I padded back to the shower, tore off the curtain, and folded it in half, winding it around my body in a makeshift tube dress. Cinching it by tucking the end under my armpit, I approached the bathroom door, grabbed the handle, and tugged it open in one quick motion while staying in a crouch.

  The hot tub was empty.

  If this was a prank, I would have expected the practical joker to be standing there, holding my clothes, and maybe a camera.

  The towels were gone, too. So was the Jack Daniels bottle and martini shaker.

  I considered breaking up one of the plastic chairs to use as a weapon, dismissed the idea as near-useless, and instead went to the nearest towel hook. It was stainless steel, solid five inches long. I used both hands, and with a quick downward jerk, tore it off the cedar wall, taking two long screws with it.

  Not quite brass knuckles, but I sure wouldn’t want to be hit in the face with it.

  I opened the spa room door the same way I’d done with the bathroom door, quick and low. The hallway was empty. I thought about trading my towel hook with one of the framed pictures of Annie winning a CAS medal, or Wyatt in the ring wearing boxing gloves, decided to stick with the hook, and crept toward the great room.

  I heard something.

  A clinking sound.

  A familiar, clinking sound.

  Wyatt was at the bar, wearing jeans and a blue flannel shirt, pouring himself a tequila into a glass. That was the sound, glass on glass. When he noticed me, he grinned.

  “Now you didn’t have to go and get all dressed up just for me, little lady.”

  “Where are my clothes?” I demanded.

  “Where did you leave them?” He eyed the hook in my fist. “Are my hangers not to your liking?”

  I walked up to him, more pissed than cautious. “No bullshit, Wyatt. Did you take them?”

  Wyatt’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You know I’m not the only person in this house, Mrs. Johnson.”

  “Where are the twins?”

  “When I left, they were still in the hot tub.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  He lifted the tequila. “Saddest thing in the world is an empty glass. Don’t you think?”

  “Someone took my clothes.”

  “Apparently.”

  I folded my arms across my shower curtain dress. “And my gun.”

  “Now that’s downright improper, taking a lady’s firearm. How close are you and that McGlade fella?”

  “Close enough that I know it wasn’t him.”

  “Well, I’m happy to help you look for your items. Unless…”

  “Unless?”

  “Since you’re already close to naked, we could go back to my room. I got a few ideas on how I can dry your hair.”

  “Enough with the flirting bullshit, Wyatt. I’m not interested. Got it? I can write it down and staple it backwards, to your forehead, in case you forget.”

  Wyatt put on an innocent face. “Message received, no stapling required. You… do like men, right? Because my sister seems to think—”

  “You and you sister need to keep those thoughts to yourself.”

  He nodded, then stood up. “Okay, then. Let’s see if we can find where your things went.”

  We did a quick search of the great room, Wyatt taking not-so-subtle glances my way whenever I bent down to check under something.

  Striking out in the great room, Wyatt suggested the kitchen. It wasn’t anywhere in the open, so I began checking cabinets. He went into the refrigerator.

  “Looking for a mixer?” I asked, annoyed.

  “Old gag from school days. Stealing clothes and putting them in the—”

  He opened the freezer, and sitting there was my pillowcase.

  “Real funny,” I said, walking over.

  “Wasn’t me.” He was smirking. “Gag is, you’re all wet, and the clothes are cold.”

  The pillowcase was heavy, and I checked to make sure the gun was still there. It was. Along with my clothes, my wet underwear, and McGlade’s rock and roll shirt.

  I headed back to the bathroom.

  “You can dress here. I’ll turn my head.”

  I bet he’d turn his head.

  In the bathroom, door locked, I quickly dressed in my earlier clothes, leaving the wet undies and shirt in the bag. Then I checked to make sure the Taurus was still loaded, and adjusted it in the paddle holster until it felt right.

  When I came back to the great room, Wyatt wasn’t around. I headed to the Crimebago Deux, to get some dry underwear. As I walked around its length to enter the side door, I saw Harry talking to someone with her back to me. A woman, with short, red hair. I approached, and McGlade saw me coming and said, “Oh, shit.”

