The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 94

“Not smart enough,” Daniel repeated. “Give me the SIG.”

“Hmm? What?”

“SIG Sauer P228 nine-millimeter. It’s in that little storage compartment attached to the side of the door.”

I hesitated for a beat, wondering how to play it, realized there was only one way, reached down into the compartment, grabbed the SIG by the barrel, and handed it to Daniel. He opened the passenger window and tossed the gun into a ditch.

“Now the cell phone. Give it to me.”

“My cell phone. Why would you want that?”

“You built two bombs. Do you actually think I’m stupid enough to believe you made the second to use as a spare?”

“Always be prepared…”

“You hid it in the pontoon boat, Dyson. That’s why you left the cabin late last night when you thought I was asleep; you went to hide it. If things don’t go your way, you intend to blow up the money, or at least threaten to. Am I right?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. Look, Daniel. I need leverage to make sure the girl is safe. Brand—I don’t trust him. Do you?”

“I wouldn’t trust Brand as far as I could throw him. He likes to fuck with people. He lies for fun.”

“So you understand…”

“Give me the phone.”

“The girl…”

“The girl will be fine. You have my word on that. As for you—I can’t make any promises there.”

“Fair enough.”

“Now give it up.”

I pulled Jimmy’s cell phone out of my pocket and handed it to Daniel. He threw that out the window, too.

It was difficult getting the pontoon boat down the makeshift road once we reached Crane Lake. The trailer kept hopping across ruts and potholes, throwing the boat up against the trees that lined the narrow path—paint and tree bark seemed to be scraped off equally. Finally we broke into the clearing. The pickup’s headlights told me that there were six men gathered around a fire pit; the flames were bright enough to illuminate their faces, yet little else. Three men were sitting in canvas chairs—Brand, Fenelon, and the Mexican. From the way they cradled their AKs, I guessed the three men who were standing belonged to the gunrunner. The seaplane was tied to the dock, its engine facing the lake. The Subaru Forester and Chevy Malibu were parked on the left side of the clearing like before. Deputies James and Williams and their cruiser were nowhere to be seen. I knew exactly what that meant.

I swung the truck and trailer in a wide arc to the right, stopping only when the trailer was settled next to the wooden shack. The shack was open like before, and I thought, that’s where the canvas chairs came from. Off went the pickup’s headlights and engine. I didn’t realize how big and bright the moon was until I climbed out of the cab. Daniel continued to point his gun at me while we moved toward the fire.

“Do yourself a favor,” I told him. “Don’t stand too close.”

“Oh, I won’t.”

“Protect the girl.”

“I said I would.”

The Mexican’s three henchmen moved into flanking positions as we approached, one to my right and the others to my left, stopping when they found an angle that would allow them to fire on me without hitting each other. I had the distinct impression they knew exactly what they were doing.

“Veo que trajiste a tus hombres,” I told the Mexican.

I heard my words echoed in English—“I see you brought your men”—something I found quite disconcerting, until I noticed Fenelon whispering into Brand’s ear.

“Y bastantes armas también,” the Mexican said.

“And plenty of guns, too,” Fenelon repeated.

We stopped a few yards short of the fire pit. Daniel backed away while still holding his gun on me—I hadn’t asked him to move for his safety, but for mine. Brand remained sitting in his canvas chair. The flames from the fire pit reflected in his face, making him look like a movie villain. All he needed was a white cat to stroke.

“I take it I’m not to be arrested, then,” I said.

“You’re referring to Deputies James and Williams,” Brand said. “We decided not to include them in our transaction. I hope you don’t mind. Their presence made my partner nervous.”

The fire gave Brand’s teeth an orange glow when he smiled. I glanced at the Mexican. He wasn’t smiling at all.

Brand wagged a finger at me. “Trying to turn my friend against me, that was a bold move, Dyson.”

“Mátenlo,” the Mexican said.

“Kill him,” Fenelon repeated. He leaned in when he spoke, and I could see his battered face. Someone had worked him over good and proper—the sight answered all of my questions.

“Wait, wait,” Brand said—which was exactly what I was going to say. “Daniel, how did it go?”

“Perfectly. Almost too perfectly.”

“The money?”

“It’s hidden inside the lockers on the pontoon boat.”

“How much?” asked the Mexican.

“Won’t know until we count it but it’s—substantial.”

“I do not know that word.”