“How soon can you be ready?”

Rickard cupped his hand over the phone. He called out to the closed bathroom door, “Alisha, honey, take your time in there. Change of plans, I’m afraid. I have to go out alone tonight.”

Chapter 6

6

After yesterday, having a gun pressed to my head wasn’t the best way to start my day, but it did a lot more to wake me up than the two Vente Americanos I’d already downed from the corner Starbucks. By the feel of the snub-nosed revolver touching a point just above my left ear, the man wasn’t joking. I took my hands from the steering wheel of my Taurus to show I wasn’t armed.

“You don’t need the gun,” I told him. “Don’t forget . . . you called for this meeting.”

“I haven’t stayed alive this long by taking unnecessary risks. Just do as I ask and everything will be fine.”

Slipping out of the car, I appraised the gunman. He was unremarkable: brown hair, brown eyes, medium height, and medium build. He was the type of person who could blend into any crowd, your typical CIA agent. It was seven years since I’d laid eyes on Bryce Lang, but the years had been kind to him. Apart from a couple of extra lines around his eyes, he looked much the way he had when last we’d worked together.

“Am I missing something here, Bryce? I thought we were on the same side.” I looked at him steadily and saw his eyelids droop ever so slightly.

“That’s the problem, Hunter. I’m not sure whose side you’re on any more.” He waved me toward a nondescript brown sedan. “You drive.”

“Where to?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re moving.”

Bryce kept the gun on me until I was seated in his car. Periodically he glanced around searching for hidden observers, but this neck of Tampa was practically deserted at this time of morning. Only the occasional harried employee ducking into the nearby Starbucks for a caffeine injection on their walk to work was in evidence. Their eyes were too sleep-muddled to notice the man with a gun in their midst. Happy that we’d gone unnoticed, Bryce clambered into the passenger seat. He held the gun across his thighs, the muzzle aimed at my side.

From his jacket pocket he pulled out a small contraption that he held concealed in his palm. He waved the electronic device in my direction and I heard a faint buzz in response.

“You have a mobile phone?”

“You know I do. You called me on it.” It was prepaid and unregistered, no way of linking it to me.

“Turn it off. Do it slowly. No sudden movements.”

Reaching into my shirt pocket I used two fingers to slip my Nokia out and flip it open. I depressed the red button and put the phone back in my pocket.