Page 22 of Black Ice
“Use your friend,” Pickering repeated. “We can end this tonight.”
Wyatt shook his head. “She’s busy working a private event. I can’t pester her.”
Pickering scowled. “If you don’t use her, Cordell will. Get ready for that. Better if you can turn her before this goes down.”
The warning just hit him all wrong. “Enough. I’m doing what you asked.” He stalked out of his hotel room and down the hall. He’d hold up his end with the FBI, but it was less about the reward and more about making sure Evie didn’t get caught in the snare intended for Cordell.
Furious, with himself and the situation he’d lost control of, he stalked all the way to the casino’s front door. The depth of the snow stopped him even before the uniformed guard could remind him he’d want a coat before stepping outside.
“Valet service is closed, sir.”
“Looks like a good idea,” Wyatt said. “The doors are operational, right?”
“Of course.” The guard puffed out his chest. “Fire code demands it.”
“Has to be three feet deep already,” Wyatt murmured.
“Yes, sir. And counting. Next update is noon, but I don’t expect to hear that Holly has turned away.”
Wyatt had to agree. “Can I step out on the portico if I promise not to wander away?”
“I can’t actually force you to stay inside, sir. Please use the side door rather than the slider.” He gestured to the single door at the far side of the automatic doors.
“Sure” Wyatt agreed. “No need to turn both of us into popsicles.”
“Much appreciated.”
Outside Wyatt took a deep breath, regretting it instantly. The frigid air was like inhaling icicles. Despite that, the stillness, the utter quiet, was refreshing. No sounds of traffic or exuberant people coming and going. A man could feel alone out here.
And a thief carrying millions of dollars worth of diamonds could get lost and freeze to death in a hurry. He waited for any sound of plows or salt trucks working the highway. Now the silence worried him. He knew they wouldn’t run constantly, but he expected them to run. Maybe the guard inside would know the schedule.
Standing here, his feet and hands chilled through, Wyatt understood why the FBI refused to grant their agents permission to travel in these conditions. If he had any hope of getting Cordell, his men and the loot into Pickering’s custody, he had to be the driver. Baker didn’t have enough experience with these roads, he wouldn’t know how to navigate the unseen dangers in these conditions.
Wyatt walked to the edge of the portico that some poor employee was trying to keep clear and swiped his hand through a drift to get a feel for the snow’s texture. Heavy and wet. Snow like this would weigh down tree limbs and power lines, add in ice when the peak winds set in and they were in for one helluva risky drive out of Deadwood.
“The odds are not in our favor,” he whispered into the falling snow.
He had to convince Cordell to wait. Moving today was suicide. Wyatt hadn’t survived his mother’s antics, his father’s denial, or an improvised explosive in Afghanistan just to throw his life away here. Not for the sake of justice or his fledgling business. And Evie had just opened the door for them toreconnect. If he died out here, the FBI wouldn’t bother to clear his name. No amount of reward money was worth the risk that Evie would believe he was on the wrong side of the law with Cordell’s crew.
He walked back toward the door, halting when the Cordell phone buzzed. The two words on the screen left him shell-shocked. One hour.
One hour? No way. The countdown had been adjusted once already. He scrambled to reply and thanks to his chilled hands, he bobbled the phone. Fortunately, the snow caught it before any real damage could be done.
He shoved it inside a pocket, his heart racing. This was a huge mistake.
“You okay, sir?”
“It’s brisk,” he said, trying to pin his reaction on the weather. “Take care, man.” He hurried deeper into the casino, taking momentary refuge at a slot machine. What the hell was Cordell thinking? Juggling the plan like this was dangerous.
Granted, Wyatt wasn’t an expert in the field of jewel theft. Pretty much the opposite. He’d been working his way through the ranks in as an Army MP when the injury ended his career. The FBI had given him plenty of background on Tate Cordell, touting him as one of the best when it came to parting stores from their priceless gems. So far, the man wasn’t living up to Wyatt’s idea of an elusive criminal mastermind.
Several replies dashed through Wyatt’s mind, none of which he entered into the phone. Tate didn’t want advice or opinions. He expected full cooperation from everyone, including Wyatt who was only here to guide them north to the rendezvous point in a ghost town where another driver would be waiting to help them escape.
Except Wyatt’s job was to make sure the FBI was in place well ahead of the rendezvous time so they could gather up Tate,Baker, and Karl along with the driver waiting in the ghost town. And the FBI was definitely not going out in the teeth of the storm. Still, he sent the required text update to Pickering.
The rendezvous point, less than ten miles away, was an intermediate level cross-country hike in good weather. The drive could take over an hour on the twisting two-lane road on a clear day. In these treacherous conditions there was no way to give an accurate estimate on drive time. If the road was even passable.
They’d find out for sure soon enough. He should probably be happy this entire mess would be over sooner rather than later. Wyatt couldn’t muster enough relief to smother the trepidation.
