“Bad news always comes in threes.”
“It does that. Anything else?”
“That’s it for now but I’m not finished.”
Of course she wasn’t. If Cain knew anything about Mama B, once she got her teeth into something she shook it like a rabid pit bull.
“While you’re snooping around,” Harper said, “can you take a look at an attorney over here? Name’s Simon Greene. He defended Tommy Finley a couple of times.”
“Will do.”
Cain then called Chief Cassie Crowe. When she answered, he said, “I’ve got some information for you.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve got a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Scotty Duckworth’s missing.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been out of pocket for nearly three hours now. Doesn’t answer his phone or his radio. I’ve got everyone out looking for him.”
“Where was he last you knew?”
“Roaming around the backwoods north of The Crossroads. Doing what we’ve been doing for what seems like forever.”
“We’ll head that way.”
“Much appreciated. What do you have for me?”
“It’ll wait. Let us get rolling and then I’ll call back.”
“Okay.”
Cain looked at Harper. “Time to saddle up.”
“You thinking he found our bad guys?”
“Or they found him.”
“He could’ve simply had a wreck. Slid off the road and is injured. It’s nasty out, and those roads in the hills aren’t the best.”
Cain looked at her.
Harper shrugged. “Yeah. I don’t believe that either.”
They scurried out into the rain, retrieved a pair of duffles from The Rig, and returned to their respective rooms. Cain changed into his real combat gear, sturdier and more functional than the lighter weight gear he had been wearing. Tactical pants and shirt, pocketed jacket, multiple knives onboard. You could never have too many blades. Most were of his own design. His combat readiness consisted of a throwing knife in each boot sole, others strapped to each ankle, one in each secret compartment sewed into his pant seams along his thighs, and two T-bar stabbing weapons disguised as part of his belt buckle. A final one secreted in another sheath in the back of his shirt, high, just beneath the collar, easily reached. Standard for him when a mission loomed.
As he grabbed his combat jacket, Harper appeared in the doorway. Similarly dressed, her Glock 17-40 hanging from her right hip. Cain knew she had a smaller Walther strapped to her ankle.
“Let’s roll,” she said.
CHAPTER 46
Buck changed Dennie’s dressings, reinforcing each with extra padding and tape. He’d need that for the trip. The truth was that Dennie’s wounds were healing nicely and there was no evidence of infection. He should be able to make the trip to Memphis without problems. Buck had painted a more ominous picture for Dalton, but what the hell. He had to play the cards on hand.
Dalton came in. “You about ready?” he asked Buck.
“As ready as we’ll ever be.” He glanced at Dennie, then back to Dalton. “You sure I can’t talk you out of this move?”
“You can’t.”
“Well, if we’re going to do it,” Dennie said, “let’s get it done and over with.”
“I’m heading out now,” Dalton said.
“How long?” Dennie asked.
“Not sure. Depends on exactly where they are. They’re going to stop just west of town and wait for my call. So by the time they get up the hill and we hook up, I suspect a half-hour or so.”
Dalton looked at Buck. “So get ready to roll. As soon as we’re back, we hit the road.”
Dalton left the bedroom. Buck knelt near the two trash bags of supplies just inside the door. He pretended to be checking on things but his attention was on Dalton and Jessie as they walked toward the back door.
“Keep an eye on him,” Dalton said. “Anything funny, don’t hesitate. Kill his ass.”
“You got it.”
The kitchen door opened and closed. The SUV’s door did the same and the engine cranked to life. He peered through a narrow crack between the curtains. Dalton spun the SUV around and crunched down the drive. The rain had lightened. At least it wasn’t windblown and hammering the window.
Buck might not know where he was or which direction would lead him to safety, but he knew one thing for sure—he had to be gone before Dalton and his guys returned.
Time to roll the dice.
Buck walked out of the bedroom.
Jessie stood at the front window, curtain peeled back, looking out. He turned toward Buck. “You ready to go?”
“I guess. I changed his bandages and gave him some more morphine. It’ll help with any discomfort during the ride.”
“He going to be okay?”
“He either will or he won’t. It could go either way. What he needs is a hospital.”
“That ain’t going to happen.”
Buck walked to the kitchen, filled a glass with ice from the fridge.
“What are you doing?” Jessie asked.
“Having another.”
“Not sure that’s a good idea.”
Buck smiled, trying to look casual. “Actually, it’s a great idea.” He poured in some whiskey. “Want one?”
Jessie hesitated, glanced toward the door. “It was good.”
“I’ll make it light,” Buck said.
“That’d be good.”
Buck filled another glass with ice and splashed in some bourbon. As he added the other ingredients he slipped the small bottle of Noctec Syrup from his pocket. The one he had added to the trash bag at the pharmacy as they loaded up drugs and surgical supplies. The one he grabbed just in case the opportunity arose. Now it had, but the window was narrow.
Noctec. Liquid chloral hydrate. The original Mickey Finn. This version was cherry flavored because it was made for pediatric use. Hopefully sweet enough to meld with the Manhattan’s flavor. He added a healthy amount to each drink as a substitute for the maraschino juice. No dose calculation here. Only too much was enough. He said a silent prayer this would work. Quickly.
He stirred the two drinks and carried them to the table where Jessie sat. He slid one toward him. Jessie lifted it and examined it.
“How do I know you didn’t do something to it?” Jessie asked.
Buck had read Jessie right. Not
