Rebel's Trap

By Randall Jarmon

John Travis' career has hit rock-bottom. He now works as bait to attract high-end killers and might not last another month. Travis is cheerful, though. He's been in far worse situations, one of them deep inside the old USSR as their top assassins hunted him down.

Mary's career is at its peak, and maybe going much higher. She'll sell two of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mikvelk Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Jan 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869115270

Randall Jarmon

Randall Jarmon, Ph.D., has followed such an unusual path that few novelists will tell a story the way he does.Dr. Jarmon started out as an English major at heart, but ended up with an engineering degree. It imparted keen interest in technology.He once got more than his share of elite military training. Those few years were a good opportunity to learn about tactics, weaponry, martial arts, and so forth.He has worked in a world-class manufacturing setting and a world-class R&D center. Part of the fun for readers with technical backgrounds is determining when the technology in his stories goes from fact to fiction. The shifts will be subtle. Expect to miss some.He earned a pretty good MBA. Later he earned a doctorate (in Management) well worth having. Among other things, he now easily explains the complex organization of human effort. Look for good plots clearly set forth.Randall Jarmon and his wife divide their time between Texas and Arizona. They have two children, six grandchildren, and a golden retriever named Virgil.MIKVELK Publishing, LLC

Book preview

At Mikvelk Publishing, LLC, we send a manuscript to the reviewers at Readers’ Favorite once we are ready to publish it. For us, this is a reality check—a final test that the new novel would be as good as we believe. We show below some of the feedback we received for Rebel’s Trap. The boldfacing was added by Mikvelk Publishing, LLC.

... I very much enjoyed Rebel's Trap. Author Randall Jarmon had done a fantastic job at writing a book that will suck readers in from the very first page and keep them obsessively reading until the end. His character development is deep, especially for an action adventure based story line, and his writing style is so exciting that at times you'll feel your own heart racing right along with the characters. Any reader who enjoys a thrilling read, action, adventure, suspense, a read with a strong moral message or just a great read in general would love Rebel's Trap ...

--- Chris Fischer for Readers’ Favorite

... Rebel’s Trap is the fourth book by Randall Jarmon that I have read and enjoyed immensely. Although it contains plenty of action and espionage, a lovely Christian presence blends very nicely into the theme ... Rebel’s Trap is not a book that one quickly skims through, as the story is so absorbing with intricate details and twists that make it even more intriguing. The characters are extremely strong with convincing dialogue within a wonderful setting. Randall Jarmon has become one of my favourite authors whose writing is never repetitious, but always unique.

--- Michelle Stanley for Readers' Favorite

I just put down Rebel's Trap by author Randall Jarmon, and all I can say is Wow. ... This was an extremely exciting book. It kept me on the edge of my seat and reading from the very first page until the end. I had only planned to read a few chapters before bed, but instead, I was finishing up at 2 am! ...

--- Tracy Slowiak for Readers’ Favorite

Another great work by Randall Jarmon; this author knows how to write a novel that engages the reader. Plus, he has the ability to make the novel feel like a movie. ...This action packed, thrilling ride takes you on a journey with John [Travis], who will make you loathe, love, hate and adore the characters through his eyes. You will not just like this novel, you will love it and wish there is more to come from John Travis.

--- Rabia Tanveer for Readers’ Favorite

REBEL’S TRAP

by

Randall Jarmon

MIKVELK Publishing, LLC

mikvelk.com

Publishing Information

Rebel’s Trap is 100 percent a work of fiction. The events, characters, relationships, and places are either entirely products of the author’s imagination, or, if they exist, are used in entirely fictitious ways. Any resemblance to any living person is purely coincidental.

Rebel’s Trap is the copyrighted intellectual property of its author, Randall Jarmon, who retains all worldwide rights to it, except as he may formally confer in writing. In writing an earlier version, the author used the pen name Randall Franklin. Permission requests should be sent to Mikvelk Publishing, LLC through its website, mikvelk.com.

Randall Jarmon hereby authorizes the use of small portions of Rebel's Trap for review purposes.

