But René was still walking the perimeter of the derelict boathouse, looking up into the trees, searching the bushes for shadows, for movement. He heard nothing and saw no one. He walked around to the front of the boathouse, marveled it was still standing, and finally he knocked once on the decaying wooden door, called out, “If you shoot me, my partner will kill Olivia Hildebrandt. She is nearby. I am here to trade her life for the flash drive. I want only what is mine, the flash drive, not your lives. Will you agree to a trade?”

René heard boot steps, then, “Come in.”

René heard no surprise in Kingman’s deep flat voice. Had he tried to call her again with no luck? Impossible when her cell phone was smashed in the parking lot at the American mall. Of course Kingman had known he’d come.

René pushed the sagging door inward, his pistol held against his leg, and stepped in, blinked to adjust to the dim light. He saw Mike Kingman standing silent and still in the middle of the room, a Glock in his left hand pointed at René’s head. He’d seen photos of Kingman—at least ten years younger than he, tall with blue eyes, shaggy dark hair, a hard, handsome face. He was wearing only a flannel shirt, scruffy jeans, and scarred boots. There was no fear in his eyes, only calm determination, like the rhino René had barely escaped in the Serengeti. Well, the rhino had died as easily as anything else with a bullet between his eyes. René hated him on sight. He said, “Lower your gun, Mr. Kingman. There is no reason for you to shoot me, and I have no reason to shoot you. A gentleman’s trade, that is all I want.”

Mike lowered his Glock to his side. “What’s your name?”

“You may call me René. Are you alone?”

Mike waved a hand around him. “Do you see anyone else?”

René looked about the long, narrow room, perfect for a large boat, he supposed, three windows on each side covered with cardboard. Boat hooks and chains hung down overhead, like ancient torture devices. The floor was a dirty green linoleum, cracked and chipped, the wooden floor beneath it rotting. A fortune-teller’s beaded curtain closed off a bed, he supposed, another a toilet at the back of the room. There wasn’t a kitchen, only a rough wooden plank laid over drawers. On top stood a small refrigerator and a microwave. There was an ancient sagging blue sofa, the material ripped and worn, stuffing poking out. There was a small folding table, two chairs. A small generator rested beside the table.

“Pull back the beads, show me no one hides there.”

Mike kept his eyes on René as he lifted the beads, showed him a narrow cot with two blankets stacked on top, two boxes on the floor, clothes flopping over the sides.