  The woman turned around, and I felt my blood pressure spike.

  Chandler.

  Chandler was a spy. I didn’t know much about her past, or her training, but she was one of the deadliest people I’d ever met.

  She’d been there, in Baja, when we’d left Herb for dead.

  Leaving him had been her idea.

  I could remember the scene like it had just happened.

  Chandler reached over, feeling under Herb’s pant leg. “He’s gone.”

  “Phin,” I said, “take his legs. We’re bringing him home.”

  “Leave him,” Chandler said. She was bleeding pretty bad.

  I shook my head. “I can’t leave him!”

  “Then figure out how you, Phin, and Harry can carry both me and Herb.”

  “We can call Val and Fleming. They can drive in and—”

  Chandler grabbed my shirt and pulled me close. “And risk their lives, too? How many people do you want to die for this rescue attempt, Jack? Tequila’s dead. Herb’s dead. I’m down two pints of blood and counting. And you want to risk my sister and your friend, just to bring a corpse back home? We need to blow this place and get out of here before we’re all dead.”

  My rage became a razor focus, zeroing in on her like a rifle scope.

  “You,” I said, my teeth clenched.

  Chandler had one arm in a sling. She extended the other, holding her palm up. “Jack, I did what needed to be done.”

  “You’re the one who checked Herb’s pulse. You’re the one who insisted we leave him.”

  My hands clenched into fists. Harry, obviously knowing what was good for him, backed the hell away.

  “I came to help,” Chandler said. “Let’s find Herb and Tequila. We can settle this later.”

  “We can settle this now.”

  “I don’t want to—”

  “I do,” I said, and threw the first punch.

  Chandler slipped it, shuffled to my right, and I threw a left that she ducked away from.

  “Jack, if we didn’t leave him there, we’d all be dead.”

  “We don’t leave our friends behind, you asshole.”

  “Fine.” Chandler put down her arm and stood still. “You want to kick my ass? Go ahead and—”

  I hit her so hard I spun her around.

  She spat blood, then looked at me, her lower lip beginning to swell.

  “Feel better?”

  “I watched some maniac yank a tooth out of Herb’s mouth.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I’ll start,” I said, “with a tooth.”

  I swung, and she dodged it, slipping her arm out of the sling and raising both fists. I danced in close, threw a right and left combo, and she blocked both punches, wincing as she did.

  Pivoting my hips, I brought my leg around, snap-kicking her in the side, and then Chandler threw a punch, grazing my nose.

  It was on.

  I jabbed, missed, jabbed again, threw up my forearm to block a kick, and then caught her jaw with a left uppercut. Before she could center herself I lunge-kicked her chest, and then she was on the ground, whipping her leg around, trying to sweep me.

  I hopped away, and Chandler spun crazy-fast, doing some sort of capoeira shit, her other leg extending up out of nowhere and connecting with my shoulder.

  I absorbed the blow, threw a knee that missed her face, and then brought my hands up and gave the universal bring it gesture, beckoning with my fingers.

  “We’ve done this dance before,” Chandler said. “You lost.“

  “I remember. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “You’re good, Jack. But you don’t have the training to—”

  I punched that thought right out of her goddamn head.

  Chandler rolled with it, using momentum to launch her spin kick, but I saw that coming and caught her leg, pinning it, and then threw an elbow into her nose.

  She tried to grab me, and I pushed her away and assumed my fighting stance.

  “You guys are acting stupid,” Harry said, keeping his distance. “You both need to stop this pointless jackassery.”

  I moved in, feinted with a right, then did a double-roundhouse kick, smacking her left side, then her right side, snapping my hips so each kick hit hard. Chandler came up with a flying knee strike, but last time I was in the dojang I’d sparred with a muay thai guy who was good at those, and he showed me how to get above it and push down. I knocked her off-balance for a fraction of a second, and as her head came forward my head was already down, smacking her in the face.

  In top of head vs face situations, top of head always won.