The ISBN for this 2024 ebook edition of Rebel’s Trap is 979-8-8691-1527-0. The ISBN for the corresponding 2024 paperback edition is 979-8-8691-1526-3.

MIKVELK Publishing, LLC

January 2024

mikvelk.com

Table of Contents

Title Page

Publishing Information

Table of Contents

Sections 1 through 10

Sections 11 through 20

Sections 21 through 30

Sections 31 through 40

Sections 41 through 50

Sections 51 through 60

Sections 61 through 70

Sections 71 through 80

Sections 81 through 90

Sections 91 through 100

Sections 101 through 110

Sections 111 through 120

Sections 121 through 130

Sections 131 through 134

About the Author

Afterword

1

The opulent San Pedro Resort quietly occupied one of the most desolate, most beautiful stretches of Southern New Mexico. The San Pedro was so exclusive its exquisite accommodations were never advertised.

Even so, once every year the world’s wealthiest art collectors quietly made their way to the San Pedro for its secretive art auction. Attendance was by invitation only. The auction’s organizer, Scintilla Aesthetics, didn’t even bother with Hollywood stars and minor royalty. Only the really big money was permitted to bid.

This year’s auction, like the several preceding it, would display the works of six chosen artists. However, this year’s auction, like the several preceding it, was mostly about Mary O’Connell.

A slender, pretty woman in her late fifties, with ash-blond hair and beautiful hazel eyes, Mary O’Connell was widely acknowledged as successor to the late Georgia O’Keefe. Some critics argued that O’Connell’s work had long ago surpassed O’Keefe’s. Now, they said, Mary O’Connell was in a league of her own and America’s best living painter.

She created three paintings a year. Sometimes they were portraits, sometimes landscapes, and—rarely—modern art reminiscent of Jackson Pollock. Nobody could stereotype Mary O’Connell, who regularly surprised her large, sophisticated following. Her mastery of color, texture, lighting, and perspective was so extraordinary that her paintings commanded exceptionally high prices. Tonight, she’d auction off only two new works. Bidding for the less expensive, smaller painting would start at thirty million dollars.

As dozens of security personnel ringed the San Pedro, the guests gathered in the inn’s large ballroom. One by one, they went through the receiving line that began with Quentin Surrey, the distinguished-looking owner of Scintilla Aesthetics. Five up-and-coming artists came next. At the line’s end was Mary O’Connell. Gracious, personable, articulate, and beautiful, she was the person every guest most wanted to meet.

After the receiving line came opportunity for the nearly three hundred wealthy sophisticates by then in the room to mingle and renew acquaintances. Despite their genteel manners, they’d bid aggressively against each other tomorrow.

While chamber music played softly, the San Pedro’s waitstaff carried trays of hors d’oeuvres among the guests. Legendary wines were dispensed from two bars. Fresh flowers and stunning ice sculptures accented the occasion.

As the receiving line ended, Quentin Surrey thanked the five less-prominent artists for attending. He soon walked to Mary O’Connell, who awaited him nearby.

Time to impress Big Money. Let’s see what your late mother taught you.

Mary O’Connell smiled and took his arm. Let’s go, Daddy.

She walked into the welcoming crowd with her father. Moments later, they went their separate ways, expertly mingling and nurturing relationships that had long been so profitable for them.

Nobody in the world of high-end art—not even her distinguished father—worked a room as well as Mary O’Connell did.

2

A thin, middle-aged woman of Japanese ancestry was one of the ballroom waitresses. She used her break to step outside and walk to a secluded part of the resort. There she opened up the special radio given her and kept her voice low.

Fangs, this is Snitch. Hey, Fangs? You listenin’?

A mile away from the San Pedro Resort, at the edge of the small village with the same name, a heavily tattooed bodybuilder waited in his pickup truck. He was angry.

About time you called. Next time you’re late I’ll cut your pay. Be late after that and I’ll carve up your pockmarked face. You got that?

Snitch struggled to sound calm. She’d long been afraid of this man.

