“What’s your guarantee?”
Chip opened his empty hand in a graceful gesture. “Once that software is in my possession, you have my word. Your parents, your aunt and uncle, your childhood home, all will continue happily as it did before.”
His word, Peter knew, was worth exactly nothing.
The bodyguard stirred. Lewis kicked him in the stomach, and the big man curled abruptly into a ball. The risks of being an asshole’s bodyguard.
Chip looked at Lewis. “You, I don’t know,” he said. “But I will. I have a very good memory for faces.”
Lewis stared back at Dawes, rifle held ready, face utterly devoid of expression.
Peter had felt that implacable gaze before. It had weight and substance, like the hot desert wind before a killing sandstorm. It was a good look.
Lewis’s voice was pleasant. “Won’t have much memory with a bullet through your brain.”
Chip didn’t flinch, but it cost him some effort. He looked back at Peter. “Put your dog on a leash.” Then stepped over his injured man and slid into the driver’s seat of the big Mercedes. “Call my office at four-thirty. I’ll tell you where to meet.”
The door closed behind him with an impressive solidity. Peter watched as Chip drove off.
“Should have killed him,” said Lewis.
“That’s your answer to everything,” said Peter.
“Not everything,” said Lewis. “But shit, him?”
Peter put his arm up and waved. The Escalade came up fast, June’s window down.
“That was my dad,” she said. “On the dock? In the plane? That was my dad.”
“I know,” said Peter. “We’ll talk about it.”
Lewis pointed his rifle at the bodyguard, red-faced and bleeding on the ground. “What about him? Not much of a severance package. Or you suppose this an independent contractor?”
Peter walked around to the passenger door. “Leave him. I need to make a phone call.”
Lewis shook his head. “I’d say you getting soft, but I know better. I sure as hell hope you know what you’re doing.”
Peter looked at him across the hood of the silver Escalade. “Me too.”
Lewis picked up the man’s big black Colt 1911 and held it casually in one hand, looking down at the bodyguard as he struggled to sit up. “You home free today,” he said. “Take that as a gift. Find a new employer. I see you again, I’m gonna assume you got bad intentions. We clear?”
“Yeah,” the big man said thickly, not looking at Lewis. “We’re clear.”
Lewis tucked the pistol into his coat pocket, then climbed into the Escalade and June drove them out of there.
? ? ?
AS SHE ROCKETED toward the south end of Lake Union, Peter pulled out his phone and dialed a number he knew by heart. On the other end, it rang and rang, until, finally, someone answered in a raspy voice. “Stan’s Backwoods Bar and Grill, you kill ’em, we grill ’em.”
“Dad, it’s Peter.”
“Holy shit! The prodigal son lives! Your mother was a little worried, you weren’t returning her calls.”
This was vintage Stanley Ash. A profane enthusiasm combined with a gentle reminder about good behavior.
“A bear ate my phone, Pops. But that’s not why I’m calling.” He could hear the murmur of the Internet radio Peter had bought him in the background, probably playing some NPR podcast. His dad had a longstanding crush on Terry Gross. “You’re in the shop, right?”
“Yessir, I am. Gluing up some cherry for a dining room table.”
Peter felt a surge of affection. He could picture his dad standing by the big worktable, glue on his fingers, sawdust on the sleeves of his old Pendleton shirt, scrap lumber popping in the woodstove. He could almost smell the blue enamel coffeepot perking away. His dad drank roughly a thousand cups of coffee per day.
“Listen,” said Peter, “if your hands are free, do me a favor. Go to the shelves over the radial arm saw. On the top shelf, you’ll find a metal box.”
“Ha! I thought that was yours. Found it in January when I got stir-crazy and spent a few days cleaning. Not a great place to put your life savings, son.”
Peter hadn’t exactly told his parents everything.
“Dad, you and Mom are going on a trip, and you’re taking Uncle Jerry and Aunt Max. At least two weeks, leaving today. Take a month if you want. There’s a credit card in that envelope. It has your name on it but the bills go to me. It has a fifty-thousand-dollar limit, so spend as much as you want. Where have you always wanted to go?”
His father’s voice was kind. “Son, we can’t just pick up and leave. We have obligations. The Jarretts want their dining room table. Your mom has students. And I’m not spending your hard-earned money.”
“Dad, I’m sorry. This is my fault. I’m in the middle of something. I agreed to protect a friend, and now some bad people have threatened my family if I don’t back off. They know the address of the house. So make whatever excuses you need to make, but you’re going. And don’t use your own credit cards, because they’ll be able to track them.”