  Chandler staggered back, found balance, and raised her fists. “Okay,” she said, blood trickling down her nose. “I’ve had a shitty week, and you’re pissing me off. You really want to do this? Let’s—”

  I went in, left, right, left, Chandler putting up her arms and taking the shots, but her left arm was low, weak, and I tagged her in the ear.

  “You’re fighting like a girl,” I said dancing away. “What happened to your arm?”

  Chandler didn’t answer. But her face got really dark.

  “Harry? What’s up with her arm?”

  “This pointless jackassery is between you guys,” he said. “I’m not taking any sides.”

  “Is it broken?” I asked. “Because if it isn’t, I’m—”

  Then I was on my ass, my head ringing, and Chandler was on top of me, twisting to wrap her legs around my arm.

  If she’d been in perfect shape, she would have clinched the arm bar, and I would have been forced to give up.

  But she wasn’t in perfect shape, and I got my leg up and mule-kicked the side of her head once, twice, and she released me and rolled onto all fours.

  I came at her, no longer trying to block, leaving myself open as I threw wild haymakers, channeling all of the anger at what she’d done into a flurry of hard punches.

  She took the knocks and slipped inside my swings, popping me in my left eye, then my forehead, but leaving her legs open just enough for me to hook an arm beneath her, scoop her up, and piledrive her lying, betraying ass onto the ground.

  I heard one of her ribs crack, but that wasn’t enough for me, and I grabbed her by her dyed red hair, stretching her head back, raising my fist to make her choke on her teeth—

  —and then the barrel of my Taurus Model 66 was pressing into my throat.

  Chandler had taken my gun.

  That took the fight right out of me.

  I opened my fist and slowly lowered my hand.

  “Get off,” Chandler said, sounding hurt.

  I nodded, slowly climbing off of Chandler, raising up my hands.

  “Don’t shoot her, Chandler,” Harry said. Not as an order, or a plea. He said it neutrally, but I noticed his jacket was open, his Magnum shoulder holster exposed.

  Chandler sat up, wincing. I didn’t think she’d kill me. But I wondered if she’d wound me, out of anger.

  Instead, she did something I totally didn’t expect.

  “I’m sorry,” Chandler said. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m sorry about Herb.”

  The anger fell away, and my eyes got wet.

  “You left him there. He was still alive, and you left him there.” A sob came out of me. “We left him there.”

  “I’m sorry. My training… I was trained to survive. At all costs. I made a call. It was a bad call. I really didn’t think there was any way we could have—”

  Then came a gunshot.

  I froze, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

  The revolver fell from Chandler’s hand, and she looked confused, then pained, as a spurt of blood gushed from her shoulder.

  “Sniper!” I heard McGlade yell.

  I looked at Harry, saw him pointing into the distance, behind me, and without thinking I grabbed Chandler by the shirt and dragged her to the Crimebago, Harry and I pulling her underneath.

  THE MAN

  He hit the redhead. Then Jack bolted, taking the redhead with her.

  She, and McGlade, yanked the woman under the RV, and then the man couldn’t see them anymore.

  Didn’t matter. He’d given away his position when he fired, so it was time to move.

  Hurrying back to the rental car, he set the rifle in the passenger seat and fired up the engine, racing for the back-up lookout spot he’d scouted earlier. It was a hundred yards further away, but that was no problem.

  The spot was still well within shooting distance.

  JACK

  Do you see him?” I asked Harry. He had his .44 in his hand, and was looking sweaty and pale.

  “Are you kidding me? I’m not sticking my head out there.”

  I had my palm pressed to Chandler’s shoulder wound, so I couldn’t look for the sniper myself.

  “What did you see, Harry? Anything at all?”

  “I saw a muzzle flash. From the plains. Maybe two hundred meters out.”

  “See the person? Man? Woman?”

  “It happened too fast,” McGlade said. “I was busy watching you guys working out your pointless jackassery.”

  “Vehicle?” I asked.

  McGlade’s face scrunched up. “Yeah. I saw… something.”

