8. Flint
FLINT
Saturday arrives bright, windy and sharp enough to make every sound carry.
At seven, Beth makes one final circuit of the property, checking the locks, gates and linen-room security before rewrapping my shoulder. The compact armor panel beneath her work shirt fits like shit despite Switch's adjustments, and she refuses to complain.
My shoulder has stiffened overnight. Beth tests my range of motion before wrapping it again. I can aim and fire. More important, I can move.
“You don't chase Knell beyond the courtyard,” she says.
“That was never the plan.”
“I'm making it a rule.”
“House rules outrank club pride.”
“Good answer.”
She leaves to inspect the rear gate. I call Rook from the office.
“Knell sent a man early,” I say. “He's seen me. Beth shut down the trap and got me under cover.”
“Injury?”
“Shoulder graze. I'm fine.”
“Knell may move the time.”
“He won't. The buyers expect ten, and he needs Beth to think he's still calling the shots.”
“Your call.”
Rook trusts me to make it. I don't plan to fuck it up.
At eight, everyone moves into position. Dare takes the north side of the airstrip, Vandal the east wall, Rev the rear service road and Switch the feeds from the Iron Mesa Roadhouse. Rook holds the rest of Dead Lucky two minutes away. Fifteen stays empty.
Beth and I meet in the linen room before we separate. She runs through the only pieces that still matter: every vehicle comes inside before the main gate closes, the service route stays open as bait and nobody moves on Knell until the weapons are visible.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Here until he enters the western wing. Then I lock the rear route from the service passage.”
I still hate that part. “Stay behind the steel door until we have the guns.”
“If he reaches the manual release, he can lift the airstrip shutter. We settled this.”
“I remember.”
Beth touches the edge of my bandage through the shirt. “You can worry.”
“I've got enough of that to fill all sixteen rooms.”
“Then use it.”
I kiss her once.
“I love you,” I say.
“Stay on the plan.”
“I recognize romance when I hear it.”
“Good. Go hide.”
I stop at the service door for one last radio check. Dare, Vandal, Rev, Switch and Rook answer in turn. Everyone is where they're supposed to be.
Beth looks at me. “Satisfied?”
“Ask me after noon.”
“Then go.”
I take the office passage and listen to the linen-room bar settle behind me. I don't like leaving her there, but it's the plan we built together.
From the apartment, I watch the courtyard through a narrow gap in the blinds. Timed lights make two rooms look occupied from the strip.
At eight thirty, a county patrol car slows beneath the arch. Beth arranged routine drive-bys earlier in the week, and the timing couldn't be worse. If the deputy enters, Knell may delay before we confirm the weapons.
“Main road,” I say over the radio. “Patrol slowing.”
“I handle it.”
She calls dispatch from the linen-room phone. The deputy pauses near the office, then continues east without entering. If we lose control, Switch can call him back with a safe approach.
Fifteen minutes later, a touring motorcycle rolls beneath the arch. A young couple circles the dark office, hoping somebody will appear, and stops beside Room One.
I can't step out without blowing the setup, so Beth uses the office speaker. “Sundown Court is closed for repairs. Nearest vacancy is twelve miles west at the Copper Trail.”
The rider lifts a hand toward the empty window. “Thanks.” They leave without ever knowing how bad their timing was.
Waiting is worse than moving. I hear the air conditioner cycle, water shift through a pipe and gravel tick against the apartment door. Every noise sounds wrong until I match it to something Beth showed me this week.
At nine twenty, she speaks on our private channel. “Flint.”
“Here.”
“Whatever happens, the years after Ash aren't a sentence you have to keep serving.”
I close my eyes once. “Whatever happens, I plan to spend the next ones with you.”
“Good.”
The channel quiets.
I settle behind the closed office door with the motel arch and courtyard on my phone.
At nine thirty-six, an unmarked black van turns off the highway.
It passes the motel once, returns five minutes later and parks beyond the arch.
Two white men step out. One is broad and heavy, wearing a tan jacket despite the heat.
The second carries a compact submachine gun beneath a long canvas cover.
“Buyer one,” Switch says over the radio. “Las Cruces brothers.”
They inspect the office door and western wing, then return to the van. Knell either sent them ahead or couldn't keep them on his schedule.
At nine fifty, a silver SUV approaches from the east. The local collector drives. He has one passenger, a narrow man with a pistol visible at his waist. They park facing the exit.
Neither group acknowledges the other.
Knell really did sell the same weapons twice.
“Second buyer set,” I say. “Hold.”
At ten exactly, the white box truck enters beneath the arch. Knell sits in the passenger seat. The shaved-headed gunman drives, his cheek bruised from the round that struck the stucco beside him last night. A second pickup follows with two men in the bed and one at the wheel.
Knell climbs down and surveys the courtyard. His gaze pauses on Room Fifteen, then the office. He knows I'm here. He just thinks he knows where.
“Beth!” he shouts. “You can come out. You followed directions.”
Silence answers him.
The box truck reverses toward Room Sixteen. Two men open the rear door, revealing wooden cases stacked waist-high. One buyer pulls the lid from the nearest. Black rifles lie inside shaped foam.
“Weapons confirmed,” Dare says.
Beth presses the red switch. The main gate rolls shut behind the pickup.
Every armed man turns toward the sound.
Knell smiles.
He expected the gate.
“Flint,” he calls. “Bring Beth out, or the room beside you burns.”
One of his men raises a remote trigger.
Room Fifteen explodes.