Chapter Four
Their flight from Denver to Salem should take between two and a half to three hours.
They’d been in the air for over ninety minutes when Spence got a call on his private phone from Reba at Centennial Airport.
Since his caller ID showed her name as Richter, he took a moment to put two and two together and figured out that she was using her personal cell instead of the business phone at the airport.
“What’s up, Reba?”
“A federal marshal showed up at my desk a few minutes ago.” She spoke in a whisper.
“His name is Youngblood, and he’s a big guy wearing a cowboy hat and boots to make him a couple of inches taller.
He’s got kind of an underbite and a lantern jaw.
Anyway, he had questions about you and your business in Denver.
Asked about your agenda. Wanted to know who you came here to see. And if you left with anybody.”
“Before you say anything else, I want you to know I’m not doing anything illegal.”
“Nor am I,” she said. “I told him the truth, whole truth and nothing but.”
“Always a good policy.” Spence had, on occasion, danced around the concept of complete and total honesty, but only when he had a good reason. “What did you tell him?”
“I didn’t know about your business in Denver. That’s true. You were only here for a short visit, which he could see from the flight plans we filed and the logbooks. I said you were returning to the airport in Salem. Also true.”
“Did you mention my passenger?”
“I told him that I didn’t see you board the plane with anybody else. True, true, true. I wasn’t out on the runway, wasn’t watching.”
“Perfect.” He imagined the sly smile she’d give him the next time he was in Denver.
“Marshal Big Jaw dashed out of here like his ass was on fire. Didn’t say where he was headed, but I thought you might need a heads-up.”
“Thanks, Reba,” he said. “Over and out.”
He ended the call and looked over at Mollie, who had seated herself for a good view out the porthole.
Absorbed in the panorama of clouds and sunset, her features relaxed into a dreamy mask showing almost no expression as she drank in the view.
However—when she turned toward him—he saw turbulence in her stormy-blue eyes.
“Trouble?” she asked.
“Youngblood came looking for us at Centennial.” The marshal had responded to their phone call more quickly than Spence anticipated. “Nothing to worry about. He can’t arrest you. You haven’t broken any laws.”
“But he can detain me,” she said. “I need to file the proper paperwork and sign off on statements about liability. And I’m not sure how my dad fits into the picture.”
“This is nothing more than an inconvenience.” He crossed the small cabin and bent down so his gaze was level with hers. “Don’t worry, Mollie. I’ll take care of Youngblood.”
“Yeah, you’d better.” She grinned. “I paid you one whole dollar for a retainer.”
“I’m worth the big bucks.” He gestured to the window. “What are you seeing out there?”
“Feeling the going-home vibe. I can’t actually see the farms, vineyards and forests, but the farther west we go, I know what’s there.
I can almost smell the rich, thick, moist air after being in Colorado’s dry climate.
I can almost hear the surf.” She exhaled a sigh filled with longing.
“It’s been five years since I’ve seen the Pacific. ”
“You miss it,” he said. “And you love it. That’s something I didn’t find in your biography. You and your sister were pegged as troublemakers.”
“We had our moments.”
He noticed that she didn’t clarify whether those moments were positive or negative. “I’ll bet you did.”
The twins had also been characterized as being incredibly attractive. Not hard for him to imagine. Even though she was dressed in a T-shirt and cutoffs with uncombed hair and zero makeup, Mollie was a striking woman. He imagined that she and her sister presented an unforgettable picture.
Spence returned to the bench seat behind the table and activated his satellite phone.
His first call was to his office secretary, who confirmed his suspicion that WITSEC in Portland had contacted her and wanted to know where to find him.
She’d suggested an appointment tomorrow, but US Marshal Jerome Easton insisted on speaking with Spence first. As if they might be able to settle their differences on the phone.
Spence doubted that possibility. His responsibilities at CLF included more than practicing law.
As head of security, he often crossed paths with Secret Service, FBI and WITSEC while dealing with clients in need of protection.
Most were reasonable, hardworking members of the law enforcement community.
Others weren’t. He had no idea where Marshal Easton ranked on the scale of cooperation, and he wanted backup from somebody who was clearly on his side.
He put through a call to FBI Special Agent Jesse Jamison, who was based in Salem, a stone’s throw away from the Capitol building. Jamison answered on the sixth ring.
