Last Chance To Run (6 page)

Chapter 7

“What do you
mean
there’s no print on the coffee cup? Even
I
touched that cup at one point,” Zane barked into his cell phone while he wove his truck through Ft. Lauderdale’s Wednesday afternoon traffic. That news pretty much ruined what was turning into the longest day he’d ever endured.

He eyed the dregs left in his coffee cup.

That sludge wouldn’t fix his level of sleep deprivation. Crawling into his own bed last night should have been the ticket to a solid eight to ten hours sleep, but he’d tossed and turned during the few hours he’d managed to stay horizontal.

Long bruised and bleeding legs had haunted his dreams.

He’d given up and spent the rest of the night searching the Internet for anything he could use as a lead.
Nada.

That
he understood, but
no
fingerprint on the cup?

“Sorry, Zane, I’ve been all over this thing. It’s clean as my mother’s kitchen floor,” Ben said.

“Damn.” Zane raked his hand across his head. Where else would Angel have left a print? She’d been on her own for over twenty-four hours. Was she still alive? “I’m going back to check the Titan again. I’ll swing by as soon as I get something.”

“Sooner the better or I might not be here.”

“Haven’t you had that baby yet?” Zane teased. “Thought Kerry was
gonna
pop while I was gone to Raleigh.” 

A wife, and now a baby.
Ben had chosen well.

Zane had never envied another person and wasn’t ready to settle down, but there were days he’d trade his empty life for one like his buddy’s. He’d met Ben in grade school and they’d grown up together in Texas.
Always had each other’s backs.
Even when Zane flew fighter planes halfway around the world, they’d never gone a full week without a phone call.

“She’s overdue.”  Ben’s weary voice attested to the strain of waiting to be a father for the first time. “We’re now scheduled to induce on Tuesday, if she doesn’t go into labor before that. Her doctor assured me we’d be able to reach him over Labor Day weekend. Hey, man, if I’m not here I might be able to get a friend to run the prints for you.”

“If you aren’t there, I’ll wait. I don’t want anybody else in on this. Not even Vance.”

Ben’s pause stretched too long. “Zane ... Buddy, what’re you up to?”

“I’ll tell you about it when I stop by.”  Zane wasn’t ready to discuss this yet, not even with Ben.
And definitely not over an unsecured cell phone.

“Don’t mess up your gig with the agency.”

“I don’t plan to.”  

“Wheels turn slow in the dot
gov
,” Ben sympathized, using current computer-based slang for government agency. “But investigating on your own is bad juju. If you get into deep water, they won’t blow a big investigation to pull you out.”

Too late for that advice.
“I hear you.”

Ben made a grumbling noise but didn’t push his point. “Get me a print as soon as you can and I’ll try to turn it around quick.”

“Thanks, man. See you later.”  Zane swung into the terminal of Sunshine Airfield and parked next to the Titan. He yawned as he opened the cargo door then jerked his head back. Good God. Mouse stink left over from the critters woke him up like no caffeine could.

A slash of light from the late afternoon sun reflected off of something small just beneath the copilot seat.

Standing on the ground, he moved his shoulders down to eye level with the corner of the seat. He leaned close to confirm what he saw.

A silver band.

Sometimes the best tool was his small pocketknife. He used the blade tip to move the band out from under the seat. It had been cut in half and crimped in several spots.

His stowaway had made good use of the time when he’d left her in the Titan while he met with his High Vision representative. This had to be a tracking device. And he’d bet she’d used his tools to cut it off of her arm.

He’d lift a print off of
this
.

Zane could do that, thanks to Ben.

When Vance had offered Zane serious cash for keeping his ears open and passing on any tips that would help the DEA, Ben had spent a day teaching him how to pull fingerprints
just in case
. He’d given Zane the small box that contained aluminum dusting powder and a zephyr brush. Wearing latex gloves and safety glasses, he brushed everything that Angel could have come in contact with, including the silver band and the tools in his toolbox.

A half hour later, he hadn’t found a single fingerprint, meaning she’d intentionally wiped the areas clean.

Not an encouraging sign for a person with nothing to hide.

And now he had to clean the damn powder off of everything in the cabin. 

Who was she hiding from? He’d searched online for any police activity in the Raleigh area from the night before. Nothing significant had shown up, leading him to believe someone chased her for personal reasons.

Hack said the guys who’d come barreling into his airport had left just as quickly. And that the vehicles had some sort of triangle logo on the car doors. Whoever chased Angel had deep pockets.

