Page 149 of Daddy P.I. 3.0

“Not that I’ve seen but there’s a visible security system,” Ten responds.

“Disable or lure out?” Myles asks, lifting his eyes to Max.

“I’ll evaluate it on site. If it’s linked to the local PD, disabling it might set off an alarm. If it’s hard-wired, luring him out’s the better option.”

Myles nods. “Car’s just pulling up. We’ll give the delivery boy ten minutes to clear off. We’re twenty minutes away. See you in thirty.”

Ten grunts. “What’re you planning to do when you get here?”

“First we’re going to evaluate the physical security and decide on the approach. Once we have the target isolated, we’re going to tag him and bag him.”

“We’re not taking him back to the fucking, uh,authoritywhere we came from,” Ten growls.

“No, we’re not,” Myles agrees. “We’re the garbage men.”

There’s a short silence while Ten processes what Myles has said.

“Yeah, okay,” Ten says. “I’m on board with that. Bring lunch when you come. There’s nothing around here. Fucking suburbs.”

With chuckles that sound strained to my ears, we sign off.

“Stay low and out of sight of the cabin windows,” Myles tells me. “A couple of prospects are dropping off a car since I don’t want a rental car paper trail. I don’t care if the prospects see my plane number since we drove to Jersey but I don’t want them seeing our faces.”

I nod and slide down to sit near them on the carpeted floor. I spread my legs and ease into some of the stretches Hendry taught me.

“While you’ve been sleeping, I’ve set up a backup evac plan,” Myles tells me as Max slides down on the floor in front of me, spreads his legs, and offers me his hands for a deep stretch. I let him pull me forward slowly and groan as the tension in my back and hips releases.

“I’m listening,” I assure Myles between groans.

“If we get separated, I’ve set up a rendezvous point away from the air strip. There’s cash, food, and water there. GPS has been sent to your burner. If any of us go for more than two hours without contact from any of the others, we stop what we’re doing and head to the rendezvous point. If that means leaving the target behind, even after he’s down, that’s what we do. Clear?”

I nod. “Clear.”

“We wait at the rendezvous point for six hours. Once any one of us arrives at the rendezvous point, the GPS in our burners will trigger a count-down that’s sent to all of the burners so everyone can see how long we’ve got to rendezvous. If you cannot reachthe rendezvous point before the end of the countdown, go to ground. If you’re injured, seek medical help. If you’re not, best bet is to hitchhike back to New York. We’re clear to be back in New York in seventy-six hours. The hunting license will have expired and that’s enough time for C’s injury to be treated.”

“Okay,” I say, panting a little as Max and I turn around until we’re back-to-back, lock elbows and start twisting side-to-side. Tension releases down my bad leg in a series of pops.

“I’ve primed my guy on the back end,” Myles continues. “We’re calling him F. He knows we’re coming in for disposal. He’s been paid. We hand off the target in a body bag. F won’t open it. F’s club has the controlling interest in a crematorium. The target will be run through the crematorium’s oven and ash grinder and the ashes buried in the crematorium’s rose garden.”

Max grunts. “That the same club who have a cozy bunker somewhere in Ohio?”

“One and the same,” Myles confirms.

I gather this is the same motorcycle club that provided a safe room for Max when he hacked two animal research labs to expose the weakness in WEDGE, a defense-department security program. I don’t ask for names. Max was clear when he told me, Mac, and Manny about it that the bikers were cool and professional but also armed and unflinching when they saw Max’s teacher-turned-nemesis in a gimp hood and zip-ties. They do the jobs they’re paid to do; they’re not people you mess with.

“Since you’re the only one of us who can fly,” I say. “If this goes south, you’re out of the equation, and one of us needs to drive the, uh, target to the club, how do we find them?”

“I have an idea for that,” Myles responds. “But I need to see what car they bring.”

I don’t understand why the plan would depend on the car but I trust Myles so I nod.

We go silent as the thrumming of a car motor and the crunching of tires on gravel sound through the plane’s cabin. I continue to stretch, wanting to be as limber as possible before we meet Ten. I’ve been on plenty of stake-outs. Stiffness and greasy food are the order of the day.

Myles starts a timer running on his phone. Before it reaches three minutes, a message flashes up on all our burners.

F: Car delivered. Prospects heading back to base.

Myles acknowledges the text.

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