“My caller ID says this is from CLF, which means Spence.” His voice rumbled like a cement mixer—a noise that never stopped him from singing and playing his banjo. He twanged a few notes. “You know it’s after regular office hours. I’m kicking back with a Deschutes IPA.”
“Wish I could join you.”
“The door’s always open.”
“I’ve got a project I’m working right now, and I ran into a snafu with paperwork. If you help me out, CLF has a couple of VIP seats for the Mariners series with the Angels.”
“As if I’d accept a bribe?” Jamison plucked out the tune for “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and chuckled. “I’d help for free but wouldn’t mind the tickets. What do you need?”
“My plane is landing at Salem Beacon Charter in about forty minutes. I’d like for you to meet us and intervene with US Marshals and any other law enforcement that show up.”
“You want me to head them off at the pass?”
Sometimes, Jamison got carried away with his outlaw name. He was no Jesse James. “See you there,” Spence said.
“Not so fast, bud. What the hell did you do to offend the law?”
He hoped to get away with minimal explanation. “It has to do with one of Irma Winchell’s heirs. She was in WITSEC in Denver, and I’m bringing her home to Cloverdell.”
“I knew Irma.”
“Everybody knew Irma.” Her name opened a lot of doors. Irma had a well-deserved reputation for generosity, kindness and wit. Also, a multimillion-dollar estate.
“I’ll be at the airport,” Jamison said.
Spence would have preferred a more active approach than negotiating and using his contacts.
He’d rather meet Marshal Easton head-on for a showdown or a throwdown or an out-and-out battle—scenes that would be frowned upon by the senior partners at CLF, including his brother and father.
Especially his bro and dad. They didn’t approve of the aggressive techniques he learned in the Rangers.
His grandpa Oliver, on the other hand, favored a gung-ho, take-no-prisoners attitude.
Spence tried to occupy the middle ground.
Though he realized the diplomatic approach usually proved effective, he didn’t like the way Mollie had been bullied and/or ignored by the marshals.
He was itching to—as Oliver put it—kick the bad guys right in the keister.
But this wasn’t about him. The priority was Mollie.
She’d curled up in her window seat and continued to gaze into the skies with her chin propped on her fist. The glow of sunset burnished her cheeks and forehead.
The light shimmered in her streaked blond hair that had dried in natural waves after her quick shower.
She looked soft and somehow innocent in spite of her tendency toward eye-rolling and snark.
She deserved the best from him. Today, he hadn’t been careful enough. He’d seen the first thug on the street and hadn’t taken the threat seriously. As a result, she’d been endangered. Chased through the streets and alleys of her neighborhood. Fired upon. Surrounded.
Spence should have done better. He should have known who they were and why they were waiting for her. He needed to find out how long they’d been watching her. Who sent them?
Why now? He had to wonder if his presence had somehow triggered the attack.
According to her dad, the threat from the Peligro Cartel had faded after the yacht explosion that killed Madison and her lover, Julio Flores.
Flores had been second-in-command and tried to take over after their leader was arrested and subsequently jailed.
Though the cartel attempted to continue business as usual, they were rudderless, losing influence with every sloppy mistake.
All their efforts went into staying afloat.
Many switched allegiance to another cartel.
Those who stayed allowed vengeance to slide in favor of profit. Survival of the fittest.
Mollie and her dad had discussed dropping out of WITSEC. The Peligro Cartel had been defanged, and they didn’t think they needed a high level of security. Really? It wouldn’t be the first time Mollie’s dad had misjudged the situation. What should Spence expect next?
Before he left Oregon, he’d gone through the typical procedures to ensure her safety.
His SUV stood ready and waiting at the airport with an experienced driver at the wheel.
The secluded safe house—tucked away in an old-growth forest by the Clackamas River—was stocked with enough food to withstand a siege and manned by well-armed bodyguards.
He’d done this before with several CLF clients and was prepared.
The door from the cockpit opened, and the pilot stepped through. “Excuse me, Spence, but we seem to have a problem at the airport.”
Spence gestured for him to sit opposite. “What’s up?”
“A federal marshal and an FBI agent are engaged in a shouting match outside our hangar and office.”