“Where’s here?”

“Coming into Atlanta.”

“That’s good. You finagled a ride?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Did you talk to the FAA?”

“Monday at the earliest.”

“Figured.”

“I may have to go back up there to get pictures. Couldn’t today.”

“We’ll work around it. You had any sleep?”

“Not much.”

“Get some more. You fly tomorrow night. I took the liberty of booking you a room. I’ll text you where.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t be in a rush to thank me or anything.”

Dash paused as though waiting for him to respond, but he had a listening audience that Dash didn’t know about, so he didn’t say anything.

After heaving a long-suffering sigh, Dash continued, “I also got you a seat on a cheapo commercial carrier that’ll get you back here.”

“What time?”

“Little after nine. Unless you’re delayed.”

“There’s still fog.”

“Yeah, but not like what it was. It’s clearing from the west. ATL is scheduled to reopen within the hour, but the airlines will be playing catch-up, and until they do, it’ll be the end of civilization as we know it, which is why the room wasn’t easy to come by. Had to use my platinum card.”

“If flights are that backed up, why don’t I just charter and fly myself?”

“No budget for that. You don’t make it, Rye, I’ll have to send somebody else.”

Rye looked over at Brynn, who was staring at the back of Timmy’s seat, unmoving and unmoved, seemingly uninterested. “I’ll make it,” he told Dash.

“Assuming you do, get over here as soon as you land. I’ll have one of the nineties on the step.”

“Copilot?”

“Do you want one?”

“No.”

“I knew that without asking.”

“What’s the cargo?”

“Pallets of leather. A furniture manufacturer is out of Roman Red, and they want it yesterday.”

“Where?”

“Portland.”

“Maine may still be socked in tomorrow.”

“Not Maine. Oregon. Clear as a bell out there. Well, except for the rain, but what are you going to do? It’s Oregon.”

“Right.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought you’d be happy. You sound like your puppy just died.”

“I’m beat, that’s all. Ready to get horizontal.”

“I’ll text you the hotel info.”

“Thanks for rustling up the job. I’ll get back to you in the a.m.” He clicked off and dropped the phone into his pocket. “How much farther?” he asked, addressing the question to the pair of eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Not much.”

“You’re a fountain of information.”

Rye had flown through Atlanta more times than he could count. He knew it from the air, was well acquainted with the main airport and all the FBOs in the area, but he wasn’t that familiar with the freeway system.

He tried to keep track of the route Goliad took, but when he steered the Mercedes into the unattended parking garage of a multistory office building, Rye knew that he would have trouble finding his way back to a major thoroughfare. Even if he had a car, which he didn’t.

And even if he got out of here alive, which was questionable. Not that he feared death. In fact, he flirted with it, courted it, dared it on a daily basis. He just didn’t want his death to be at the hands of a lowlife like Timmy.

He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was only afraid of dying ignobly.

Goliad drove up two ramps of the garage and pulled into a space on the third level, which was the top one. He cut the engine and turned to address Brynn. “Text him. Tell him we’re here.”

She did as instructed. Without waiting for a reply to the text, Goliad opened the driver’s door and got out. Timmy did likewise on the passenger side. Brynn got out. Rye was the last to alight, his bag shouldered, the box secured between his other arm and his torso.

“I’ve never been here before,” Goliad said to Brynn. “Lead the way.”

She made brief eye contact with Rye as she walked past him and toward a single elevator. It took forever to arrive. While they waited, no one said anything, although Timmy was cracking his knuckles and whistling softly through his teeth.

They crowded into the small enclosure. Brynn punched the button for the fifth floor. They rode up; the door slid open. As they stepped from the cubicle, Brynn motioned them to the left. A man was standing in an open doorway where the lushly carpeted and richly paneled hallway came to a dead end.

At his first glimpse of Nate Lambert, Rye decided he didn’t like his looks any better than he’d liked his phone voice. Men that skinny and pale shouldn’t shave their heads or wear trousers that narrow in the leg and cropped at the ankle. Even someone as untutored in fashion as Rye could’ve told him that.

The four of them filed down the hall, Brynn in the lead, Rye behind her, Goliad and Timmy bringing up the rear. Lambert acknowledged the two heavies with a nod. He spotted the box under Rye’s arm, and it held his attention for several seconds. Then, as they got closer to him, he focused on Brynn.