Yeah. I got it, Fangs. Sorry. I was being careful. I mean, armed guards are all over this place. Anyhow, I got good news. She’s here.

O’Connell finally showed up? You’re sure?

Yeah. I’m sure of it. Your source must’ve got the days mixed up.

My source never gets the days mixed up, Old Woman.

Well, this time somebody did. O’Connell’s in the ballroom now. All dolled up and dripping with diamonds. She must have two hundred grand around her neck alone. Her father’s with her.

I don’t care about him. When’s O’Connell leaving? You got that part yet?

Yeah. Had to flirt with the guy who parked cars. The guy looks like a toad and stinks of garlic. It was painful. That part’s gonna cost you extra.

Fangs went to low-growl. Don’t push me, Snitch. You do a good job for me and you’ll be rich. Smart-mouth me and you’re dead. And I’ll kill you myself.

Snitch’s hand began to tremble. She swallowed hard, used both hands to hold the radio steady, and went on. It would be over soon, she thought. It would be over soon.

Hey, I’m sorry, Fangs. It was just a little joke. I mean, I’m new to this stuff. I don’t have your nerves, either, and I need a fix. But I’m tryin’ real hard. I really am!

Her voice wavered enough to betray her fear. Fangs smiled at that. He didn’t like using amateurs, but he told himself the dumb broad was still under his control. So far, so good. His voice went back almost to normal.

Just tell me about O’Connell. When’s she leaving? Where’s she going?

She’s driving back to Dallas tonight. All alone. Look for a silver sports coupe. The car’s supposed to be ready for her at eleven p.m. She’ll leave soon afterwards.

The woman’s driving all night?

It didn’t sound right. She’d be traveling over more than a hundred miles of empty secondary road just to reach the interstate, and even it had only a little traffic at night.

Yeah. I know. It’s strange, but she’s got a reputation. Did the same thing last year. Had a big argument outside the San Pedro with her father that night about driving back alone. About a dozen people heard her.

Sounds like the old man has more sense than his daughter. He tried to picture the quarrel in his mind. The more he could understand O’Connell’s behavior, the better.

His silence encouraged Snitch to ramble on. Yeah. She’s headstrong. That’s what I heard. Last year, O’Connell said she had a loaded gun and a full tank of gas. Said she was going and he wasn’t gonna stop her. Said it all real loud. Then she got in the car and roared out of town. People here still talk about it.

Fangs thought a moment. It was plausible. It was good, too. He already knew where his team would ambush O’Connell.

Okay. You call me when she leaves.

Sure, Fangs. Right away. And remember the deal. I get half the diamonds you take from the body. Half the diamonds, right? I’m scared, Fangs. I need to hear you tell me again about the diamonds.

Yeah, yeah. You get half. But understand this. You’d better not mess up, Snitch. If I don’t kill O’Connell tonight, you can bet your scrawny little Japanese hide I’ll kill you tomorrow.

3

It took Mary ninety minutes to thoroughly captivate the potential bidders. She then excused herself, left her many devotees in the ballroom, and walked alone into one of the exhibit rooms nearby. Her two paintings were there and she wanted to say goodbye.

Mary O’Connell always said goodbye to her paintings. Parting with them was hard for her and this simple ritual helped. Each year she told herself she was being silly. However, each year she felt better after these quiet farewells.

She saw him looking at her larger painting, a brightly colored landscape that was her favorite. He stood a little over six feet tall and carried himself well. His full head of dark hair was halfway gray. The man’s athletic build made his jeans, bolo tie, and western-cut leather jacket look better than they should’ve in the formal setting, but couldn’t help his dusty cowboy boots. A party crasher, she thought. A handsome one about her age, but still a party crasher. Mary O’Connell knew how to handle party crashers.

She turned on her charm, which was impressive. Good evening. Forgive me, but I can’t remember your name. Didn’t we meet last year? Back then you’d just flown in from France, right?

He turned his head and smiled. France? Nope. Couldn’t even afford the airfare. I’m just a freelance photographer. You’re thinking of somebody else.

