Livia Lone

44-NOW

Two weeks after her conversation with Masnick, Livia was riding the Ninja east on Highway 20. She would have preferred the Ducati, and the Jeep would have been more practical, but depending on how things went, she might need anonymity-not to mention the full leathers she was wearing.

The air grew colder as the elevation increased, the surroundings changing from fields to pine forests to craggy, snow-topped peaks brilliant under a clear blue sky. She’d never been out this way, and if the occasion had been different, she would have stopped repeatedly to appreciate the primal beauty of the lakes and rivers; the end-of-the-earth remoteness of the North Cascades Highway; the strangeness of tiny towns with names like Corkindale and Marblemount and Diablo, nestled in the mountains like diorama depictions of the Old West.

But she was here for something more important than sightseeing. Weed Tyler was finally out of prison. She’d been counting down the years, and then the months, the weeks, the days. And now she was just hours, maybe mere minutes, from what she’d wanted for so long.

Masnick had revealed Tyler’s reward for the fall he’d taken: the Hammerhead meth distribution network into Canada. Tyler would be making regular runs from a cook operation in the hills surrounding the tiny Washington town of Hamilton all the way to Oroville, where the gang knew a guy who had a way of floating the product north on Osoyoos Lake, which straddled the border. The gang had given Tyler a dark gray Ford Super Duty as a coming-home present-suitable for the remote terrain, and one of the most popular vehicles in the region, so not one likely to be noticed or remembered. Tyler would be keeping clear of highways, staying well under the speed limit-and carrying several pounds of meth hidden in a custom compartment under the driver’s seat.

“He’ll be armed,” Masnick had added. “And carrying that much meth, I don’t think he’ll go quietly. Just so you know.”

Livia knew what Masnick was thinking: better for Weed to die in a gun battle than be sent back to prison. From Masnick’s standpoint, “killed by arresting officers” would be cleaner. More permanent. On top of which, with the passage of time and appropriate discretion, Weed’s death would pave the way for Masnick and Jardin to be open about their relationship, if not about when and how it had begun.

She used the modified Gossamer, duct-taped to the handlebars, to pace him from about a mile back. Carrying that much product, he’d be tail-conscious. She could have just attached a flasher to the bike and pulled him over, of course, but again, with that much product, she’d as likely get a gun battle as compliance. No, she wanted him off the road and out of his car when she finally approached him. Someplace she could talk to him in private, at last.

Just outside the remote town of Twisp, Livia saw from the Gossamer that Tyler was pulling over. It had been nearly three hours now, and she guessed he’d found a rest stop. This was it. Her heart started thudding in anticipation.

She drifted over to the gravel shoulder and used the Gossamer to confirm no other Hammerhead phones in the area. Unlikely Masnick would have set her up-the risk/reward ratio would have made no sense-but it paid to be cautious.

She continued on for another mile, and saw she’d been right. A rest stop along the Methow River. She eased off the highway, onto a gravel road, and into a little clearing carved out among the dense pine trees. She took in a couple of log cabins, not much more than outhouses. A maintenance shack. A lonely vending machine perched between signs for the women’s facility and the men’s. A picnic table. And a single vehicle in the parking lot: a gray Ford Super Duty, a light coating of road dust dulling the shiny new paint.

She parked about twenty feet away from the truck so Tyler wouldn’t spook when he came out, took off the helmet and set it down on the seat, and squatted alongside the engine so she would see Tyler as he emerged and could watch him as he approached. Just a female motorcycle enthusiast in full leathers, out for a ride on the glorious back roads along the Canadian border, examining her bike.

With luck, Tyler might even stroll right up and offer to help with any repairs she needed. Of course, if he did, there was a chance he’d spot the Glock she was holding alongside the cylinder head.

But not until it was too late to do anything about it.