Something about the shape of the things on the table in front of him looked very familiar.
Is that a pile of guns?
Tyler chewed on his lip.
Who is this guy?
Probably a bad idea to burst in there. By the time he recovered from shouldering the door, the old man might have lit him up. He had a policy against sneaking up on a guy surrounded by weaponry. His target looked like Tony Montana lording over his mountain of cocaine, except Viggo’s cocaine was guns.
As if he could hear the call of Tyler’s thoughts, Viggo stood. Tyler tucked back against the house and then took a second peek.
The giant had moved to his front door.
Someone there. Nice timing.
Tyler tried the knob.
Open.
He slipped inside and quietly shut the door behind him, hoping Viggo’s visitor wasn’t another giant bringing his own pile of hardware.
He crept toward the dining room, listening to a voice he assumed to be Viggo talking to someone else.
A woman.
Viggo invited her in.
Tyler slipped inside the bathroom off the kitchen, closing the door enough to hide his presence, but not so tight it appeared someone was inside.
Time to make a decision.
He could swing around the corner, pop the woman and hold a gun on Viggo until he extracted the information he needed, or he could wait until she left and then take care of Viggo without distractions.
Tyler tapped the muzzle of his pistol against his lips.
Decisions, decisions...
&&&
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Shee and Mason pulled up to a suburban home on the outskirts of Minneapolis in a rental car ill-equipped for icy roads. Shee missed the nosey lady beside her in the plane. Alone in the car, the secrets between them felt like a churning moat of sea monsters.
“We should have ponied up a little extra cash for a better car,” said Mason as they slid to the curb.
“Sorry. Freelancing skip tracing isn’t exactly the fast track to riches. I’m used to automatically choosing the cheapest option.”
He put the car in park. “Remind me not to eat shellfish with you.”
Shee studied Viggo’s home. The previous night’s snow had melted from his roof but not his neighbor’s. That meant Viggo’s house was heated, so he was probably home, and he probably didn’t have sufficient insulation in his attic. She’d have to tip him to the money he could be saving on his heating bill, right after she beat out of him why he tried to have her father killed.
“What now?” asked Mason.
“I’m going to knock on the door. No need for subterfuge.”
Mason’s eyebrows raised. “Well, except that he killed your father. Maybe he’d like you dead, too.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think he’s the one who left him in the rental for us to find.”
“Then, gosh. He’s practically Santa Claus.” Mason put his hand on the door handle and moved as if he were about to get out of the car.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m going with you.”
“No. Stay here.”
Mason frowned. “Again—you don’t know anything about this guy.”
“But he might recognize you and see you as a threat. I need him talking and you parked around the block.”
Mason set his jaw, his blue eyes lasering his determination into her brain. “I’m coming.”
“Did you forget the part where I stayed alive my whole life without your help?”
His body recoiled. Shee grimaced.
That sounded crueler than I meant...
“I just mean—”
“Fine. Go get yourself killed.” Mason lifted his hand from the door, and flicked his wrist as if he were tossing his fingers into the back seat.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“But I’m staying here where I can see the door.”
“But he—”
“I’m staying here.”
Shee felt the urge to continue arguing leaving her. She wanted to get to Viggo. “Fine. Stay here and ruin everything.”
“Still bullheaded,” she heard him mutter as she left the car.
A frigid blast ate through Shee’s hastily packed puffy vest, as if she were wrapped in nothing but cheesecloth. Shuffling across the icy road, she rang Viggo’s camera doorbell, noting it had a less obvious cousin nestled in a tree and another mounted on the eaves.
Someone’s a little paranoid.
The door opened and an enormous blond man peered down at her. His graying beard, combined with his wrinkled plaid shirt, gave him the feel of a Swedish hobo-lumberjack.
“Who are you?” he asked without taking his eyes off the idling rental car. He’d already clocked Mason.
“I’m Mick McQueen’s daughter.”
The man’s attention snapped back to her, his once ruddy cheeks paling.
“Little Shee?”
“Not so little anymore, but yeah.”
He looked back to the car. “He here to kill me?” Viggo’s flat tone said he didn’t care much if Mason was loading a gun as they spoke.
“No. I just want to talk. Can we do that?”
He stepped back. “Come in. Bring him if you like.”
She shook her head. “This is between you and me.”
Shee moved into the warmth of the small home and stamped her shoes on the mat. Viggo lumbered toward a dining room table and pulled out a chair for her before dropping into his own seat as if standing had been a strain. His home was neat, but not clean, and badly in need of a remodel. There were signs a woman once lived there—a small Hummel collection and pillows on the sofa with frilly edges—but something about the pile of guns on the dining room table suggested she hadn’t been around in a while.
“Ignore them,” he said, motioning to the weapons. “I have a little business cleaning and repairing. They’re spare parts.”
Shee eyed the pile.
Spare parts. For making untraceable guns.
“You make ghost guns.”
His eyes shifted in her direction. “Cleaning and repairing.”