The lack of fingerprints stumped Zane.

Why would she go to the trouble of hiding her identity from a pilot? Did she think he’d call in the police?

Probably.
That’s what
he
would think, if he were in her grubby yellow running shoes. In fact, he’d offered to call ahead to have the police meet them in Jacksonville.

Damn. That had to be why she ran.

But what did she have to hide?

Someone wanted her back badly enough to band her with a tracking device and send men who played rough.

Zane clenched his fists.
Spineless bastard.
He’d seen the brutal marks on Angel’s body. He couldn’t blame her for covering her tracks so well, but he should have pushed for more information, a last name at least.

Even as he considered it, he knew it wouldn’t have happened. Pushing a terrified woman ranked right up there with booting a puppy. 

He wiped the powder off the toolbox then picked it up to reposition
it,
and something gold rolled out from behind it.

He snapped on his latex gloves again and lifted the small ball up to view.

On a flat side of the golf-ball-shaped object, an embedded compass gave him a northeast heading from where he stood. And the compass was dead-on. That meant the thing was non-magnetic.
Probably made of solid gold.

Damned expensive paperweight.

What was this thing doing in his aircraft?

There was only one reason for a compass to end up lost in his airplane last night. A passenger had lost it.

And he’d carried only one passenger in months.

Angel.

Zane grinned at this break. Lifting a print from the pebbled surface was
beyond his skill level, but if he could convince Ben to do a little overtime, the genius print matcher would have an identity for him by Thursday morning.

Chapter 8

Mason assessed each of the six men standing in a line on the back lawn of his property. Long shadows stretched from the trees behind them as if the setting sun wanted to point out each one responsible for the fury burning his scalp.

Someone needed killing.

It was beyond the pale that these men had lost Angelina. He hired the best when it came to security for a reason. Jeff had been the exception and he’d been around for a long time. He’d been loyal, certainly.

But he’d outlived his usefulness.

Jeff
should
have been able to keep Angelina contained.

And yet in hindsight, Mason could understand Jeff’s screwing up.

But these men?

Ten armed and dangerous guards, including these six, had allowed one woman to escape.

He couldn’t tolerate ineptness and every one of these men knew it. But now was not the time to vent his frustration. Now was the time for results. The best way to get what he wanted was to offer an incentive. “Kenner will go over the plan when we’re through here. I want Angelina back. I’ll award a half million dollars to the man who brings her in alive and with the eight coins she stole from me.”

A pittance compared to what those coins – and vengeance – were worth.

Six sets of eyes stared back with cold confidence.

Kenner ordered the men to meet him in the guard quarters. Once they dispersed, Kenner told Mason, “We need a tracker.”

“Agreed.”
  Mason had men in Jacksonville checking every way out of the city by public or mass transportation. “Get a list of the best
who
can be discreet. I’ll be in my office.” 

When he walked into the office in his private estate outside of Raleigh, he eyed the glass case where he’d placed the coins. He’d been certain that Angelina believed him when he told her he had eye witnesses willing to testify that she was seen leaving the museum at the time of the coin theft.

That should have brought her to heel.

But the bitch had stolen the coins instead.

He still couldn’t believe it.

His cell phone played a piece of music with dire notes, meaning the caller was unknown. The only person he’d given this number to who
didn’t already have a ringtone was Angelina. Had she come to her senses?

Grinning, he answered, “
Lorde
.”

“Listen very carefully as I do not repeat myself,” a decidedly male voice ordered.

Mason cut in, “Who the hell is this?”

“You can call me
Czarion
. Have you found the coins yet?”

Shock didn’t begin to describe Mason’s first reaction. His second one was to yank the phone away and check ... no caller ID. His next move was to pull it back and say, “What coins?”

A lofty sigh came across the lines then
Czarion
said, “I don’t have time for this. You stole eight
St.
Gaulden’s
Double Eagle
coins, one of which is a 1933. You intended to trade them to a German for a panel from the Amber Room.”

Mason sat down in his chair.
Hard.
It couldn’t be the FBI. They didn’t call up and discuss a felony when they could just raid the compound.

“Since
we
both know that you
had
the coins, let’s move this along. For someone as adept at art theft as you are, Mr.
Lorde
, I would have thought you’d do a better job of protecting those coins.”

Criticizing Mason generally ended with bloodshed. The insult pissed him off enough that he regained his footing. “What’s your interest in the coins?”