He smiled and turned back to look at the painting. That annoyed her. She hadn’t ended their conversation.

So, what do you think of that painting?

It’s okay as desert landscapes go. I prefer photographs, myself. But the painter almost got the lighting right, and so far I only see one mistake.

She bristled. The lighting had taken her a week to perfect, but there was an error. Could he have found it that quickly?

And what mistake do you think you see?

The third bush from the right. About six inches in and six inches up. The bottom branch doesn’t quite connect with the stem of the bush. Sloppy, but I guess people who buy paintings are used to it. Painters have things easy. A photographer couldn’t get away with that. Not at the high end of the market.

Mary took a moment to decide between (a) calling security and (b) enlightening the benighted savage before her. She chose the latter.

The painter always puts a deliberate error there. It establishes authenticity.

That’s supposed to stop forgeries?

She nodded. The slight motion brought new sparkle to her diamond choker.

You’ll also find an RFID chip hidden inside the wooden frame under the canvas. A couple of chemical signatures are in the paint, too.

He seemed impressed.

Clever. I guess that explains the strange lighting. The signature chemicals must have distorted the paint.

She snapped at him. I think the lighting’s perfect. Sunlight looks that way on sandstone at sunrise. Perhaps you don’t spend much time in the desert?

I’m in the desert a lot these days. Morning, noon, and night. I see my share of sandstone. I can’t recall any looking like this. But, like I said, painters get away with a lot. Maybe it’ll sell.

I’m sure it will. Anyway, it now appears I must be blunt. This is a secured area. You don’t seem to be on the guest list. Who are you and why are you here?

She said it with ice in her voice. The lighting, she told herself, was perfect!

He smiled, looking at her a little too long before speaking.

Well, I really don’t belong here. I’m just a camera guy. A former boss of mine told me about this auction. He said I should stop by. He didn’t mention dressing up, but I should’ve known.

She looked unconvinced. Besides, she didn’t like him staring at her. Instinctively, she knew he found her attractive. Well, she thought, she really did look good tonight—but not for him. Definitely not for him! Ice came back. Shields went up.

And who’s your old friend?

He’s around here someplace. I’ll introduce you when I see him. Nice guy. His name’s Quentin Surrey. You’ll like him.

Mary looked stunned.

Excuse me, she said, all too abruptly. I need to talk with Quentin Surrey.

She pivoted gracefully in her four-inch heels and strode out of the room, already angry with her father.

4

Fangs wasted no time getting the ambush team ready.

Fangs to Claw 1.

Fifteen miles from the San Pedro and a mile off paved road, a hulking, scar-faced man motioned for his companions to be quiet. He keyed his radio.

This is Claw 1. Go.

Snitch says the target’s leaving here not long after 2300 hours. Ambush her at location Bravo 4. She’ll be driving alone in that silver coupe The Valkyrie told us about.

Fangs liked talking about The Valkyrie. The Valkyrie was as secretive as she was lethal. All the killing and robbery done by Bloody Good Earth got contracted out to The Valkyrie. One rumor held the KGB had trained her. Another rumor claimed she was a CIA shooter gone rogue. None of the men had ever seen her. Even Fangs had only talked to her by phone before each of the past several kills he'd led for her. However, Fangs acted like he knew The Valkyrie well. The killers he hired were impressed.

Fangs, remember the pictures you showed us? This O’Connell woman’s a real looker. How ‘bout we take her with us awhile before we kill her?

Fangs chuckled. Before he could speak, Claw 1 said, We’d let you go first with her, Fangs. We’d take our turns after you got done. Okay?

Negative, Claw 1. That’s not okay. The Valkyrie said to stop the car, shoot O’Connell full of holes, and leave fast. That’s all you’re gonna do. Acknowledge.

Claw 1’s disappointment was apparent in his voice.

Acknowledged. We stop her. We empty a couple of magazines into her. Nothin’ else. You’re the boss, Fangs. We’ll do it your way. One more thing.

What’s that?

