They climbed back into the Tahoe and drove toward the crossroads. Jenna glanced in the rearview mirror as the SUV following them peeled off, heading cross-country to a small knoll in the center of the field, the only high ground available. “She’s a sniper?”
“One of the best.” He glanced out his window, following the trail of dust Lester’s SUV left in its wake. “That will place her at an angle where she can cover most of the pie—we’ll need to worry about the blind slice between the rear of the building and the gas station.” He waved his hand, indicating an area from around ten o’clock to eleven.
They reached the intersection. Jenna came to a stop, even though there was no stop sign in either direction. The peaked roof brick building dominated the landscape. Up close, she made out brass letters across the soffit above the entrance: Crossroads.
“What do you think it is?” she asked Oshiro. “A church?” Wouldn’t it be just like Clint to hide his ill-gotten gains in a house of worship?
Oshiro shrugged, too busy using his mirrors to scout their surroundings one final time. “You’ll want to park there, gives us cover if we need to make a strategic retreat.”
Jenna pulled the Tahoe around to park it face out where he indicated, a spot diagonally in front of the brick building, where they’d be in Lester’s sights. “You know we did have tactical training in the Postal Service.”
“Only reason why you’re here. Not that it matters, you’re staying in the vehicle.”
“Like hell I am.”
He squinted at her over the top of his sunglasses. “I could arrest you. Accessory. Material witness.”
“Good try, but we don’t have any proof that the information I gave you has anything to do with Clinton Caine, not until we go inside. Besides, it came from Morgan, not me.”
She was expecting an argument—Lucy would have argued, then ignored whatever Jenna told her and done things her own damn way. In truth, Jenna teetered on the knife-edge between adrenaline and fear, and she secretly hoped for a reason to stay behind.
Oshiro merely pushed his sunglasses back up his nose with one knuckle, hiding both his eyes and any hint of expression on his face, before finally nodding his acceptance. He couldn’t get rid of her, the twist of his lips suggested, so he might as well make use of her. “Guess that means you go in first. After I scout around back and see what we’re dealing with.”
“I’m not an idiot. But I’m also not about to be a sitting duck. You realize they have eyes on us right now.”
He glanced out the window and adjusted his side mirror. “Not just from our target building. Across the street, as well.” He nodded to the Quonset hut that filled his mirror. “Guess we do it your way. We’ll go in together. You do the talking, I’ll do the shooting.”
He was joking. At least Jenna hoped he was. But the way his face was set, all expression erased, it would have been easier to read a stone.
Chapter 10
MORGAN THOUGHT ABOUT running. But what good would that do her except land her firmly on law enforcement’s radar? Something she’d worked very hard to avoid. She quickly ran an inventory. Barrettes with their handcuff shims, no way the cops would notice those or her sunglasses. Decoy wallet with her fake ID was in her coat pocket hanging in the foyer. She had her knives—nothing illegal there, so she wasn’t worried—but her pistol with the serial numbers removed would need to be left behind.
As Andre revealed the damning evidence found in Gibson’s game console, Morgan sat down, slid the pistol from her boot, and nudged it under the sleeper sofa. Given the dust bunnies rustling in the wake of her swift movement, it was safe there, especially as she doubted that Diane ever let her younger kids down here in Gibson’s territory. The cops would find it, think it was part of Gibson’s stash.
“You’re wrong,” Diane kept repeating. “You must be wrong.”
Time to end this. Morgan stood and joined Andre and the distraught mother. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Radcliffe, but we need to tell the authorities.”
“What? No, you can’t. What will my husband say? And you can’t prove Gibson has done anything wrong.”
“Actually, ma’am, we can. I’m afraid your son also assisted Clinton Caine in his prison break. Federal agents are outside. They’re going to need this gaming console and access to Gibson’s computer and other belongings.” It was her ace in the hole and she hated to give it up, but the feds could trace Gibson’s online activity faster than she could. Besides, wherever he’d had them delivered, she could guarantee it was nowhere close to where Clint was now. Gibson was merely the marionette—Clint was pulling his strings, and Clint was no dummy.
Andre glanced at her, startled. Morgan took over the game controller and scrolled back to the messages she’d tied to Clint. He frowned. “She’s right, Diane. We can’t wait any longer.”