“Team one?”
Michael’s men had moved forward to wrap the soldiers’ wrists and ankles with heavy cord. Most were still coughing, a few vomiting helplessly.
“Team one, report.”
A grainy crackle of static; then, a voice, not Rand’s: “Secure.”
“Where’s Rand?”
A pause, followed by laughter. “You’ll have to give him a minute. That woman sure packs a wallop.”
It had been too easy. Michael had expected more of a fight—any kind of fight.
“These guns are practically empty.”
Greer showed him; none of the soldiers’ magazines had more than two rounds.
“What about the armory?”
“Clean as a whistle.”
“That’s actually not so good.”
From Greer, a tight nod. “I know. We’ll have to do something about that.”
It was Rand who brought Lore to him. Her wrists were bound. At the sight of him she startled, then quickly composed herself.
“I guess you missed me, Michael?”
“Hello, Lore.” Then, to Rand: “Take those off.”
Rand cut her loose. Lore had nailed him with a hard right cross. His left eye was half-shut, his cheek marked with the imprint of her fist. Michael felt almost proud.
“Let’s go someplace and talk,” he said.
He led Lore into the station chief’s office. Her office: for fifteen years, the refinery had been Lore’s to run. Michael sat behind the desk to make a point; Lore sat across from him. The day had broken, warming the room with its light. She looked older, of course, aged by sun and work, but the raw physicality was still there, the strength.
“So how’s your pal Dunk?”
Michael smiled at her. “It’s good to see you. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“I mean it.”
She glanced away, a furious look on her face. “Michael, what do you want?”
“I need fuel. Heavy diesel, the dirty stuff.”
“Going into the oil business? It’s a hard life—I don’t recommend it.”
He took a long breath. “I know this doesn’t make you happy. But there’s a reason.”
“Is that right?”
“How much do you have?”
“You know what I always liked best about you, Michael?”
“No, what?”
“I don’t remember either.”
It was true: she was just the same. Michael felt a frisson of attraction. Her power had not abated.
He leaned back in his chair, balanced the tips of his fingers together, and said, “You have a major delivery to the Kerrville depot scheduled in five days. Add that to what’s in the storage tanks, I’m figuring you’ve got somewhere in the neighborhood of eighty thousand gallons.”
Lore shrugged indifferently.
“So I should take that as a yes?”
“You should take it up your ass, actually.”
“I’m going to find out anyway.”
She sighed. “Okay, fine. Yes, eighty thousand, more or less. Does that satisfy you?”
“Good. I’m going to need it all.”
Lore cocked her head. “I beg your pardon?”
“With twenty tanker trucks, I’m thinking we can move it all in just under six days. After that, we’ll release your people. No harm, no foul. You’ve got my word.”
Lore was staring at him. “Move it where? What the hell do you need eighty thousand gallons for?”
Ah.
The tanker trucks were being loaded; the first convoy would be ready to move by 0900. For Michael, five days of looking at his watch, yelling at everyone: Hurry the hell up.
One wrinkle, maybe small, maybe not. When Weir’s men had stormed the communications hut, the radio operator had been in the midst of sending a message. There was no way to know what it was, because the man was dead—the morning’s only fatality.
“How the hell did that happen?”
Weir shrugged. “Lombardi thought he had a weapon. It looked like he was drawing on us.”
The weapon was a stapler.
“Have any messages come in since?” Michael asked, thinking, Lombardi, of course it would be you, you trigger-happy asshole.
“Nothing so far.”
Michael cursed himself. The man’s death was regrettable, but that wasn’t the true source of his anger. They should have taken out the radio first. A stupid mistake, probably not the first.
“Get on the horn,” he said, then thought the better of it. “No, wait until twelve hundred. That’s when they expect the refinery to check in.”
“What should I tell them?”
“ ‘Sorry, we shot the radio operator. He was waving office supplies at us.’ ”
Weir just looked at him.
“I don’t know, something normal. Everything’s peachy, how are you, isn’t it a nice day?”
The man hurried away. Michael walked to the Humvee, where Lore was waiting in the backseat. Rand was handcuffing her to the safety rail.
“You should take somebody else with you,” Rand said.
Michael accepted the key to the cuffs and got in the cab. He glanced at Lore through the mirror. “You promise to be good or do you need a babysitter?”