  “Make? Color?” I was thinking of Annie’s black Silverado.

  “Dunno what kind. I think it was blue. Or green.”

  “How bad?” Chandler asked, craning her head up to see her injury.

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “No one is leaving you behind.”

  I looked toward the ransion, and saw Wyatt on the porch, a rifle in one hand, field glasses in the other, scanning the area.

  “Stop wiggling,” I told Chandler.

  “Back pocket. Celox.”

  “You keep blood clotting powder in your pocket?”

  “You don’t?”

  Keeping pressure on her wound, I reached around and fished out three packets of the hemostat. I tore open one with my teeth.

  “Harry, when I say three, pull up her shirt.”

  “Really?” He looked at Chandler. “Is that okay? I’m all about consent.”

  “Gimme your gun and do it.”

  Harry handed her his weapon, and I counted to three.

  I took my hand away, Harry pulled, and I dumped the whole two grams of Celox on the weeping wound.

  Like magic, the bleeding stopped.

  “Other side,” Chandler grunted. “It went through.”

  We carefully turned her over and McGlade exposed the injury. Like many exit wounds, it was bigger and uglier than the entry.

  I dumped a pack of Celox on it, and it was still oozing, so I used the last one.

  “Caliber?” Chandler asked.

  “Too big for a twenty-two,” Harry said. “But smaller than a three-oh-eight or thirty-ought-six. I’ll call it a two-two-three.”

  “I think it ricocheted up off the shoulder blade,” I said, pressing down. “Doesn’t feel shattered.”

  “Good to know. I like my shoulder blades.”

  “How’s the pain?”

  “Want to see? I’ll shoot you in the shoulder.”

  “Pass.”

  “Sounds like you ladies have worked out your pointless jackassery,” Harry said. “You want to kiss and make up?”

  “Do you want to get smacked around next?” Chandler asked him.

  Harry didn’t answer. He seemed to be considering it.

  “You folks okay?”

  Wyatt, calling from the porch.

  “Got one wounded,” McGlade said. “Spot the shooter?”

  “No. Where’d the shot come from?”

  “Southeast,” said McGlade. “Maybe two hundred meters. Green or blue car.”

  “I’m going to check it out,” Wyatt said. “You folks stay put.”

  I looked at McGlade. “Where are the twins?”

  “In the Crimebago Deux, with Rosa and Waddlebutt. We were editing the next webcast when Chandler showed up.”

  “How did you get here so fast?” I asked the spy.

  “I called her a few days ago,” McGlade said. “In case we needed some help.”

  Of course he did. And of course he didn’t tell me.

  “I’ve been in Nebraska since this morning,” Chandler said. “McGlade just sent me pictures of the tire tracks. I can help.”

  I checked around. “Where’s your car?”

  “Bike. Ducati, parked about a click away.”

  “You rode a motorcycle with a bad arm?”

  Chandler shrugged. “It’s just pain. Might be tougher now, though. Either of you guys want to buy a Ducati?”

  “The answer is yes,” said McGlade. “Those things are panty peelers.”

  I looked at Chandler. “Does the bike have a weight limit?” I asked.

  Chandler chortled. McGlade made a face.

  Wyatt, on Jack the horse, galloped past us, into the plains.

  “What’s up with the Marlboro Man?” Chandler asked. “He’s hot.”

  “I know, right?” said McGlade.

  I’d had enough of being under the RV, and crawled out. If the sniper was still out there, he or she would be watching Wyatt.

  Squatting, I helped get Chandler out, and McGlade tried to follow, but he needed more help than Chandler did. He was huffing and puffing when he stood up.

  “Whew. Missed breakfast. Feeling weak.”

  He led us through the side door of the Crimebago. Heckle and Jeckle were on their laptops and didn’t acknowledge our presence. No snickering when I entered made me wonder if it was them, or Wyatt, who stole my clothes. Rosalina came in from the bedroom, and Chandler lifted up her leg and did the fastest ankle draw I’d ever seen, a Beretta Px4 sub-compact in her hand.