J. Jance - Minor in possession

Owens didn't stop as he answered. "Their boss-man, some asshole named Monty, gave us two hours to come down here to the house, collect the money, and get back. If we're not back by the deadline, he'll kill Michelle."

"So what's the matter with calling the sheriff? It's a kidnapping, for Chrissake. Call in the fucking F.B.I."

Guy Owens turned to Rhonda. "What's your name?"

"Rhonda," she answered. "Rhonda Attwood." He did a momentary double take as her name registered, then he caught himself.

"Get the truck then load all that money back in the briefcase, Rhonda. We'll need to take that along. And you," he said to me. "Help me get these creeps loaded into their Isuzu. They made me drive. I left the keys in the ignition. We'll bring it right up to the door so the neighbors don't get an eyeful."

Without a word, Rhonda jumped to do his bidding. She left the money where it was and went to get the Trooper. I lingered for a moment, and Guy Owens rose to his feet, leaving Paco and Tony on the floor with their feet duct-taped together and their forearms taped to their thighs. Almost the same size, we stood there glaring at one another across the two bound men.

Unlike me, Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens was used to having his orders followed without question. When I didn't move, he finally lost patience.

"Get with it," he bellowed into my face. "You want me to call the sheriff, do you? Well, I called the goddamn sheriff yesterday and they wouldn't even take a goddamn report. Said Michelle was probably a runaway. Said to call them tomorrow if I didn't hear from her today."

Dismissing me, Owens turned away and started toward Paco as Rhonda came back in through the door. Obeying his orders to the letter, she had left the Trooper right outside with its motor running.

Owens picked up Paco and began muscling him toward the door.

"These two jokers picked me up this morning while I was out jogging and dragged me up the mountain to meet their boss. He wanted me to see for myself that they were holding Michelle. As soon as she saw me, Misha told them where to find the missing briefcase. Monty sent us back here to get it and said that if I tried anything funny, if any cops showed up when we came back, he'd kill her. Now do you understand?"

I was beginning to. "Where is she?"

"Up in the mountains at a place called Montezuma Pass. It's near the southern end of the Huachucas in the Coronado National Monument. From the rest area up there, Monty can see for miles in any direction. He'd know well in advance if I was bringing help with me. If we throw some clothes over these two clowns and fasten them in the car with the empty AK-47 next to Tony's shoulder so it looks like he's still got me covered, we may be able to trick him."

"What about us?" Rhonda called from behind us as she snapped the briefcase shut on the last of the money. "What can we do to help?"

"I thought about that while I was out getting the tape," Owens answered. "Monty doesn't know you, and he doesn't know that little blue car of yours. It's Sunday. Lots of people go up into the Huachucas for picnics on Sundays.

"You two go on ahead," Guy Owens continued. "Monty won't expect help to get there before I do. Michelle is in a blue Blazer parked near the restroom. When I get up there, I'll create a diversion somehow, draw Monty away from his truck, while you go in and try to get Michelle out."

I don't know if Guy Owens' job called for him to be a military strategist, but he sure as hell was one. In minutes he had evaluated the forces available and come up with a plan that was gutsy enough that it just might work.

"Gotcha," I said, and started moving Tony toward the door. Rhonda, holding the AK-47, hurried ahead to open the door for all of us.

"Help Guy with our passengers," she said briskly. "I'll go back and get the money."

We loaded the bound and muzzled Paco and Tony into the Trooper and taped them into place with more duct tape, fastening them securely to seat belts and seat supports. Guy taped the stripped-down AK-47 to Tony's shoulder. That way, it would be invisible through the blacked-out side and rear windows, but for someone up on a mountain watching with binoculars, the silhouette of the weapon would be clearly visible through the windshield. Meanwhile, Rhonda had the presence of mind to put together a packet that contained a blanket, thermos, and enough food to make us look like a pair of legitimate picnickers.

Rhonda took my. 38, checked it in a very businesslike manner, and put it inside her jacket pocket. I took possession of the 9-mm. Owens disappeared into his bedroom and returned carrying his military dress-uniform side arm, a formidable Colt. 45 that looked more like a cannon than a handgun.

Years before, Rhonda told us, she had been to Montezuma Pass on a weekend camp-out with a Girl Scout troop that had hiked the Huachuca Mountains' Crest Trail. Since she knew the way, Rhonda drove. Like a bat out of hell.

The Beretta had shown a mere twelve hundred miles on its odometer when we had picked it up at Sky Harbor International earlier that morning. None of those miles could have been nearly as tough as the ones Rhonda put on it that afternoon. By comparison, our jaunt up Yarnell Hill in her Spider several days earlier could have been a tame carousel ride.

Once we were off Highway 92, the road was paved for only a mile or two. As soon as it changed to chuck-holed gravel, we started climbing. The road was steep and full of switchbacks and one-lane turns, but Rhonda drove with fierce concentration, heeling the Beretta around corners and gunning the engine on the straightaways.

"How'd you know it was JoJo's briefcase?" I asked. Making asinine conversation helped take my mind off her driving.

"I told you. I recognized it, initials and all. He hasn't used it in years, I'm sure, but he's physically incapable of letting loose of old briefcases. He must have a dozen or so lined up out in his garage. He had half that many when I move out, and obviously, if he still has this one, he hasn't thrown away any of them."

"And the combination? How did you know that after all these years?"

"His birthday. Not very original, is it?"

The car sawed dangerously as she wheeled it around a washboarded curve faster than she should have. I swallowed the lump in my throat as she fought the bucking Beretta back under control.

"What are we going to do when we get there?" she asked.

"Find a place discreetly close to the blue Blazer, throw down our blanket, and neck up a storm."

"Are you kidding?" she demanded.

"No. I'm not kidding. There's nothing so boring as watching somebody else neck. If we make it embarrassing enough, maybe Monty will forget about us entirely."

"It'll be dangerous, won't it?"

"No more dangerous than being shoved around by that creep in the 4-X-4 last night. Besides, if Guy's got his information straight, there'll be three of us and only one of him. But we'll have to move fast, before he figures out how come his friends aren't getting out of the Trooper."

She nodded her understanding, and I reached over to pat her leg. "Are you scared?"

"Not yet. Later, I guess, right?"

"Right," I answered. "Later."

By then we were nearing the top of the pass, but the idiot light in the dashboard was beginning to glow dully. The engine was overheating. The Beretta was built for sedate freeway driving. Rhonda Attwood was treating it like a damn mountain goat.

With the temperature light glowing bright red and a cloud of steam rolling out from under the hood, we pulled into the rest area parking lot near the top of the mountain. There were only three other cars parked in the lot, two of them sedans side by side near the restroom building. One was a robin's-egg-blue Dodge Dart with South Dakota plates, while the other, a four-door Dodge Aries from Arizona, wore a bumper sticker that said, "We're spending our children's inheritance."