Snitch told one of the guys O’Connell will have diamond jewelry with her. Snitch said you’re giving her half. We thought we’d ask for the other half of the diamonds if you ain’t got plans for them. Assuming that’s okay with you.

Negative again, Claw 1. If there’re any diamonds, leave them. The Valkyrie insisted on that. O’Connell’s death’s about sending a message. It must be very clear robbery wasn’t the motive. Acknowledge.

Roger. We’ll leave the diamonds. But Snitch’ll be a problem if we do.

I’ll take care of Snitch. That scrawny old junkie gets on my nerves. I got somethin’ special waitin’ for her.

5

Mary quickly found her father and pulled him to one side. She still was angry.

You might have told me about this vagabond photographer you invited!

Well, I might have. At least, if he were coming. I wasn’t sure he’d make it.

He tipped his head, smiled gently, and awaited the next outburst.

Daddy, this man’s so very out of place here. He’s dressed wrong. He doesn’t appreciate art. And he’s annoying!

She crossed her arms, shook her head, and made a face.

Mary, I’m sorry if you two didn’t hit it off. He did good work for me thirty years ago. He quit after less than two years, but I liked him. I heard he was in this part of the Southwest, so I emailed him. Last time I checked, he hadn’t replied.

Daddy, he’s in the other room talking about how bad my painting looks. What if somebody hears him?

You mean he’s making a speech? Haranguing a bidder?

Quentin Surrey looked puzzled. The man he remembered would do nothing of the sort.

No. It wasn’t anything like that. She explained the short conversation.

It was time for another gentle, paternal smile.

Mary, he’s not a painter. Why would he understand lighting like you do? Even other painters fail to see what’s obvious to you. You’re too hard on him.

She began to feel guilty. You think so?

I do. Look, he’s got a website. I went to it last week. He’s trying to make a go of things as a freelance photographer. The man’s spending all year putting together one of those coffee table books. You know: photos of the desert, some nice prose mixed in, all of it on glossy paper.

I know, I know. And stop it. You’re making me feel bad.

Another head tip, this time with brief elevation of his gray eyebrows.

Ah! That’s because underneath the gruff exterior you’re a decent, kind woman. You see as well as I do there’s no real money in his line of work. He could go ten years and never encounter hors d’oeuvres like these. I thought inviting him would be a nice thing to do.

Mary kissed her father on the cheek. I’m sorry. I feel terrible. Can you explain it all to him for me?

I can try. Why don’t you just tell him yourself? You can be very, very charming. Thirty seconds in your presence and he’ll forget any offense.

Quentin Surrey smiled yet again, this time to reassure her.

Mary smiled back, squeezed her father’s hand, and went looking for the photographer. She couldn’t find him, though.

6

Fangs dug out the satellite phone he kept hidden beneath the seat in his pickup truck. It took about a minute to get the encryption working right. He called The Valkyrie, who answered right away.

They used her blue protocol to identify themselves, but Fangs recognized her smooth, sexy voice the moment she answered. He wasn’t among the few persons who knew The Valkyrie’s face. Had he met her, though, he’d have liked what he saw. She’d taken care of herself over the years. Well into middle age, she looked every bit as good as she sounded. Valkyrie was an intelligent woman with short black hair, a good smile, and no scruples whatsoever.

Maybe you need a green light, Fangs?

Affirmative. The ambush team’s moved up to Bravo 2. They’ll take up positions at Bravo 4 when you green light the hit.

The kill’s imminent?

Affirmative. Snitch says the target leaves the party a little after 2300 my time. If she does, the kill should get made about 2345 hours. That all assumes Snitch has good information.

Big assumption, but I’m okay with it. That junkie’s done her job so far. I’d guess she’ll get this last piece right. You’ll whack Snitch yourself?

Affirmative. Tomorrow night when I deliver diamonds that won’t exist.

The Valkyrie chuckled. I’d like to watch. Snitch has been a whiny nuisance for too long. Getting her that resort job was way too much trouble. Do it your way, but think about shooting Snitch twice in her flat chest for me.

I’ll think about it with pleasure. I hate her, too. So, I have the green light?

