"We need to find out if the town house leads back to Jon's friend," said Stuart, scrolling through his phone for a number Jon gave him. He pressed "Send," hoping like h.e.l.l Jon's friend would answer.

"Billings Lumber."

"Jon is dead. My name is Stuart Quinn. I'm the friend that was driving into town to meet him this morning. If you're sitting near Leah, please step outside."

"Everyone's still asleep here. How did you get this number?" said the man.

"Jon gave it to me in case something happened. I don't know your name or where you are."

"Then I should probably hang up and dispose of this phone."

"They killed him at your town house," said Stuart.

"There's no link between the town house and our community."

"Are you one hundred percent sure? They found the town house pretty quickly."

"I think I'm going to hang up now."

"Please don't. Please don't. I need you to think of anything that could possibly lead them to you. Anything," begged Stuart.

"Nothing points in this direction."

"Do you keep mortgage statements in the town house? Bills? Any paperwork?"

"Mail gets sent to a PO box. Sometimes I leave stuff in there, but the address on record at the post office is the town house. No link to our community. n.o.body knows about this place. It's unincorporated."

"But they found the town house, which means they identified you, not Jon. How did they do that?"

"I don't know, and I don't care."

"You need to care. This group won't stop until they find Leah. They'll either kill her or use her as a hostage to leverage Nathan," said Stuart.

"Then they're going to be at this for a long time, because we don't exist."

"They found you somehow!" said Stuart, then suddenly pieced a theory together. "Jon used his laptop at a Starbucks to access his home security feeds."

The man was silent.

"If they ran a trace on his remote access session, they could have identified the store's IP address. That's why he asked you to pick him up so quickly."

"I'm listening," said the man.

"What if they caught your Jeep on one of the store cameras and grabbed a license plate?"

"The Jeeps are owned by a corporation held in Billings. No identifying information."

"You have a driver's license, right?"

"Using the town house address. I keep a notarized letter in the Jeep, from the corporation, granting me permission to use the Jeep. It's the only copy."

"It sounds airtight," admitted Stuart.

"That's because it is."

"I've been working within the intelligence community for too long to believe anything is truly airtight. We're missing something. They found the town house."

"And that's as far as they'll get. Unless somebody physically follows me here, there's no way to track us to the community, and n.o.body followed me back. We designed this place to be sure of that."

Jon had felt safe leaving Leah there. Maybe Stuart should leave this alone.

"Mr. Quinn?" said the man, his voice suddenly sounding hollow.

"Yeah?"

"I did get a speeding ticket about two years ago. I remember being a little nervous because I had to give him my driver's license. Could they have gotten into the system and pulled the address from the citation?"

"Yes," he said. "They could have done that very easily."

A long pause ensued, as Stuart processed every scenario he could imagine through to determine if the trail ended there.

"How deep can this group dig?" said the man.

"Deep. If your s.h.i.t isn't hidden behind a lettered agency firewall, they can find it."

"Then we have a problem. I'm not the only lead foot in here that keeps a place in town. If the group chasing the Fishers can access our corporate records-"

"I'm sure they already have."

"Then they'll have a long list of license plates to run, and I guarantee they'll uncover a few more addresses in town. All of our vehicles are registered to the same corporation."

"s.h.i.t," said Stuart.

"s.h.i.t is right. I'm gonna have some seriously p.i.s.sed-off neighbors. They'll be watching those locations, too."

"Not right away, probably," said Stuart. "It'll take a little time to move additional teams into place. They'll start right away with something less manpower intensive-which presents us with an opportunity."

"How's that?"

He'd formed the idea as soon as Jon's friend had mentioned the PO box. "They'll start by watching the PO box. That would be my play," said Stuart. "It's a direct link to the second half of their objective."

"Why would I show up at the post office, or anywhere in town, if someone was murdered at my town house?"

"Normally you wouldn't, but if you want to put an end to this once and for all, you'll show up this morning."

"Say again, over. Your transmission was garbled. Or did I just hear you suggest I walk into a trap?"

"We want you to lure them into a trap."

"'We'? I was under the impression you were working alone. How many of you are there?"

"Two," said Stuart.

"Two?"

"If we do this right, that's all it will take."

"What if you get it wrong?"

"We won't," said Stuart.

"And how does this make everything go away?"

