritone. “That’s why he cozied up with York to take Suede off his hands. He didn’t care about her. Check all incoming flights. Put tails on all these guys as soon as they hit US airspace.”

“Yes, you did, Philip!” York snarled from the rig. “You told her how much the ring cost. That was why she was leaving me! To sell it! To run home to Daddy.”

“No, boss, no, I swear, I—”

One shot boomed from the rig. Philip, aka Baritone, dropped in the snow amidst a misty red shower. The door slammed and York stepped into the open, a black pistol in his hand.

“Chance!” Pagan roared. “Chance! Are you—?”

“Calm down,” Chance whispered as York stalked to the man he’d just killed and fired again. Point blank. In the back of the head. It would’ve been so easy. Chance had the shot of a lifetime. A single round at this range, and, poof! Suede’s problem would be solved, but not Sullivan’s.

If Pagan was right, Tennyson was behind not only York’s Old Man Mountain campout and possibly Suede’s attempted murder, but Sullivan’s order to eliminate York as well. If Tennyson couched it right, and if the press played along, American hearts would be moved to vote for the ‘poor Governor who’d lost his only child to drugs and hard living’. The fact that she’d acted out and he’d responded by publically disowning her could certainly be window-dressed during his bid for the White House as a beleaguered father doing the best he could for an out-of-control adult child.

Not that America hadn’t seen its share of crooked governors from Arkansas to New York and all the way to the Golden State, but damn. This took balls. Great big, hairy balls.

And this guy wants to be President? Jesus Christ, he’s dirty enough. He just might win.

“What the hell’s going on?” Pagan demanded.

Chance hunkered his shoulder into the side of the rig, for the first time praying for more wind and snow. The most he could do was send his brother a double click over his mic to signify he was still alive. The second York turned to go back into the rig, Chance would be out in the open, still winter camouflaged in shadow and snow, but visible if a smart man knew where and how to look.

Of course, York wasn’t trained and he wasn’t expecting company. He turned and the gun lifted in his hand, his dark eyes intent on the rig. The man looked more wolf-like than human. He swiped the long blond hair dangling into his eyes out of his way, his lips twisted in a grimace and his eyes sharp. Sinister. “Pablo!” he called to the last man in the trailer rig. “We need to talk.”

“Y-y-yes, boss?” came a quavering reply from within.

“Get out here! Now!”

“C-coming.” Squeak. Click. Alto must’ve opened the door, the fool. He’d have been smarter if he’d locked himself inside and York out. “Y-yes?

York waved his pistol for Alto to come closer. A beefy man in a plaid hunting vest, the kind with plenty of pockets, stepped into the weather. All Chance could see was the guy’s back and his trembling, raised hands, but he scanned those pockets, wondering which held Suede’s three-carat diamond. She would be getting it back.

York pointed the gun and Chance hunkered with his back flat against the rig as he watched. He was officially in York’s backstop. If that bullet went wide or through Alto…

Yeah, not thinking about that either.

Pagan’s voice broke through the tension. “I’ll bet Tennyson’s just using his friendship with Sullivan. He’s probing. He must suspect Sullivan has something to do with the SOBs. That’s why he asked for help rescuing Suede.”

Chance caught the tenderness in Pagan’s voice. So now she’s Suede, huh? “You may be right. Listen. Sit tight and—”

Another gunshot roared through the snow and Alto fell alongside his baritone partner. Chance cringed knowing now how much danger Suede had been in with York. He waited, not daring to breathe until finally, York kicked a boot full of snow onto Alto’s prone body and stomped inside, grumbling with each step. The door slammed shut. The generator came on, which was just plain interesting. Had York baited his men into talking, withholding heat until they’d thought they could speak their minds? The calculating son-of-a-bitch.

“Talk to me, brother,” Pagan pleaded. “Tell me you’re still—”

“Alive,” Chance finished for him. “Take it easy. I’ve done this once or twice before, remember?”

An audible sigh hit his eardrum. “Yeah, but last time” —Pagan cleared his throat— “Damn it. I knew I shouldn’t let you take this job. Did you get him? Did you end York?”

Yes, last time I got my guys killed when I should’ve been home with Mom. I know. God, I know. But this time’s different.

Chance shook his head. There comes a time in every black operator’s life when he truly is an island, when he’s all alone on the top of a mountain staring down his rifle sights with a man’s life in his hands. No one can make the ultimate decision to squeeze the trigger to end that life. Chance owed it to himself to not only follow protocol, but to do what was right. Sullivan might make the calls, but it was Chance’s soul on the line.

Could he have saved Alto and Baritone? Possibly. Should he have at least tried? Absolutely not. This mission had begun to end the threat against Suede and Sullivan, not to protect men who by their own admission were complicit in and seemed amused by Suede’s attempted murder.

“The way I see it, Pagan, York didn’t push Suede off the cliff because he hated her. He was sending her father a message: ‘Renege on our deal and this happens. It’s just business.’”

“Yeah, so? Did you kill him, damn it?”

“No, Baby Brother. I’ve got a better idea.”

“What?”

Chance ignored the disbelief in Pagan’s question. The wind had died, but not the snow. It fell steadily. Too quickly, Alto and Baritone’s bodies would be under a drift of the white stuff, so Chance broke cover. He worked fast as he rifled Alto’s pockets until his gloved fingertips hit the stone that belonged to Suede. Lightening Alto’s load by three carats, he tucked the ring inside his jacket pocket.

“I think Tennyson and York deserve each other,” he said as he eyed the closed door to the rig. “Call Sullivan and tell him I’ll need a lift to Oregon as soon as York’s chopper arrives and he’s out of my way.”

“You’re shittin’ me?” Pagan’s angst vibrated against Chance’s eardrum like the wings of an angry hornet. “Sullivan’s going to be pissed and what the fuck do you want me to tell Suede? You know she’s sweet on you. You told her you’d be home soon. I didn’t come home just to babysit.”

“Are you swearing at me?” Chance asked quietly as he crouched out of sight beside the rig again.

Pause. Silence. Then a perturbed and grumpy, “Maybe.”

Chance could imagine the cocky chin nod that went with that reply. He might be one tough son-of-a-bitch, but Pagan always was a spoiled brat. “What’s Mom’s rule?”

“Shit,” Pagan hissed before he recited what the Sinclair boys had heard hundreds, maybe thousands of times, “‘Anyone can swear. Only real men understand the importance of honest discourse and open dialogue in the world today.’ Blah, blah, blah. There. Are you happy now?”

Chance smirked as Scarlett Sinclair lived again. She had to be rolling over in her grave—laughing. The thought of her smile brightened what had become a dismal day. “Suede isn’t sweet on me, Little Brother. She’s been treated badly by her parents and the guy who asked her to marry him, then I happened along. That’s all. Nothing’s going on between us, so knock it off. As far as what to tell her, I explained before I left that this is what I do. Get her healthy and on her feet, then take her wherever she wants to go.” It’ll break my heart, but it’ll be better this way.

Pagan scoffed. “Tell me another lie. She’s been watching the front door like a hawk since you left. She’s waiting for you. That girl’s got feelings, Chance. You can’t do this to her.”

“I can’t do this to her or to you?”

Another stretch of silence ensued. “Fine. I’ll tell her you’ll be home as soon as you can.”

“Tell her to trust me,” Chance suggested. That much was true. She could trust him, to do what was right. Even if it meant letting her go.