Not quite. There’s one more thing. I want a last-minute change.

Fangs was quiet too long. The Valkyrie knew why. Last-minute changes could be difficult and dangerous. Everything could be put at risk.

Don’t worry, Fangs. It’s easy. Just leave a written message.

What message?

Five little words. Write them on O’Connell’s forehead if it’s still intact. Or scratch them on the hood of her car. Like I said, it’s easy. Are you ready to copy the five words?

Affirmative. Send them.

I spell: T-H-I-S … I-S … F-O-R … B-L-U-E … D-O-G.

7

It was eleven p.m. The reception had been over for an hour. Most guests had gone to bed and the rest were happily ensconced in the San Pedro’s bar. Mary O’Connell had changed into three-inch heels, a full skirt, and a cashmere sweater. All her diamonds were packed away. She and her father stood in the San Pedro’s lobby, not far from Mary’s luggage.

Quentin Surrey was adamant. No! You’re not driving back to Dallas tonight. We had this argument last year.

She sighed. He meant well, she told herself. Just be patient with him.

Driving back last year was wonderful. It was a full moon, just like tonight. The autumn air was cold and invigorating. The stars were magnificent and the sunrise inspired two paintings. Daddy, for me the drive back that night was the best part of the whole event.

You’ll fall asleep at the wheel.

No, I won’t. I had a nap and I’ve got a thermos of coffee.

He shook his head. It’s not safe.

I have my revolver and I’ve got my cellphone.

Cellphone! You know there aren’t any cellphone towers for the first hundred miles. Maybe farther. You can’t even get two bars of signal a mile from the San Pedro.

Then I’ll drive faster. A hundred miles will fly by in no time. After that I’ll have at least two bars.

What about the auction? You won’t be here for it. Just like last time.

She took his arm in hers. It didn’t matter last year. It won’t matter this year. Tell them that I’m off in search of inspiration. That worked last time.

He shook his head again. It was time to use his secret weapon.

Mary, you can’t drive back tonight. That’s final. Drive back with me tomorrow.

Mary was beginning to lose her patience.

Daddy, I’m a woman now. You don’t get to tell me what to do.

Wrong. In this case, I do. What car do you plan on driving?

He took his arm out of hers, faced her, and stood up straight. Mary recognized the stance. It was the position he always took in their father-daughter standoffs. She thought he did it unconsciously.

Our company car. The sporty little coupe my Daddy picked out for us.

Nope. I had the resort manager take that car and park it far from here. You won’t be able to find it. You can’t drive back without it. Now, let me help you get those suitcases up to your room.

He smiled in gentle triumph.

Mary lost her temper. Both hands went on her hips and she stuck her chin out. What! You hid the car? How dare you do that? I own half that car.

He kept the smile. Then next week can be your turn. We’ll alternate. This week the car’s mine and I’ve decided to hide it.

The hapless photographer walked up. Mary was mad at him, too.

"You! Where have you been? I spent an hour off and on trying to find you."

The chin was pointed his way now. Quentin Surrey looked at the man, rolled his eyes, and shrugged. The photographer, meanwhile, glanced at Mary, at Quentin, and back to Mary.

Me? If you must know, I’ve been photographing the moon and stars. Out in the cold air. Seemed like a good idea. Somebody didn’t want me at her party.

Now he was getting annoyed. Mary’s bad humor appeared contagious.

She stepped toward him, took one hand off a hip, and wagged a well-manicured finger in his face.

"I was going to say I was sorry for how I acted. Forget that! Look at the way you’ve acted. It cancels out how I acted and then some. You owe me an apology!"

He put his hands on his hips. His chin pointed at her chin.

And why’s that? Tell me how I offended Miss Congeniality of the art world—the only woman I know who thinks sunlight is brown.

Mary raised her voice.

"Do you have any idea how hard it was to break away from dozens of rich people every ten or fifteen minutes—just to look for you? Those people are customers. I gave up time with them to find you, and you were hiding from me!"

