The Swede shook his head. Cross could tell he didn't quite buy it.
“Sloppy, very sloppy,” the Swede said, disapprovingly.
“But it’s a good thing they were or you wouldn’t be here. Then what happened?”
“I woke up in an alley, soaking wet, with a headache and a bloody skull, but otherwise, none the worse for wear.”
“Well, you're one lucky son of the devil,” Erik grunted. “I can't believe professionals like Chang’s henchmen would be so careless. If it'd been me, you'd be dead.”
“Comforting,” Cross replied, hardly amused. “I believe I can trust you to make things right?”
The Swede looked pleased. “I was hoping you'd ask. Don't worry, I'll find out who did it. The incompetent creep's as good as dead.”
“Chang, too.”
At this, the Swede fell silent.
“I know it won't be easy. He has an entourage of bodyguards around him all of the time.”
The big Swede's gray eyes flashed. “That's why you were smart to hire me, Cross. You know I can do whatever you need done. Chang's history.”
The Swede turned to leave. Cross held out his hand, signaling him to stop. “I just want you to know, Erik, I appreciate your skill,” he said, his dark eyes narrowing, looking straight into the other man's. “And your loyalty. I know the risk you'll be taking. I also expect Chang will try to make you a better offer.”
“Don't worry,” the Swede said, allowing no emotion to enter his voice. “I don't believe in making things complicated. I only work for one man at a time.”
“Good. That's what I wanted to hear. You can trust me to make it worth your while. Tonight?”
The Swede shook his head. “This kind of thing takes a bit of time to do right. I need to find out his daily routine, where he’ll be when and with whom. With his security, it may take a while. But don’t worry….” Holst reacted to Cross’ disapproving frown, “I’ll get the job done and done right. I'm assuming you want more than just a hit; you want a message sent to anyone else who may be contemplating messing with you in the future. Am I on target?”
“You read me like a book.”
“Best stay home until it's over. No sense taking chances. If he were to discover you’re still alive, he could try again. For added protection, we should increase security around the property; put in a gatehouse and guard.”
“Fine,” Cross said with a shrug. “Whatever you think best.”
The bodyguard turned to go. Cross again put out a hand to stop him, his handsome features contorted with an ugly snarl. “Oh, and Erik ... make him suffer.”
The Swede paused, his thin lips showing only the slightest trace of a smile. “You can count on it,” he said, and left the room without looking back.
Cross took time to locate a box of Cuban cigars and lit one before he strolled outside to the patio. Overhead, a thin quarter moon fought against currents of choking clouds, still threatening rain. A chilly breeze, sweet with the smell of Pacific salt, teased the heavy wine-red draperies at the open glass doorway. He breathed it in deeply, savoring the scent and power of darkness.
Silhouetted against the pale sky was the figure of a slender woman, her back turned toward him, her raven hair blowing in the wind. He advanced to where she stood rubbing her arms and shivering and watched her from behind.
“You're cold, pet,” he purred in her ear. “Come inside and let me warm you.”
She startled, then turned to face him, her eyes wet with tears. “Oh Garrin, I was thinking ... if ever I should lose you....” She started to cry.
He held her against him, stroking her hair. “Now, now, kitten, I will never leave you, and I will never, ever let you go. You can be certain of that.”
She looked into his face, blinking and smiling, and he wiped her tears with his fingertip. “Let's go inside,” he coaxed. “I feel like it's been an eternity since I felt the way I'm feeling now, here in your arms. Let's go inside and see what happens.”
“Yes,” she whispered, pulling him by the hand, “let's.”
9
RUBBER STAMPS AND PAPER CLIPS
The Johns' old blue Ford truck kicked up a cloud of dust behind it as it rattled down the road leading from the farmhouse toward the highway. As soon as he hit pavement, Michael rolled both windows down and fiddled with the radio dial until he found a country station that he liked. Music with a solid beat and homey lyrics, the warmth of early summer’s sunshine on his bare arm, the wind in his hair, all helped take his thoughts away from missing his father, selling a ranch that was the only home he had ever known, and the uncertainty of the future he now faced.
Around him, Star Valley spread out like a well-worn quilt, a patchwork of green and yellow pasture squares knotted on each corner with a white sideboard farmhouse here and a ramshackle barn there; the whole effect stitched together with barbed wire and fence posts. Star Valley was, in fact, two valleys joined in the shape of a peanut. The valleys, known as the upper and lower valleys, were, in the minds of the locals, the most beautiful place on earth. Few outsiders, once having seen their unspoiled grandeur, would dispute that opinion. The dirt road Michael had been driving on from his ranch joined Highway 89, which ran straight through both valleys, due north to south. He passed Star Valley’s famous cheese factory on the outskirts of a little horse rail of a town called Thayne, then drove on through the Narrows, where the Salt River flowed lazily between green banks of willow and cattail. Here, where the valley was cinched in like the waist on a bridal gown, a deer suddenly darted across the highway, narrowly escaping Michael’s truck. He slammed on his brakes and swore.
Glad for the deer as well as himself, Michael muttered a short prayer of thanks and sped on his way. The narrows opened and the upper valley was laid out before him in all its bucolic postcard perfection.
The morning sun's glare on his dusty windshield forced Michael to squint as he viewed the approaching town of Afton, some five miles distant, tucked against the western skirt of the Salt River Range. The whole familiar sweep of it was easily taken in by one glance of his eyes. This time he almost resented the beauty of it. For all but three years of his life, he had wakened, worked and slept within the bosom of this valley, a place he must now leave for good. There was nothing to keep him here now. In his mind, he told himself, he was likely looking at these fields, these farms and Star Hill, which bore the valley’s high school symbol, a star formed of white, painted boulders, for the last time.
The town began now in proper. Michael drove past a string of small businesses, the dentist, the insurance agent, a Pizza Hut, then on past the town’s only two gas stations, a car dealership, and then the Frosty River—a drive-in where he and his friends had demolished many a greasy cheeseburger and thick chocolate malt after a Braves’ football game. Streets lined with a hodge-podge style of houses, built anywhere from the 1930’s to present, side by side. Even so, pride of ownership was evident. The yards were kept well. Backyard gardens of vegetables and raspberry bushes spoke of a self-reliant people who loved their little spot on earth. The homes may be humble, but dear. Michael felt an ache in his gut. A part of him longed to stay in this place, so familiar that had he been struck blind, he could still have navigated every street. But a restlessness stirred inside he could not ignore. It whispered in his ear like an insistent fly. There’s more than this for you, Michael Johns. Time to go. Time to go.
He drove down the eight-block length of Main Street, grinning as he passed under one of the town’s more charming features, a