Cover Of Night

Toxtel made a note of that, then checked his watch. He’d called someone who called someone, and a local who knew the area – and was supposedly good at taking care of problems of a certain type – was supposed to meet them here in Toxtel’s room at nine. Goss was smart enough to know they were in over their heads and without expert help they wouldn’t be able to contain those hayseeds in Trail Stop. They needed someone who was wilderness-savvy and who was good with a rifle. Goss did okay with a pistol, but he’d never fired a rifle. Toxtel had, but many years ago.

This local guy they were to meet supposedly had a couple of other guys he could call on to help. Goss wasn’t an expert, but even he could tell there were more avenues of escape than just three people could cover – not to mention the fact that those three people also needed to sleep occasionally. For Toxtel’s plan to work, he figured they’d have to have at least two more people, though three more would be better.

Goss was content to play along with whatever wild idea Toxtel came up with; the wilder the better, in fact, because that increased the chances the whole situation would blow up in Toxtel’s face and Salazar Bandini would get a lot of attention he wouldn’t want – like the Federal kind – which would make him very unhappy with Yuell Faulkner.

Goss had tried to come up with a concrete idea, but there were too many variables. The best he could hope for was that situations would present themselves in which he could surreptitiously foul things up, maybe make them worse. The best outcome would be that they got Bandini’s flash drive and no one got hurt or killed – the best outcome for Bandini, that is, and by extension, the best outcome for Faulkner. Therefore he had to make certain the first thing didn’t happen, and the second one did. He also wouldn’t mind if that bastard handyman was one of the ones who got shot.

The fact that Goss hadn’t died during the night meant he probably didn’t have brain damage, but he still had a bitch of a headache. He’d taken four ibuprofen when he woke up, and while that had taken the edge off enough for him to be able to concentrate, he hoped he wouldn’t be required to do anything more strenuous today than sit and talk.

At nine o’clock sharp there was a single rap on the door, and

Toxtel got up to answer it. He opened the door and stepped aside for their visitor to enter.

"Name," the man said briefly.

Hugh Toxtel was no one’s flunky, but neither was he so full of himself that he took umbrage at every little thing. "Hugh Toxtel," he said as matter-of-factly as if the guy had asked what time it was. "This is Kennon Goss. And you are – ?"

"Teague."

"Got a first name?"

"Teague will do."

Teague looked like the Marlboro Man gone junkyard-dog mean. His face was so weathered it was impossible to tell how old he was, but Goss guessed maybe in his fifties. His hair was salt-and-pepper, and cropped close to his head. There was American Indian blood there, a few generations back, evidenced in the high cheekbones and dark, narrow slits for eyes. If he’d let himself go soft, it didn’t show anywhere.

He wore jeans, hiking boots, and a green-and-tan-plaid shirt tucked neatly into his waistband. A serious-looking knife rode in a sheath at his right kidney, the kind of knife used tor skinning deer. It sure as hell would never qualify as a pocketknife. He was also toting a worn black canvas bag. Everything about Teague shouted "serious badass," and it wasn’t anything he said or wore, it was the utter confidence with which he carried himself, the look in his eyes that said he’d gut someone with no more concern than if he were swatting a fly.

"I got word you need somebody who knows the mountains," he said.

"We need more than that. We’re going hunting," Toxtel said neutrally, and indicated the map on the table.

"Just a minute," said Teague, and hauled an oblong electronic device out of the canvas bag. He turned it on and walked around scanning the room. When he was satisfied there were no listening bugs, he turned it off and turned the television on. Only then did he approach the table.

"I appreciate a careful man," Toxtel said, "but tell me up front if you have the feds clogging you. We don’t need a complication like that."

"Not that I know of," Teague replied, face expressionless. "Doesn’t mean things can’t change."

Toxtel regarded him silently. In the end, Goss thought, it came down to trust: Did Toxtel trust his contact? Trust was a commodity in short supply in their business, because there was no such thing as honor among thieves – or killers, as the case may be. What trust existed was there because of a sort of mutual-assured-destruction thing. Goss knew enough to bury Toxtel, and Toxtel knew enough to bury Goss. He felt safer with that than he would have with friendship.

Finally Toxtel shrugged and said, "Good enough." He turned back to the map and quickly outlined the situation, without mentioning Bandini’s name; he just said that something very important had been left at the B and B and the owner wasn’t inclined to give it to them. Then he laid out his plan.

Teague bent over the map, his hands braced on the table and his brows drawn together in a frown as he worked things around in his mind. "Complicated," he finally said.

"I know?. It’ll take some people who know what they’re doing."

"That’s why you’re here," Goss said drily. "Hugh and I aren’t exactly loaded with wilderness experience." It was the first thing he’d contributed to the conversation, and Teague flashed him a quick glance.

"Smart of you to see that. Some people wouldn’t. Okay. There are several things to consider. First, how do you cut off contact with the outside world? Not just physical contact, but phone, computer, satellite?"