Chapter 27
"We go in calm," he said for the third time. "Let Osgood think it's routine questions about the Mountain Angel incidents."
"Then hit him with the offshore accounts." Izzy's fingers drummed against her thigh. "Watch him squirm."
"No. We build up to it. Start with inconsistencies in his reports. Make him comfortable, then—"
"Then drop the hammer." She shifted in her seat, leather creaking. "I know, Cory. I've run interrogations before."
"In combat zones. This is different."
"You think I can't—" Her phone buzzed, cutting off what promised to be a spectacular argument. She read the message aloud.
Avalanche site secured. Knight Tactical team One has suspect in custody. We'd head home but we're pinned down by a storm. Hope to be wheels up in the morning.
"Good. Jack's team got their guy." Cory glanced at the message while navigating a switchback. Jack Reese led Knight Tactical's original team—solid operators who'd been doing serious personal protection and investigative work on an international level for years.
She typed back quickly.
At least someone's making progress.
The descent into Reno took forty minutes, the landscape shifting from pine forests to high desert scrub. By the time they reached the federal building, the snow had turned to cold drizzle that seemed to seep through everything.
The FAA offices occupied the third floor—beige walls, fluorescent lights, the universal smell of government buildings everywhere. Coffee, copy toner, and quiet desperation.
The receptionist looked about nineteen, blonde hair in a high ponytail, reading a romance novel behind her desk. Her name plate read "Brittany."
"Hi there." She beamed at them like they'd made her whole day. "How can I help you folks?"
Cory edged in front of Izzy and flashed his badge. "We're looking for Reed Osgood. Is he in?"
"Oh, you just missed him." Brittany's face fell dramatically. "Like, literally ten minutes ago. He got called out on an investigation."
"Where?" The word came out sharper than Cory intended.
"Um..." Brittany glanced at her computer screen. "Tonopah? No, wait..." She squinted, lips moving as she read. "Sorry, it's near Tonopah. Some little airstrip. Probable landing gear failure, he said. He won’t be back until tomorrow at the earliest."
Cory opened his mouth to ask for specifics, but Izzy's hand on his arm stopped him.
"That's too bad," Izzy said smoothly. "We'll try to catch him another time."
"I could call him for you?" Brittany offered eagerly.
"No need." Izzy's smile was pure charm. "It’s nothing pressing. We'll figure it out. Thanks so much for your help."
They maintained casual smiles until the elevator doors closed.
"If she calls him, tells him we were asking..." Izzy didn't need to finish.
"He'll run." Cory jabbed the parking garage button. "Or worse, set up an ambush."
"Zara can find him." She was already texting. "Flight plans, credit card hits, cell towers. Give her twenty minutes."
They sat in his SUV while Izzy worked her phone, the parking garage's concrete ceiling making everything feel closed in. Cory drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, watching an executive in a thousand-dollar suit struggle with his Tesla's door handle.
"Got him." Izzy held up her phone triumphantly. "Desert Sky Aviation, thirty miles east of Tonopah. Middle of nowhere."
"How does Zara do that?"
"Seriously? You actually want to know?”
“Right. Belay that."
She plugged the address into GPS. "Two and a half hours if we push it."
"Then we push it." He started the engine. "But first—"
"No."
"We need supplies. It's a long drive through empty desert."
"We don't have time for—"
"Five minutes." He was already pulling out of the garage. "Trust me."
The gas station on the edge of town looked like it hadn't been updated since the Carter administration. Cory loaded up—water, jerky, trail mix, those terrible gas station sandwiches that somehow tasted good on long drives.
"Red Vines?" Izzy held up the package when he returned. "Seriously? Those are like eating plastic."
"Road trip essential." He tossed her a bag of chips. "So's that."
"I haven't eaten gas station food since..." She trailed off, already opening the bag. "These are terrible for you."
"Nutritional standards are suspended for stakeouts and road trips. It's in the manual."
"Your imaginary manual has very specific rules." But she was smiling now, some of the manic energy settling into focus.
They hit Highway 95 as the drizzle finally stopped, leaving the desert washed clean and smelling of sage. The road stretched endlessly ahead.
"Driver picks the music," Cory said, reaching for the radio.
"Passenger has veto power." Izzy's hand intercepted his. "That's definitely in the manual."
"Since when?"
"Since I don't trust your musical taste." She tapped the screen, working her way through his music library. "What do you even listen to?"
"NPR, mostly. And K-LOVE on Sundays."
"Of course you do." She landed on one of his favorited stations just as "Reckless Love" started playing. "Oh, I like this one."
"Cory Asbury." He turned it up slightly. "Leaves the ninety-nine for the one."
They drove in companionable silence through Fallon, past the naval air station where fighter jets traced patterns against the gray sky. The landscape grew increasingly desolate—Joshua trees and scrub brush, distant mountains like broken teeth.
"There's a classic country station," Izzy said, already reaching for the dial as the song ended.
She landed on an oldies station playing "Stand By Me."
"Ben E. King," they said in unison.
"Classic," Cory added.
"Timeless." Izzy settled back. "This works."
They drove on, the miles rolling by with the soundtrack of Motown and soul classics filling the cab.
"What's your plan when we find him?" Izzy asked around a mouthful of jerky.
"Depends on the situation." Cory checked the mirror, a habit from years of patrol. "Ideally, catch him alone. Use the isolation."
"Make him think we know more than we do."
"Exactly." He glanced at her. "You've done this before."
"Different context." She stared out at the passing desert. "Usually involved more zip ties and fewer Miranda rights."
"We're not—"
"I know." She waved a Red Vine at him. "Due process, rule of law, blah blah. I'm evolved now."
"Good to know."
"Mostly evolved." That sharp smile again. "If he runs, though..."
"He won't run." Cory's hands tightened on the wheel. "We won't give him the chance."
The miles rolled by. Tonopah appeared and disappeared, a brief oasis of civilization. The GPS led them onto increasingly narrow roads, asphalt giving way to graded dirt that sent plumes of dust behind them.
"There." Izzy pointed to a faded sign: Desert Sky Aviation - Private Aircraft Only.
The airstrip was exactly what Cory expected—one runway, a few decrepit hangars, the kind of place where people went when they didn't want to be found. Reed's white government sedan sat outside the office, looking as out of place as a tuxedo at a rodeo.
"No other cars," Izzy observed. "He's alone."
"Or they're hidden." Cory pulled behind a maintenance shed, positioning for quick exit if needed. "Stay alert."
They climbed out, the desert silence almost physical after hours of engine noise. The wind carried scents of creosote and dust, and somewhere a hawk screamed.
"How do you want to play this?" Izzy checked her weapon, movements automatic.
"Direct." Cory studied the office—single door, two windows, no obvious alternate exits. "He's trapped. Let's use it."
They moved together without discussion, Cory at the door, Izzy covering the window angle. A quick nod, then he pushed inside.
Reed Osgood looked up from a clipboard, his weathered face cycling through surprise, recognition, and something that might have been fear before settling on bureaucratic annoyance.
"Cory? What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you, Reed." Cory let the door close behind them with a definitive click. "We need to talk."
"About what? I'm in the middle of an investigation."
"So are we." Izzy moved to block the window, casual but unmistakably tactical. "One that involves you."
Reed's Adam’s apple bobbed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Cory pulled out a chair, the metal legs scraping against concrete. "Then let's start with your offshore accounts. All twenty million worth."
The clipboard clattered from Reed's hands.
Game on.