Page 9 of Final Sins
One ring. Two. Then?—
“Hello?” The voice on the other end was reedy. Nervous. A weakness he’d exploit, then eliminate.
“The package is en route,” he said, voice carefully modulated. “Contact me upon arrival.”
“And then you’ll handle it, right? The whole thing. Just like we agreed.”
Fury rose in his throat, acrid as bile. He squeezed the phone. “I already told you. We have a deal. Question me again, and I’m out. Are we clear?”
“Sure. Yes. Right. Sorry.” The words tumbled out, a desperate litany.
He took a steadying breath. “Once you can confirm that Jason Reilly is there, contact me through the usual channel.”
“Dead drop A.”
The man closed his eyes, counting to ten. When he spoke, his voice was pure ice. “Why don’t you just broadcast the entire plan on social media? Yes. The agreed upon drop.”
“What then?”
“You’re not in the loop on that. The rest will unfold at my discretion. Leave the signal then stay out of the way.”
“I can do that.”
Possibly. If not, he’d have a contingency plan on hand. The Outsider could be eliminated earlier than planned.
“I’ll be invisible. I’ve already got plans to?—”
He hung up, tossing the phone onto the table beside him. The chirping crickets seemed louder now, their song a mocking reminder of all the variables still in play.
But he’d come too far to falter now. The pieces were in motion. All that remained was to see the game through to its bloody, inevitable conclusion.
He reached for his scotch, allowing himself a small smile. By this time tomorrow, it would all be over. His bank account would get a huge bump. And the highest levels of Seven-Five would know he was a man they could trust.
He held his glass up to the rising moon, enjoying the play of light through the cut crystal.
To the victor belong the spoils.
6
Alex Mendoza staredout the rental RV’s tinted window, her reflection a study in barely contained fury. Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, she radiated the kind of tension that could snap a lesser person in two.
Her client was hours late.
In her line of work, tardiness spelled disaster.
She drummed her fingers against the windowsill, each tap a silent count of the seconds ticking by. Absently, her other hand stroked the long, thin scar on her forearm. A reminder not to trust quickly. Or deeply.
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding,” she whispered, the familiar verse from Proverbs 3:5 a balm to her frayed nerves.
The vast, moonlit expanse of Craters of the Moon National Monument stretched before her, its eerie landscape a fitting backdrop for her darkening mood. She’d built her reputation on meticulous planning and flawless execution. Now, watching the empty road that snaked through the valley below, control slipped through her fingers like sand.
And if there was one thing she despised more than tardiness, it was losing control.
The last vestiges of sunlight had long since faded from the horizon, leaving the volcanic landscape bathed in an eerie, otherworldly glow. The rising moon cast long shadows across the jagged terrain, transforming the lava fields into a monochromatic sea of black and silver. From their vantage point on a ridge two miles from the rendezvous coordinates, Alex and her team had an unobstructed view of the solitary road.
Their vehicle, a generic rental RV her cyber security specialist, Mac MacCallister had acquired the minute they hit Boise, was anything but generic inside. Its innocuous exterior belied the tens of thousands of dollars of equipment they’d schlepped from their plane, creating a mobile command center on steroids. With Mac’s equipment up and running, they could monitor anything they wanted within a fifty-mile radius. Minimum.
She uncurled her legs and paced the length of the RV, her irritation palpable. Every minute that ticked by ratcheted up the tension inside their rolling fortress.