talked about this,” Haugen said.
“They’re not as stupid as I expected, and they’re not drunk enough yet.”
“You quiet them immediately. You do it in front of the group, pour encourager les autres. You film it, so Peter Reiniger will be convinced that we’re serious.”
“And then I get rid of the evidence.”
“Yes. And make sure it’s one of the disposables.” Haugen paused, to be sure Von understood. “Not just the weapon—the one who becomes the lesson.”
The stout gunman climbed into the driver’s compartment on the passenger side. Another man, wispy and blond, pulled off his mask and got behind the wheel. He cranked the ignition, grinding it until the Hummer finally fired up. They got on the Bay Bridge and headed east, toward Oakland. Finally the stout gunman pulled off his ski mask. A head shaped like a pumpkin sat atop his chunky frame. He ran a hand over his hair.
“Greetings. I’m Von, your drill instructor.”
Autumn leaned toward him. “I don’t want an assault course. I want room service.”
“Assault course and spa,” Von said. “Honey, it’s six-star. Don’t worry.”
Dustin raised his head. “As long as there’s booze.”
“There’s always booze,” Von said. “It’s a party.”
Through the pines Jo saw, at last, the crest of the hill. They’d been hiking back toward her truck for two hours. She was thirsty, and an altitude headache was lurking. The sun darted in and out from between gathering clouds. The air had a nip.
She was itching to get Phelps Wylie’s damaged cell phone to the Tuolumne County Sheriff’s Office, down the twisting mountain road in Sonora. She took her phone from her jeans pocket. No signal. The messages to Evan Delaney remained in the queue to be sent.
“We’re still probably forty miles from the nearest cell tower,” Gabe said.
He slowed on the trail and took a careful breath. He looked golden in the sunlight. His eyes were warm and full of life. But breathing deeply could still cause him pain, because of scar tissue, gunshot damage, and surgical work. He was trying to get a lungful of oxygen without feeling as if a spear had ripped open his side.
She ran a hand down his arm and squeezed his hand. “Home-stretch.”
The final two hundred yards of the trail zigzagged around pines and October yellow cottonwoods and lichen green rocks, to a clearing beside the logging road. Through the trees she glimpsed sunlight bouncing off the windows of her Toyota Tacoma pickup.
She heard music and voices. She and Gabe exchanged a look.
They walked into the clearing, and Jo slowed. Rock music was blaring from a car stereo, the Kings of Leon promising that your sex was on fire. A gargantuan black Hummer was parked by her truck. Red and yellow flames were painted on its sides. Its hood was up.
A motley group of young people loitered nearby. Young women with carelessly styled hair wearing tired jeans and expensive shoes. Fit young men trying to impress them. And failing—one guy sat on the dirt with his back against the Hummer, head hanging low. He was almost as green as the splotch of vomit a few feet away. A girl in pink velour lay on the backseat of the Hummer, feet sticking out the open door.
Gabe murmured, “Early in the day for so much hilarity.”
Two men were bent over the Hummer’s engine. One wore a baseball cap with EDGE ADVENTURES stitched on it. The other was dressed in black tactical gear. He was wiry and had a dark orange wisp of a mustache, like an overripe peach.
He straightened and said, “Von.”
A third man walked out from behind Jo’s truck.
Gabe didn’t slow or say a word, but as they crossed the clearing he took his hands from his pockets and stepped a foot ahead of Jo. Her internal radar began to ping.
She said, “Engine trouble?”
The man called Von nodded. He too was dressed in tactical black. He was wiping grease from his hands with a rag.
“Hope it’s just the battery, not the starter,” he said.
Peach Fuzz added, “We’re chauffeuring our young guests on their way to a weekend outing. One of them got car sick.”
The young guest in question, the green-faced boy, was, at the moment, crawling alongside the Hummer toward a ditch.
Von nodded. He had a head like a basketball. “We stopped and then couldn’t restart the engine. You got jumper cables?”
Jo’s antennae continued to twitch. Was that why he was snooping around her truck? “Yeah. I can give you a jump.”
She unlocked the truck and got the cables from the crew cab. Nearby one of the girls, a brunette wearing a gold sweater and jeans tucked into what looked like Prussian officer’s riding boots, sulked against the side of the limo.
“This is six-star?” She crossed her arms. “Where—Appalachia?”
Von said, “Gonna get back on the road in two minutes, Autumn.”
She ostentatiously checked her watch. “Two minutes max. Or you get me a helicopter and evacuate us to the Mandarin Oriental.”
One of the young men from the Hummer, who was wearing a Dean Martin–style hat and a sweatshirt with grier printed on the back, wandered near the trees, unzipped his pants, and relieved himself.
“Weekend church retreat?” Jo said.
Von smiled. It looked robotic. “Twenty-first-birthday party. Daddy’s picking up the tab.”
Gabe took the jumper cables. His face was flat and his eyes alert. Jo got in the cab, fired up the engine, and maneuvered the truck grille to grille with the Hummer. Gabe raised the hood.
It took only a minute to get the Hummer started. The starter ground for a few seconds and then the big engine gunned to life, harsh and whiny in the mountain air.
The green-faced young man climbed to his feet. Swerving back across the clearing, he opened one of the Hummer’s doors and grabbed a water bottle. He sauntered over to Autumn and nuzzled her neck.
She pushed him away.
“God, Dustin. You smell like puke.” Gabe glanced inside the open door of the Hummer. Jo saw it too: a gleaming silver handgun with a telescopic sight.
Von said, “It’s a replica.”
The man in the Edge Adventures cap wiped his palm on his jeans and extended his hand. “Kyle Ritter. Don’t worry none about the guns. They’re for show.”
Gabe smiled, as robotically as Von had. “Just wondering what sort of birthday party you’re celebrating.”