“Better. Now we can deal with the business part of this call. You will locate those coins within five days and be prepared to deliver them to me when you do.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, you’ll pay a hefty price starting with your operation.”

Mason wouldn’t be paying the price. This idiot would.
Just as soon as Mason located him.
“Threatening my operation could be bad for your health. Interfering with it would be
painful
and deadly.”

“You should realize by now that you’re dealing with someone far out of your league.”

The ego of some men amazed Mason. He leaned back in his chair, amused by someone stupid enough to threaten him. This guy obviously had no idea of the depth of Mason’s resources and how quickly he’d stomp a pest. “Maybe you should enlighten me on just how far out of my league you are so I can show proper respect.”

When the line remained silent for a moment, Mason gloated.

Czarion
spoke again. “You own forty-three locations, which include
distinctive properties in New York, Atlanta, Raleigh, Dallas, and Los Angeles. Twelve are warehouses where you store both legal and illegal inventory...” 
Czarion
spouted a list of items that no person should have access to besides Mason.  “During your trip to Palm Beach eight days ago, you completed a trade with the Russian broker
Valkimir
. I was surprised to learn of the Degas and Ming vase in your New York vault as both had belonged to a sheik I’d believed had better security. That should remove any doubt on your part as to the vulnerability of your operation.”

Son of a bitch!
Mason stood, clutching the phone so hard his hand shook. Who was this guy and how could he know that much?

He calmed himself. Losing control lost battles and he intended to win this one. He wanted this asshole’s head in jar to put in his office. “What do you want?”

“At the risk of repeating myself, the coins.”

“Are you after the Amber Room panel?”  Mason had acquired the gold coins specifically to trade for an eighteenth century artifact from the room sculpted of amber, considered by many to be the eighth wonder of the world. King
Fredrich
Wilhelm I had gifted it to Tsar Peter the Great who had once admired the room. The Tsar had moved it to
Königsberg
Castle, the one the damned Russians had destroyed during World War II.

They’d torched the castle
after
the room had been looted.

Czarion
said, “I’ve already told you what I want. I’ll contact you in five days, on Monday, unless you retrieve the coins sooner, which I’ll know. If you fail to meet my deadline, I’ll destroy one of your properties, regardless of
who
or what is nearby. And there will be clear evidence pointing the finger at you for the body count. I’ll continue to destroy one property each day until you fulfill your part of this agreement ... that is until you run out of possessions. And then I will kill you.”

After years of dealing with liars, Mason knew when he heard the truth. Muscles in his neck tightened with the rage pulsing through him. “You can have the coins.”

“That was never in question.”

Ignoring him, Mason considered one way to solve all his problems right now. He tested
Czarion
one more time. “Since you know so much, I’m surprised you don’t know who has the coins.”

“Oh, but I do. Angelina
Farentino
took them when she escaped your compound.
Can’t say that I blame the girl, considering your perverted sex habits.”

You’ll die in slow agony, because I’ll keep you alive and awake for a
very long time once I find you.
“Why are you calling me if you know who has the coins?” 

“You interfered with my plans when your men captured the thief who’d originally targeted the coins. You tortured him to find out the name of the German buyer and how the thief had planned to get past security. Had you not done so, I would be talking to him. You took the coins. You lost them. You get them back. And do it in a way that does not draw the attention of law enforcement.”

The line went dead.

Mason fought the urge to scramble a team to find this
Czarion
. He didn’t give two
shits
for the people around his properties
who
would die. He had insurance to cover the loss of his investments.
But not his exceptional art inventory.

Because no one had known he had it. Not until now.

A knock rapped at the door. When Mason called his man in, Kenner entered. “I’ve got the list.”

Standing, Mason shook his head. “Not necessary. I realize who I have to send, but I want you to review everyone in charge of our warehouses, and start with the ones that hold my private art.”  He called the stolen pieces
private art
to all of his staff, to prevent a verbal slip up by someone who didn’t possess his level of discipline.

“Sure.
Anything in particular?”

“I want to know if you suspect anyone of giving out information on our operation.”

“Yes, sir.”
Kenner left.

Mason raised his phone into view and hit a speed dial number to the one person absolutely capable of finding and capturing Angelina.
A top-level operator.
Mason seldom used him because he was expensive, unpredictable, and hard to control, but this situation called for bringing in a true predator.

When the call connected, Mason said, “I have a job for you, CK.”