She stares at me for a long time before she shrugs her shoulders and shoves the photos off her crossword puzzle, nearly pushing them to the floor. I catch them before they drop and put them right back where they were. This time, I keep a hand on the top of them so she can’t pull that shit again.
“Listen, you want to get back to doing your thing, and I want to get this job done. The sooner you help me out, the sooner I help you out by leaving.” I lift both photos up for her to see them. “Now, this man kidnapped this boy. He’s a friend of the family who’s in a lot of trouble and got desperate. He’s armed and dangerous, and the longer he has the boy, the more likely he’s not safe.”
“Don’t look like much of a boy to me,” she huffs. “More like a baby giraffe.”
“Yeah, he’s fourteen, and he’s tall for his age. He’s also got a smart mouth but too little common sense to know when to shut up. What he does have, though, is a mother and a baby sister who love him. The family wants this resolved quietly, if you understand me.”
“I might have seen them,” she says. “Can’t be sure, though.”
I hate this game. So. Fucking. Much.
“How much is it going to cost to jog your memory?” I ask. She pauses for a long moment to think on it. “I don’t have time for you to figure out how much you can bleed me dry for. Just throw out a number.”
“Five hundred,” she says with raised eyebrows and a stern expression. I laugh and shake my head.
“Lady, I have a fully loaded piece and two tarps in the back of my truck. You better rethink that number.”
“Fine. No need to get nasty. Fifty bucks.”
I pull out two twenties and a ten and slide it across the counter to her. She straightens up, grabs the money, and checks the computer to her right. In a few clicks, she nods to herself, and turns the monitor toward me. A window in the corner of the screen has what looks like a digital log book for reservations. Covering the rest of the screen is rolling video surveillance of Rig and Zander checking in.
“This them?”
“Yeah, where are they staying?” She doesn’t answer my question right away. I’m close, so fucking close to getting Zander back and putting Rig in the ground. I tap the counter top and lean in. She huffs—again—and waits another minute.
“Cabin twenty-eight,” she mumbles and turns the monitor back her direction. After grabbing a map of the camp grounds, she circles one of the cabins toward the back and shoves the paper at me. “They checked in two nights ago. Seemed fine at the time.”
“Thank you,” I say and take the paper. “I hope they haven’t checked out yet, or I’ll be back, and I’ll be bringing my man and the boy’s momma, and they’re not nearly as pleasant as I am.”
“They’re there,” she says loudly. Her voice is rough irritation. If I sounded like her, I probably wouldn’t talk much either. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“I find this kid and there won’t be any,” I say and walk out. I open the passenger door to the truck and climb in, directing Diesel, who’s at the wheel, to cabin twenty-eight.
“The lady at the desk says they haven’t checked out yet. She has surveillance footage of them checking in. Zander looked fine despite the fuzzy footage. No limp, no awkward body language. We’re getting your boy back, babe.”
Amber reaches up and squeezes my shoulder as she says, “Thank you.”
Diesel pulls up the truck to cabin twenty-five and parks. He cuts the engine and turns to face us as he checks the guns he has on him to make sure they’re fully loaded and the safeties are off. Nobody wants a shoot-out, but we have to be ready for anything. Amber hands me my guns, knife, and handcuffs from the duffle bag. I strap my M9 into my bra, via the most uncomfortable holster I’ve ever worn, and my .22 to my hip. The knife gets strapped to my ankle, and the handcuffs hook onto my hip holster.
“I take lead. V-formation. Elle takes lead on extraction,” Diesel says as he climbs out of the truck. We follow his lead and walk around to his side of the truck. My eyes scan our surroundings, but nothing really catches my attention. Amber rolls her shoulders and stares at Diesel blankly. Her jaw ticks.
“He’s my son.”
“And you’re too emotional. You’re desperate—as you should be—because you’re his mother. Bad enough I’m the only remotely objective person here, but I can’t send you up there to pull your own boy out. I don’t care how smart or good of a shot you are. Plus, Rig called Elle. It makes the most sense.”
“Fine,” she says and walks away. She’s checking out the other cabins and cars. None of them are particularly close by, but it’s smart to soak in as much of our surroundings as possible before we head in, especially since we don’t know what we’re walking into.