Goliad stared a few seconds longer, as though committing Rye’s face to memory, then returned his attention to Brynn. “Bottom line, you walked into a crime scene and were taken to the sheriff’s office to give your statement.”
“Which took much longer than I anticipated,” Brynn said, feigning asperity when what she actually felt was apprehension. There was no question now that Rye had been right. These men had been keeping track of her on behalf of the Hunts.
Trying not to appear unnerved, she continued. “Thanks to Dr. Lambert’s intervention, the matter was settled. Did he tell you about my car?”
The man nodded.
“Since it can’t be driven, Deputy Wilson was kind enough to arrange a car rental for me. When you saw us in the café, we were waiting for the man to deliver it.”
“Except you snuck out the back with the flying ace.” That from the fox-faced Timmy, who gave Rye a wicked grin. Rye didn’t grin back.
Brynn said to Goliad, “It seemed to be taking a long time. I feared there had been a breakdown in communication. In the meantime, Mr. Mallett had borrowed a car, the Honda you mentioned.” She tilted her head, asking Goliad, “By the way, how did you know about that?”
“Go on with your story.”
“There is no story. Mr. Mallett offered to give me a ride to Atlanta.”
The punk made a nasal sound. “In exchange for nooky.”
Rye moved nothing except his eyes, which cut to Timmy. “Bet your mouth wouldn’t be so clever if you didn’t have that blade up your sleeve.”
Timmy’s smug grin vanished. He took a step toward Rye. “You wanna—”
“Timmy. Drop it.”
Goliad’s voice snapped like a whip, effectively halting Timmy and whatever form of attack he had planned. He backed down but continued to glare at Rye with malevolence.
Goliad said to Brynn, “Dr. Lambert assured my employers that you would be rushing back. But you’re not. What are you doing here with him?”
“None of your damn business,” Rye said.
“But it is, Mr. Mallett.”
“I don’t see how. The doctor here is a grownup. She isn’t married.” He looked over at Brynn. “Are you?”
Before she could respond, Goliad asked, “Where’s the box?”
Rye muttered, “That damn thing.”
The big guy turned to him. “What’s it to you?”
“I hauled it from Columbus, having no idea what was in it. If I’d’ve known, I would have put it in the back of the plane, the far back, not in the seat right next to me. Feel like Dracula. I’ve flown lots of weird cargo, but never a box of blood. Or if I did, I didn’t know it.”
Brynn jumped in. “He saw what was inside when the deputies made me open the box.”
Goliad’s obsidian gaze gave the room another sweep before returning to her. “I ask again, where is it?”
Before she could answer, Rye said, “It was kinda killing the mood for me. I shoved it under the bed.”
At a gesture from Goliad, Timmy went down on one knee, raised the hem of the bedspread, and looked beneath the bed. He stood up with the box held between his hands.
“Thanks, shorty.” Before anyone was prepared for it, Rye snatched the box from Timmy.
Goliad took two steps toward him, but he was drawn up short by the pistol in Rye’s right hand, aimed at his chest. “Timmy, you try sticking me, and I’ll blow a hole through your elbow.”
Brynn gasped, “Rye, what are you doing?”
Goliad patted the air. “Last thing my boss wants is trouble.”
“Well, I’ve already got trouble with your boss for sending you to bang on my door and demand to be let in.”
“Put the gun down,” Goliad said. “Timmy, back off. Everybody take a deep breath.”
“My breathing’s fine, thank you,” Rye said.
“Give me the box, and we’ll be on our way.”
“No can do.”
“It doesn’t belong to you.”
Rye glanced at Brynn. “Are you going to explain, or want me to?”
Goliad shifted his sizable body to better see her while remaining watchful of Rye. “Explain what?”
Brynn tried to appear as though she knew exactly what Rye’s explanation consisted of. “Perhaps you had better.”
Rye addressed Goliad. “Until the box is delivered, I’m responsible for it.”
“You delivered it last night.”
“Not technically.” His hand made a jerky movement that shifted the gun’s aim from Goliad’s chest to the ceiling.
Timmy lurched forward.
Goliad barked, “Calm the fuck down, Timmy.”
“Yeah, Timmy, calm the fuck down,” Rye said. “While you’re at it, take two steps back.”
At a brusque nod from Goliad, Timmy complied. “You’ll get yours,” he snarled.
Rye ignored him and said to Goliad, “Are we cool? I’m going to put the gun away and reach into my back pocket for the receipt.”
“Receipt?”
Moving slowly now, Rye slid the gun back into his pocket and took from it a folded sheet of paper. “A receipt with the name Dr. Lambert printed above the signature line.” He shook out the folded receipt and held it up so Goliad could read the name. “I’ve learned that Lambert’s first name is Nathan. Even without checking her driver’s license, I know that she ain’t him,” he said, tilting his head toward Brynn.
“I’m supposed to deliver the payload to the person on the receipt unless a courier”—again he indicated Brynn—“has written permission to take delivery. She doesn’t.”
That was the first that Brynn had heard of this, and she seriously doubted its veracity. Even if it were an FAA regulation etched in stone, Rye wouldn’t rigidly adhere to a technicality that inconvenienced him to that extent, or at all.
But she didn’t have to believe it, as long as the two other men did. If Rye’s speculations about them were correct, they had tried to crash him and had assaulted Brady White. It didn’t surprise her that Richard and Delores Hunt would occasionally require bodyguards, but these two seemed more suited to protecting a crime boss than a U.S. senator and his wife. They frightened her.
Rye had threatened to leave her to them if she didn’t play along with him. In the past couple of minutes, he seemed as dangerous as they, but at least he was the devil she knew.
She continued to play along. “When I volunteered to come up here and get the package, I didn’t realize that written authorization was necessary, nor did Dr. Lambert. I’ve told him it doesn’t matter,” she said, casting a sour look in Rye’s direction. “He’s been mule-headed about it.”
Goliad’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and said to Brynn, “You had the box with you in the café.”
“Which is why I got my ass chewed good by the guy I was flying for,” Rye said. “He caught my boo-boo, reminded me that if this box isn’t delivered to Lambert, he can get into all kinds of dutch with the FAA, and I’d get fined or my pilot’s license suspended, neither of which I want to happen.
“So, I started trying to chase down Dr. O’Neal. This lady at the hospital told me where she and the deputy had likely gone for breakfast. I beat it over to the café, went in through the back, bumped into the doctor outside the restroom. We got to talking and…” He raised his brows suggestively. “Wound up here. Bad call, as it turns out,” he added, looking over at Brynn with irritation.
“Would you accept an e-signature?” Goliad asked.
“I would,” Rye said. “But the codger who sent me has probably never even heard of an e-signature, and wouldn’t trust it. He’s leery of technology, and he’s even more leery of people showing up in the wee hours to claim cargo not addressed to them.
“He said get Lambert’s John Hancock, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll hand-deliver the box. After Lambert signs off, what happens to it, or to any of you, is none of my concern. I’ll be out of it, free and clear, and so will the charter company.”
“We’ll deliver it to Dr. Lambert,” Goliad said. “Get his signature and email you a copy.”
Rye scoffed. “Cross your heart?”