Quentin Surrey noticed that two or three persons were watching through the wide doorway to the bar. The argument had to stop, he thought. It was getting bad for business.

People are staring at us. Let’s all lower our voices. We can discuss this in the morning.

The photographer shook his head.

Sir, I won’t be here. Remember? I’m leaving now for Bear Paw, Texas. I need some sunrise pictures and Bear Paw’s the best place in the whole Southwest to take them. Sorry. Maybe I could phone you tomorrow or the next day?

Mary didn’t give her father time to answer.

And I’m leaving, too. You see those cars in the San Pedro’s parking lot, Daddy? They belong to the San Pedro’s night shift workers. I’m going to buy the junkiest car in that lot for fifty thousand dollars. I’m going to drive it to Dallas tonight and have a transmission failure on the way. That’ll teach you!

Quentin Surrey put his hands to his ears in exasperation. Quiet. Both of you. Let me think.

Moments later, he had an idea. How about this: Bear Paw’s on the way to Dallas. I’ll pay you to drive Mary to Dallas by way of Bear Paw.

Sir, you don’t need to pay me anything. But she doesn’t want to go to Bear Paw and I’m not sure ...

Mary interrupted. Tell me about Bear Paw’s sunrises. What’s so special about that place?

He sighed in resignation. It’s only partly the location. It’s also the time of year. That affects sun position and angle. I checked the weather. There might even be some ground fog.

As he explained, Mary grew intrigued. It sounded far better than what she’d seen last year.

Okay, she announced. Here’s what we do. You drive me to Bear Paw with you and then on to Dallas. I’ll pay a thousand dollars per day for the trip plus expenses. Agreed?

I don’t really think this is a good idea. I mean ...

This time Quentin interrupted. Sorry. I hate to do this, but I have to. Think back thirty years or so—back to when a certain general officer made an inspection. People called me ‘Running Fox’ in those days. Rebel, you owe me one. You know you do. This is how you repay it.

That aroused Mary’s curiosity. She took the photographer’s arm and smiled.

So, you have a code name and it’s ‘Rebel.’ I bet there’s a good story lurking there ... Come on. Help me get my luggage into whatever you’re driving. I’ll keep you awake on the way. When you’re ready, you can apologize to me.

8

Rebel drove an SUV that needed bodywork, hubcaps, and a new coat of paint. The windshield had a six-inch crack and one taillight seemed held on by duct tape. Mary was appalled.

You get around in this? Maybe we didn’t think things through. What if I really do buy one of the night shift employee cars? That way we might get to Bear Paw, if not Dallas. She was serious.

It’s not so that bad. Get inside. I’ll put your bags on the middle seat.

She climbed in. Soon he sat in the driver’s seat next to her. Mary looked puzzled.

I don’t get it. How do you keep the inside immaculate while the outside looks horrendous? This is like a new car with clunker skin.

I know. I should’ve waxed it.

He waved to Quentin Surrey and they drove off. It was eleven-twenty-three p.m.

9

At eleven-twenty-five p.m., a very nervous Snitch began whispering into her radio.

Fangs? Hey, Fangs, are ya there? This is Snitch. Fangs? ... Fangs?

Okay, okay, okay! I hear you. Fangs here. Did she leave?

Yeah. Two minutes ago, but not like you think.

What’s that mean?

He was so tired of Snitch he almost didn’t pay attention to what came next.

She’s got a guy with her. He’s mid-fifties. Seems athletic. Good-looking.

I know this is hard for your tiny brain to comprehend, Snitch, but I don’t care if he’s good-looking. You trying to imply something about me?

No! Not me. No way. I mean, well, maybe that’ll help you identify him. Also, they’re in his old, beat-up SUV. She went on to describe Rebel’s vehicle.

Okay, Snitch. You done good. Anything else?

Only one thing. I’ll meet you fifty miles south of here. Where we planned. At six p.m. tomorrow. And you’ll bring the diamonds?

Yeah. Just like I promised.

