They were moving down the hall at a fast clip when Joe worked up enough spit to ask, “Ms. Bennett?”

“Her brother.”

“Dead?”

“Alive.”

By the time they reached the elevator, Hick had explained that a man who lived in a small town near the Mississippi state line had called his parish’s SO after watching the evening news. He reported having seen Josh Bennett in a convenience store earlier in the day.

“This isn’t another schizo, is it?” Joe asked, and he impatiently jabbed the Down button repeatedly.

“Deputies followed up with the store’s cashier. She didn’t see the news, but they showed her the drawing of Bennett. She confirmed.”

“Hot damn!”

“The chopper?” Hick was already tapping the number into his cell phone.

While Hick made the arrangements, Joe was thinking about Josh Bennett, and as soon as Hick ended his call, he expressed his puzzlement out loud. “He was smart enough to escape, but dumb enough to come back here?”

“This is where Ms. Bennett is, and she’s Josh’s security blanket. He also knows that this is the one place on the planet where Billy Panella ain’t.”

“Yeah, but…”

“What?” Hick asked as they walked in long strides through the parking garage toward Hick’s car.

Joe pulled open the passenger door. “If last night taught us nothing else, it taught us how long Panella’s reach is. Kinnard is out there somewhere. Doesn’t Josh realize the threat he poses? The little turd needs to surrender.”

“I doubt he will, Joe. He knows we’ll lock him away forever.”

“Yeah. But we wouldn’t gut him.”

“Mr. Panella? Is this a convenient time for us to speak?”

“A convenient time would have been two hours ago when I called you.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t available. How can I serve you?”

The banker was Asian, but he had cultivated his British accent so that it was as silky as Devonshire cream. It inspired confidence and trust. The amplified distortion of Panella’s voice didn’t shock him. This was the manner in which their business had been conducted for years, and he understood the necessity for Panella’s extreme caution. Nor was he put off by his customer’s rudeness, which he’d also come to expect. Men who used offshore banks to hide sizable amounts of money in numbered accounts rarely wasted valuable time on polite conversation.

“I want to confirm the current balance in my account.”

The banker excused himself and returned shortly to quote an amount. “To the penny,” Panella said.

The banker smiled to himself. Amounts rounded off to the nearest dollar had never been satisfactory to this customer. Mr. Billy Panella tested the bank’s accuracy frequently.

“I also wanted to alert you that I’ll soon be making a sizable withdrawal.”

“I hope the bank isn’t losing your business.”

“Not so long as you do what I tell you, when I tell you.”

“You have my guarantee.”

“I’ll be requesting a wire transfer, and it could be on short notice.”

“I’m happy to facilitate. This institution specializes in time-sensitive matters.”

“Which I’ve always appreciated.”

“The transfer made earlier this week was to your satisfaction?”

“You did what you were supposed to. Unfortunately others didn’t.”

“I regret to hear that.”

“That’s why this additional transfer is necessary, and there can’t be any hang-ups. Understand? I want the money to be ready when I need it.”

“Of course. American dollars, Mr. Panella?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. And the amount?” The banker waited, poised, and when nothing was forthcoming, he prompted gently, “Mr. Panella?”

“Two fuckin’ million.”

Chapter 15

At first Jordie was too drugged by sleep to bother to identify the racket that had awakened her. She lay with her eyes closed, her brain muzzy from dreamless sleep and sultry heat. Subconsciously she was reluctant to wake up, so she fought it. However, the sound was persistent, and it eventually shook her awake and into full awareness.

A helicopter!

She struggled to sit up, cursing the awkwardness caused by her hands being restrained. She wormed her way out the open backseat door and stood. When she put her weight on her right foot, it tingled painfully and was virtually useless. Shifting most of her weight to her left foot, she ran in a lurching gait toward the door.

Shaw was silhouetted in the opening, looking up at the sky but from inside the building where he couldn’t be seen. He heard her coming and turned in time to halt her before she cleared the door.

She screamed as loud as she could.

“Save your breath, Jordie. You won’t be heard.”

She knew it was futile, but she continued to scream anyway, mostly out of frustration as she kicked at his shins, at anything she could reach. When she aimed her knee at his crotch, he pulled back just in time, his body going concave. But she’d come perilously close, and he realized it.

Grabbing a handful of her top’s fabric, he thrust her away from him and held her at arm’s length, while using his other hand to pull the door shut. The clatter of the approaching helicopter became louder. The tin roof vibrated and rattled as it passed directly above them. Then the noise began to fade, as did Jordie’s short-lived hope of rescue.

Eventually Shaw released his grip on her blouse, pushed open the door, and looked out. “They had better get where they’re going soon. Storm’s moving in.”

She was surprised to discover that she’d slept away most of the afternoon. The sun was low in the west and blocked by a thick layer of clouds that had ushered in higher humidity. Now the shelter didn’t feel so much like a convection oven as a steam bath.

They watched the retreating helicopter until it disappeared. He dusted his hands. “So much for that. Nothing to get you all excited.”

His smugness outraged her and, giving no thought to the consequences, she launched herself at him. She resumed kicking, but rather than backing away from her, this time he drew her up against him and placed his feet between hers, making her efforts ineffectual.

The lethargy that had claimed her earlier was replaced by manic determination. She channeled every bit of strength she possessed into inflicting pain, or, at the very least discomfort, anything to upset his damned complacency. She twisted and squirmed, blind with fury, demented by rage, heedless of everything.

Until she realized that she was fighting only herself. He had stopped resisting.

He still held her, his hands splayed and firm on her hips, but the way they were securing her against him wasn’t combative.

She fell still and tilted her face up to look into his.

“Now I’m excited.”

There was an underlying, primitive thrum in his voice, and an insistent and unmistakable pressure against her open thighs where her body involuntarily responded with a purl of sensation.

Mortified, she stumbled back, and, to her surprise, his hands fell away and he let her go. But that only underscored that it was always his choice, that despite her tantrum, he maintained control.