Page 67 of Stuart Woods' Smolder

“Yeah, good enough.”

“Then let’s get out of here while our luck’s holding.”

—

The delivery van was overdue, and Teddy didn’t like it.

He called June Marnell, his contact at the auction house.

“Good, Mr. Barnett. I was just going to call and check how the delivery went.”

“Exactly the reason I’m calling you. It has not happened at all.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The van has yet to arrive.”

“That’s odd. I should have been notified if they were running late. Can you hold for a moment? I’ll check on their status.”

“I can.”

She was away for longer than he had expected. When she came back on, her earlier cheery disposition had vanished. “It appears something has happened.”

“What kind of something?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t tell you because we don’t know. GPS tracking puts the van three-quarters of a mile from your home, and it’s not moving.”

“You’ve tried calling them?”

“Yes, but no one answers. Our delivery manager thinks they might have a mechanical problem and are in an area with spotty cell coverage. Someone has been sent up to check on them, and I’m told they should be there in twenty minutes. I do apologizefor the delay. I’ll let you know the revised delivery time as soon as I—”

“Where exactly are they? If they’re that close, I can be there in a couple minutes.”

“There’s no need for you to do that.”

“It would ease my mind to confirm your delivery manager’s theory.”

“Oh, well…Hold for a moment. Let me get that.”

Teddy was already heading toward the front door. On the way, he stopped at his vintage stereo console cabinet, flipped open the record player compartment, and pressed down on the speed control selector for three seconds. A panel covering one of the speakers swung out like a door. Inside was a speaker a quarter the size of the original 1950s era version, and a Smith & Wesson 9mm pistol, two extra magazines, and an attachable silencer. He grabbed everything but the speaker and raced to his Porsche.

As he was slipping into the driver’s seat, June came back on the line. “I can give you an approximate address.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, could you text that to me?”

“Of course. Right away.”

“Thank you, June.”

The Porsche rumbled to life, and he swung it around the driveway to the street. A check of his phone confirmed the text had arrived.

It took seven minutes to reach the turn onto the road the van was supposedly on. While he didn’t immediately see it because of a bend in the road ahead, thanks to the top being down on his roadster, he did smell the one thing that no one who lived in the hills ever wanted to smell.

Smoke.

He slowed as he took the bend, then screeched to a stop, barely keeping from ramming into the back of the delivery van.

The van was sitting in the middle of the lane, its back doors wide open and its cargo area empty.

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