Sacred Stone

4

SOMETIMES IT IS better to be lucky than smart. High atop a hotel in a city known for risk takers, a middle-aged man named Halifax Hickman stared at the digital pictures on the computer and smiled. Reading a separate report he had printed out a few hours before, he did a few calculations on a pad of paper then stared at the images again. Unbelievable. The solution to his problem had arrived—and it had come with a tax write-off for the donation.

It was as if he had slid a quarter in a slot machine and hit a million-dollar jackpot.

Hickman started laughing—but it was not a laugh of happiness. The laugh was evil and came from a place without joy. Tinged in revenge and shaded by hatred, it rose from a recess deep in the man’s soul.

When the laugh had subsided, he reached for the telephone and dialed.

CLAY HUGHES LIVED in the mountains north of Missoula, Montana, in a cabin he’d built himself, on a plot of land 160 acres in size that he owned free and clear. A hot spring on his property provided heat for the cabin as well as for the series of greenhouses that supplied most of his food. Solar and wind energy provided electricity. Cellular and satellite telephone communications kept him in voice contact with the rest of the world. Hughes had a bank account in Missoula with a six-figure balance, an address at a pack-and-ship office to send and receive his mail, plus three passports, four social security numbers and driver’s licenses with different names and addresses.

Hughes liked his privacy—not uncommon among assassins who enjoy keeping low profiles.

“I have some work for you,” Hickman said.

“How much?” Hughes asked, cutting to the chase.

“Maybe five days, for fifty thousand dollars. And I supply the transportation.”

“I take it someone is going to have a bad day,” Hughes said. “What else?”

“I’ll need an object delivered somewhere when it’s done,” Hickman told him.

“Does it help the cause?” Hughes asked.

“Yes.”

“Then the delivery will be free,” Hughes said magnanimously.

“My jet will be there in an hour,” Hickman said. “Dress warm.”

“I want gold,” Hughes said.

“Gold it is,” Hickman said as he disconnected.

AN HOUR LATER a Raytheon Hawker 800XP touched down at the Missoula airport. Hughes shut off the engine of his restored 1972 International Scout. Reaching into the rear, he unzipped a bag and checked his firearms once again. Satisfied all was in order, he zipped the bag closed and lifted it out onto the ground. Then he closed the rear gate, bent down and armed the explosive device that he used as a burglar alarm.

If anyone messed with his vehicle while he was gone, the Scout would explode, hiding any evidence of his ownership as well as his personal papers. Hughes was nothing if not paranoid. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and made his way toward the jet.

Forty-seven minutes later the jet crossed into Canada on a north-northeast course.