"Because we're going to burn their operation here to the ground. It's the only way to stop a group like this. You have to make their continued presence here too costly to pursue, and I plan to charge them a f.u.c.king premium if they try to stick around. I just need to use you as . . . uh . . ."

"Bait?" said the man.

"I was looking for a more appealing term."

"Like what?"

"Bait pretty much sums it up."

"When do you want to do this?"

"Within the next few hours," said Stuart. "We should meet to discuss the plan. You pick the place. Bring the Jeep, or they might suspect something is off."

"I don't want them tracking the Jeep back here."

"You need to ditch the Jeep, sooner than later," said Stuart. "I hate to break this to you, but every vehicle in your community needs to be replaced. Repainted, at the very least."

"d.a.m.n," he said. "I'm really up s.h.i.t creek here."

"Well, if it's any consolation, you did the right thing for Jon and Leah, which means you've made a new best friend."

"I'm gonna need one. I'm about to lose the friends I have here."

"Don't count them out yet."

After they'd finalized arrangements to meet and ended the call, Blake turned to him.

"So. What's the plan?"

"I don't know yet," replied Stuart.

"Oh boy."

"Oh boy is right."

CHAPTER 51.

Riggs straightened in his seat. A tan Jeep Wrangler had just appeared on Oxford Street, approaching the western parking lot entrance. From his vehicle's position in the diner parking lot, directly across the street from the post office, he had an un.o.bstructed view of all customer approaches to the building.

"Wake the f.u.c.k up!" he hissed, shaking Tex's arm.

"Chill out!" said Tex. "And keep your hands off. I'm getting sick of your s.h.i.t."

He'd completely lost the team's respect. Tex never would have back-talked him like that before last night's debacle.

"You want to spend the rest of your life staking out this parking lot? Look," said Riggs, nodding toward the entrance.

The Jeep turned into the lot, proceeding slowly toward a spot near the entrance.

"License plate matches," said Ross, pa.s.sing a pair of binoculars between the front seats.

Riggs took the binoculars and focused on the man driving the Jeep as he eased the vehicle into a s.p.a.ce to the left of the entrance doors and got out. It was Scott Gleason.

"It's him," said Riggs, opening his door. "Man, we got lucky. This might work out better than the original plan."

"Sure. If you consider never working in the industry again a better plan."

"You'll be fine. There's always work for the sheep."

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean?" barked Tex.

Riggs shook his head in disgust and slammed the door shut. Screw that guy. Ross, too. Neither of them had ever put together a team and run an operation. They just did what they were told and collect their split. A glorified getaway driver and a trigger puller. That's all either of those two worthless a.s.sholes could put on his resume.

He reached into his coat pocket and removed the thumb-size tracking device he'd tested an hour earlier. The tracker utilized both the city Wi-Fi and cellular networks, in conjunction with GPS satellite signals, to find and transmit its location.

Riggs walked across the diner parking lot, timing his approach so he arrived at Kent Street, directly in front of the post office entrance, at the exact moment Gleason disappeared inside. His casual walk turned into the lazy jog of someone crossing a street with light traffic. He had timed the trip between the post office door and Gleason's box when the place first opened.

He fast-walked across the post office lot, slipped between the tan Jeep and the car next to it, and knelt next to the rear tire well. He reached his hand high under the cha.s.sis, just behind the well, moving the tracker until he felt the magnet stick. He pulled on the device and tried to wiggle it side to side, but it was firmly attached. Rising to his feet, he glanced through the Jeep's back windows at the post office door. All clear.

Riggs had just crossed Kent Street when Gleason emerged from the building, carrying a small package and a few envelopes. Riggs had really hoped that the box had been empty. The only foreseeable wrinkle in their plan occurred if Gleason decided to take the envelopes to his town house. Discovering an active homicide investigation into the murder of his good friend would undoubtedly delay Gleason's day, and theirs. In the end, though, it wouldn't matter. With the tracker in place, he'd eventually lead them to Mrs. Fisher.

When Riggs got back to the SUV, Tex wouldn't look at him. He glanced over his shoulder at Ross, disturbed that he had to prompt him for information.

"The signal's looking good," said Ross, looking uninterested for someone whose life depended on tracking that signal.

s.h.i.t. They'd had a little confidential discussion while he was gone. His problem had just gone from insubordination to mutiny. The only questions were how and when.

"All we can do now is wait and see where he takes us," said Riggs.