Page 9 of Fire Peak

She caught a glimpse of the guard she was working with, and exchanged the tiniest of nods with him. We’re on track.

Gomez had been working at the penitentiary for years and had gotten to know her father. He’d even testified at his last parole hearing. And of course his daughter could go to college with what Charlie was going to pay him. She’d selected him very carefully, after tons of research.

By the time Donato Santa Lucia came into the visitor room in his familiar orange jumpsuit, she was almost ready for the shock. Every time she saw him lately, he’d lost more weight. His jumpsuit sagged on his body, and his normally cheerfully full face looked gaunt.

“Daddy,” she murmured as she gave him the brief embrace that guards allowed. He’d been locked up for so long now, giving only minimal trouble, that he was allowed certain privileges. “How are you feeling?”

“Tip-top.” He always sounded so chipper, no matter what. “Always happy when I get to see my girl.”

At a gesture from the guard, they both sat down on opposite sides of the table. “What are the doctors saying?”

“Oh, doctors. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I feel just as spiffy as ever. Let’s not talk about all that. How are you? Has Molly found Lila yet?”

Her father always loved hearing about her friends.

“Yes, she found her in Alaska, of all places. I just came back from a quickie visit to see her for myself. She’s tending bar at a place called The Fang in this tiny little outpost in the middle of a mountain range. There used to be a copper mine there, but now it’s just mountains and trails and glaciers.”

“What in the bejeezus is Lila doing there?”

“You know Lila. She follows her own muse. Anyway, Daddy, I’m working on something. Something big.” She stole a glance at the nearest guard patrolling the tables on this side of the visitor room. “I want you to be ready.”

She watched his face as understanding set in. Then fear.

“No.” Her father reached across the table and gripped her hands—something he wasn’t supposed to do. “Don’t take any risks on my account. I’m fine. The only thing I worry about is you, bunny.”

“Don’t you dare worry about me. I might take that personally.” She flashed him her most confident, sassiest smile. “You should know by now that I always come out on top. I will this time too.”

“No risks. Promise me.”

Of course there was risk. Lots of risks. But she was used to skating on the edge of catastrophe. It was practically a lifestyle at this point. “It’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll pull the plug if anything looks sketchy.”

“No hands,” the guard warned.

Her father pulled his hands into his lap and beamed up at the guard. “Can you believe this gorgeous woman is my daughter? I’m just so proud.”

The guard looked unimpressed. “Times up. Let’s go.”

When she collected her belongings on her way out of the prison, a note was tucked inside her phone case. You’re being tracked. Need a pause.

Shit. Shit shit shit. Cold fear trickled down Charlie’s spine. Tracked? What did that mean? Followed? Investigated? She wasn’t worried about herself as much as she was about her father. This entire prison break idea was hers. He didn’t know a single detail about it—she’d made sure of it. If any hint got back to the authorities, he’d be sent to solitary and she’d never get him out.

But a pause…shit. Her father was ill, he needed better medical care. Did he have time for a pause? How long of a pause?

It’s okay, she tried to reassure herself. A pause won’t ruin anything. At least Gomez hadn’t pulled the plug on the whole operation. Of course not—he wanted that money, and he was only going to get it once her father was free.

As she looked up from the note, a flash of light at the far end of the parking lot caught her attention. She stilled and scanned the lot, but all she saw was the usual coming and going of visitors. It must have been the sun reflecting in a rearview mirror. But the prickles on the back of her neck told her otherwise.

Binoculars?

You’re being tracked.

As if she didn’t have a care in the world, she put on her sunglasses and sauntered to the Buick, each step an exercise in self-control. Don’t run. Don’t look rattled. You’re just a daughter visiting her father. If they’re tracking you, make it boring for them.

Safely inside her car, she pinned her gaze to the spot where she’d seen the flash of light. She had her own binoculars in her glove compartment. They came in handy in all sorts of situations. Scrunching down in her seat, she snagged them from the glove box and put them to her face. It took a moment to find a good focus, and in that time, things shifted on the other side of the lot. A car was leaving.

She sat up higher and adjusted the focus. The car—an innocuous beige economy car, the kind favored by rental companies—cruised toward the exit. A little fast for a parking lot, perhaps, but not fast enough to gain attention. She zeroed in on the driver. Male. Mid-thirties. Dark hair under his beanie. Dark aviator shades. Nicely shaped lips?—

Jesus. Was that Nick?

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