At the airport, I stepped off the running board of the big-wheeled truck and handed the cell phone back to the old man who had given me a ride. I’d given him a fifty and fed him breakfast, watching him laugh as I ate enough food to feed a platoon of soldiers. Men seemed to like to watch me eat, which was weird, but if it kept them happy and out of my business I was content. It took a lot of calories to shift, and four fast-food paper bags and more than a dozen wrappers littered the floor of the truck cab. He waved and gunned the cranky motor even before the door closed. He was color-blind and hadn’t noticed the blood; I’d been lucky. Not so much with the pilot—the pilot I was halfway convinced had told someone where I’d be today.
Dan—which I hadn’t remembered from his name tag—studied me as he walked over, not missing the dirt, dried blood, or my general state of mess. “You’re late.”
I lifted a shoulder as if to say, Sue me, but I said nothing.
“This way,” he said. “Stay close so no one sees the blood.” Personable, talkative fellow. He should be on radio. I buttoned my jacket and held the tote over my bloody shirt. The flyboy avoided the metal detectors, leading me through the back of the terminal where only VIPs and flight personnel go, to the Learjet. I stopped at the base of the stairs as the pilot climbed up.
The blood had been washed off the pavement. There was no crime scene tape. No indication that I had fought for my life and Tory had been injured. “Is Tory okay?” I asked.
“He’ll live.” Flyboy didn’t turn around.
“Chatty, aren’t you?”
He didn’t reply. “See you in Seattle, then,” I told him. I climbed the stairs, grabbed my luggage, and went straight to the shower, where I took a long hot one before we taxied out. And then I pulled on sweats, hid my bloody clothes, stuffed the vial of dirt and blood and the blue-eyed blood-servant’s pocket watch into my duffel. I stuffed the duffel under a bunk and studied the door. I wasn’t happy about sleeping in a small confined space with a possible enemy only feet away, and I figured that if vamps slept here by day, they would have a mechanism to lock the door. They did. I slammed home two steel braces that were built into the door, arranged so they would lock into the steel frame of the jamb. Nice. Secure, I strapped myself into a bed in the sleeping cabin, fumbled for the Lear phone, and called Bruiser.
He answered with “Details.” He didn’t sound happy. I had called him on the old geezer’s cell and reported that I was alive, but that the fancy cell Leo had provided was dead. Bruiser had been gratifyingly relieved to hear my voice, and irritated when I wouldn’t use up Geezer’s minutes on a full report. I had taken his time by sharing my concerns about the pilot instead. Bruiser was a step ahead of me and had already launched a full-scale, deep background investigation into Flyboy Dan, his finances, lifestyle, and love life. Because he was a part-time contract guy, the original background search hadn’t been as intense as the one for the regular pilot had been. Now his life was getting the fine-tooth-comb deal.
Safe in the Lear, I gave the demanded detailed report, leaving out any mention of Beast, of course, filling in the time between the crash and the call on Geezer’s phone with being knocked unconscious. Though I’m sure they had their suspicions, Leo and his people didn’t really know what I was. Bruiser had tried to find me, but the GPS on the phone and the GPS on the car both went out with the accident. Though there had been flyovers by helicopters in the general vicinity, which was news to me; no one had spotted the wreck. Bruiser had called every hospital and law enforcement agency in a hundred miles of Sedona and discovered that one man had come in with “self-inflicted, accidental” GSW—gunshot wound. Yeah. Right. The man had gone into surgery and then disappeared from the recovery room. Like, literally disappeared. He didn’t even show up on security cameras. He just vanished. Poof. But at least there wouldn’t be any pesky cop questions.
“Get some sleep,” Bruiser said when I was done. He clicked off. If I had been hoping for some sweet chat or pillow talk, I was disappointed. I rolled over, tucked the phone in its little nook, and closed my eyes. I was aware when we landed, the rising roar of the engines and the bump of touchdown, but I didn’t wake. I slept until just before four p.m.
And woke to the smell/sizzle of steak wafting under the door. I got up, dressed in clean clothes, black jeans this time with a black velvet jacket, black silk shirt, braided hair, and holstered guns. I’m not girlie, so dressing didn’t take long. The weapons, however, did.
I wasn’t satisfied with the weapons I’d carried last night. I wanted more than just a nine-millimeter loaded with silver shot. I hadn’t had enough firepower to stop the bad guys at the crash site—who had been human, not vamp. I wanted everything I had and I wanted every possible bad guy to know I carried it. Walk softly and carry a big stick. Or stomp loudly and carry enough firepower to start a small war. Whatever worked.