10

Mary O’Connell adjusted the SUV heater and repositioned her seat. She tried the radio, decided there was nothing worth listening to, and turned it off. All that done, it was time to deal with the Rebel person beside her.

Since you’re working for me, you probably wonder what the rules are?

He didn’t reply, so she continued. First, you should know I have a revolver with me. I’m an excellent shot. I can protect us if necessary. I’ll tell you what to do if danger threatens.

He looked at her as though she had four heads, but said nothing. It wasn’t the reaction she’d hoped for, but it was a start. Mary tried again.

Next, I’ll tell you where to go, whether or not you’re driving too fast, and when we need to use restrooms along the way. You may, of course, raise the last topic on your own.

She again looked at him for some sign of agreement. Nothing. He began fiddling with buttons above the rearview mirror. She tried anew as he fiddled.

I also have a thermos of coffee. There’s enough to give us each a single, four-ounce cup every hundred and twenty-five miles. We can refill it at daybreak. Maybe sooner. We might see an all-night truck stops in three or four hours.

She looked at him pointedly. Still nothing.

Are you listening to me, Rebel-whoever-you-are?

Sort of. Now, you’ll need to sit quietly while I make some arrangements.

Before she could reply, he activated one of his fiddly buttons.

Rebel to Big Eye.

Big Eye here. Your voiceprints look okay this time. Well done.

I know. I know. Don’t chew gum when being voice printed. Are we done with the ID part?

Not quite. You’d better turn on your dome light so I can do a facial scan.

Rebel did. A little red light glowed momentarily among fiddly buttons over the rear view mirror.

Okay. Good scan. I identify you as Rebel. You may proceed.

He switched off the dome light without even a glance at Mary.

Running Fox said he’d leave instructions for me. You’ve got ‘em?

Affirmative. The woman with you has a Level 9 clearance. Running Fox said to tell you she helps him run an art gallery. It handles some logistical work for Blue Dog on the side. He also said that, regardless of what she claims, you’re in charge. Blue Dog has confirmed you’re in charge. Acknowledge.

Roger. I’m the boss. I’ll explain that to her. Anything else?

Yeah. We’re sending a drone your way, but it can’t see you yet. Estimated drone contact is sixty-five minutes out if you keep moving east. And if the wind’s steady.

No problem. I’ve got a full moon. I’ll start using night vision in twenty miles or so. Any bad guy activity?

The intelligence summaries show nothing affecting you. How about I check in with you every hour?

Sounds good. Call me in sixty minutes. Rebel out.

He did a quick button fiddle before reaching down to the console between seats. She heard a click followed by a whir. The console slid back, revealing some sort of technically advanced assault rifle. He began a conversation just as curiosity almost overwhelmed her.

We’ve maybe fifteen minutes before I need the night vision. It’s experimental stuff and calibration’s tricky. I can’t talk much then, so please pay attention now.

She didn’t like being told to pay attention and frowned. He didn’t care whether she frowned or not.

I’m responsible for your safety, which means I’m the one in charge. Be very clear about that. I’m the one in charge. Do you agree?

Her beautiful eyes sent daggers at him.

I certainly don’t agree. Not even a little. I’m paying you, remember? That makes me in charge.

Keep the money. Since you’re no longer paying me, I’m in charge. This is your last chance to agree. I can deliver you to Dallas handcuffed and gagged if that’s what it takes to keep you safe. Running Fox and Blue Dog are on record. You know what that means?

I don’t like this. Not any of it. Take me back to the San Pedro and I’ll buy a car.

Sorry. I made a promise to deliver you. Your father’s right about my owing him a big favor. That all means you ride with me and not alone. Last chance. Agree or I’ll cuff you.

He said it so matter-of-factly that she knew he’d do it.

Somehow she forced herself to say, I agree that you’re in charge.

Good. Next rule. You can keep your gun. However, if anything bad happens, you stay in the truck until I give you permission to step outside. Agreed?

Her eyes flashed. Are you doing to handcuff me if I disagree?

Yes. And I’ll take your gun away, too.

You know, this isn’t a very nice way to treat a lady.

She already planned to call the