Radclyffe - Price of Honor

“That doesn’t matter now.”

“Are you sure you’re not being watched?”

“I’d know. And if I was, they wouldn’t be watching . They don’t have that kind of patience.”

“I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

“I’ll order the burgers.”

Hooker laughed flatly. “Fine. Make mine with cheese and fries.”

Jane hung up and signaled to the waitress. “I’ll have a refill on the coffee. I’m waiting for a friend.” She ordered cheeseburgers for both of them and fries for Hooker. “Give it half an hour.”

“Sure, honey,” the waitress said without giving her more than a glance and hurried off to slap the ticket down on the counter in front of the short-order cook.

The burgers came, and five minutes after that Hooker walked in. His hair was a little longer than when she’d seen him in Georgia and his body bulkier in a dark brown canvas coat, work pants, and boots. A day’s worth of stubble blunted his heavy features. But his was a face she couldn’t forget. She’d last seen him when she’d handed him a vial of live virus, but she’d imagined killing him a hundred times since then.

She thought about reaching for the semiautomatic nestled in the waistband of her pants at the base of her spine and shooting him as he walked toward her. He was the reason Jennifer was in prison. He’d handed off the delivery to a go-between who’d botched everything. If he’d made the exchange himself, keeping the number of people involved to a minimum, no one would’ve known. The president would be dead or severely compromised, and Jennifer would be free. Her father would be alive. And they’d be another step closer to victory.

He deserved to be punished, another lesson she’d learned in childhood. Simple justice, an eye for an eye. But right now, he was her only connection to the people who could get her the kinds of things she needed to finish the mission. He looked around, studying the few patrons in the diner. At close to nine, most everyone was off the roads and inside where it was warm. A few truckers sat at the counter, hunched over coffees and plates of food, and two teenagers occupied one side of a booth at the very end of the long railroad-car-styled room, necking. He studied her with no expression, walked down the scuffed red-and-black-tiled aisle, and slid into the booth across from her. He glanced down at the burger, then back at her. “You cut your hair.”

“I need a contact between here and Colorado Springs to provide me a product.”

Hooker took a bite of the hamburger. “Not a bad burger.” He wiped his mouth and picked up a fry. “Guns?”

Jane shook her head. “Explosives.”

Hooker took a bite of a fry, then popped the rest into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “That’s not an easy choice of weapon—you need to get close to somebody—and you’re likely to get blown up yourself.”

“That’s not something you need to worry about.”

“I’ve got two hundred and fifty thousand reasons to worry.”

Jane reached down beside her, picked up the wrinkled supermarket bag, and placed it on the table next to her plate. She put her hand on it. “You give me the information I need, and you’ll have fifty thousand less reasons to worry.”

“It’ll take some time.”

“Six tomorrow morning. I’ll be gone after that, and I’ll find another way to get what I need. When I meet the contact and receive the product, I’ll wire you the money.”

He shook his head. “Cash now. Information in the morning.”

“Ten now, the rest upon delivery.” Jane slid the bag into her lap and extracted the ten grand she’d secured with a rubber band. She tossed it under the table onto the seat beside him. She’d figured he’d want an incentive. She doubted his boss would ever see that money. “I’ll call you at six. Thanks for dinner.”

Chapter Nine

Dusty glanced at her phone. Almost 2200. “I guess we ought to get going.”

“I know,” Viv said. “Three thirty’s going to come awfully early.”

Dusty made no move to get up and neither did Viv. She didn’t really want to go, but Atlas was waiting for her. He’d be fine in his kennel at the training center, but he was used to going home earlier and having her around almost all the time. They were rarely separated because she rarely did anything other than go to work and spend the evenings reading or walking Atlas through the streets for hours on end. He loved the walks and she loved watching—the people on the sidewalks, the monuments glinting like bejeweled palaces, the night sky turning from hazy orange and red to deep purple and midnight black. The splashes of colors were like the paintings in the museums she visited over and over again on her days off. Those were about the only times Atlas didn’t come with her. There’d been a time, briefly, when she’d been young, that she’d thought she might want to be a painter. Her parents hadn’t exactly discouraged her in so many words, but her father had gently pointed out that being an artist was no way to make a living and besides, there was no money for the kinds of materials she would need, to even see if she was any good at it. She’d contented herself with absorbing the natural canvases that sprang up around her every morning and night through the ever-changing seasons in the countryside.

“What were you thinking of just then?” Viv said quietly.

A flush crept up Dusty’s cheeks, heating them. “Sorry.”

“Why? You don’t have to tell me, by the way, but you don’t need to apologize either.”

“No, I…” Dusty pushed a hand through her hair, knowing she’d probably blown the evening. “I was just thinking about paintings.”

Viv’s eyebrow lifted. “Paintings? Why?”

“I was thinking that I didn’t want to leave, and Atlas would wonder where I am.”

“Oh,” Viv said quickly. “I’m sorry. I almost forgot about him. I’ve been selfish keeping you out here so late.”

Dusty shook her head. “No, it’s not that. He’ll be fine. But I was thinking that I don’t usually leave him except when I go to the museums.”

“Oh. The paintings.” Viv smiled softly. “I remember now. That remark about the Modigliani.”

“I wasn’t sure you heard that. I shouldn’t have said that out loud.” Dusty grimaced. She was making things worse. Why was it so hard to say what she meant instead of bits and pieces that came out all wrong?

“Why not? I’m flattered.”

“You are? Because you’re very beautiful, and I said—”

Viv reached across the table and grasped her hand. “Dusty, being compared to a magnificent work of art is not an insult.”

“I know, but you know, the Modiglianis are not exactly lifelike.”

“Not realistic as in a photograph, no, but they are memorable.”

“And striking,” Dusty said softly. “Mesmerizing.”

Viv’s eyes, so beautifully shaped and deep, deepened further. A faint blush tinted her cheeks. “There, you see. How could any woman be insulted?”

“I’m glad you’re not.”

“What else do you do? I mean, besides the walks and museums.”

“Not very much.” Dusty shrugged. She patted the pocket of her jacket and pulled out an eReader. “I like to read.”

“I imagine if a routine day is anything for you like it is for us, you spend a lot of time sitting and waiting.”

“Standing and waiting, usually.”

“Oh, right. Okay, let me guess.” Viv’s brow furrowed. “Something tells me you’re not reading thrillers or suspense. Not a work-related topic. You probably just can’t suspend disbelief long enough. History—maybe. But—I really think it’s…romance novels.”

Dusty straightened. “How would you know that?”