The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(131)

They made it there in minutes: Madison glimpsed the field behind rows of firs and pulled in on the side of the road, almost into a ditch. The field was a long, thin, rectangular swath clear of trees, and the sky above it was just beginning to darken.

Andrews pulled in behind the pickup. Madison racked back the slide on her Glock—one bullet in the chamber and ready. Through the trees she caught sight of the van parked at the bottom end of the field, and a sound hummed in the air around them: it could have been the engine of a small plane.

She looked at the young man in the olive-green uniform: Andrews wore his ballistic vest and shouldered a sniper rifle with a scope. It wasn’t the soft-armor protection worn by most: it was hard-plate reinforced, just like her own. They were a hostage-rescue team of two. The engine buzzed louder above them.


The white plane glided onto the field and came to an easy stop after a turn that left it in position for takeoff, about fifty feet from Conway’s vehicle. Madison, belly on the cold ground and elbows digging into the dirt, crawled across the last few feet to get into place in the shadows. Conway’s van was fifteen feet in front of her in the open, and she had a clear view of the back and the driver’s side. She tucked her head behind a barberry shrub. Her eyes had not moved from the truck: no trace of Conway or his hostage yet. The windows were rolled up, and it was impossible to see inside. Madison guessed Conway was in the driver’s seat and Cameron bound in the back. She had briefly thought about rushing in and storming the van before the plane landed, but there hadn’t been enough time, and the mirrors covered the back view of the vehicle. Conway would have spotted them straightaway and cut them off at the knees.

The plane was a smart six- to eight-seater, and whoever had landed it knew what he or she was doing. The question was, how many men would be escorting the prisoner? Madison was a veteran of drug busts and stakeouts since her time in Vice and had seen all sorts of modifications made to the inside of planes. If they took out some of the seats, they could easily strap in a stretcher, which would be the safest way to transport Cameron. It meant the plane could carry the pilot and three to four men, all carrying weapons. And Conway would be armed, too—one gun in his hand and at least one backup. He was alone now, handling both the deal and the prisoner at the same time. It wasn’t ideal, and he would be wary of being jumped. Wary and watchful.

Madison reviewed her thinking: Conway was already in the back with the hostage, waiting, and they’d come out together; otherwise, the dealers could waste Conway on sight, pick up their prisoner, and take off without paying a cent.

The doors opened at the same time, and Madison held her breath. There he was, Dead Eyes, tall and skinny like a malevolent eel. He moved awkwardly—maybe Cameron had gotten to him, too. He guided his hostage out of the van, the prisoner blindfolded, cuffed behind his back, and barely able to walk. Madison thought of the inside of the cabin, saw he could stand on his own two feet, and let herself be glad of that simple fact.

Three men came out of the plane: one had a narrow face and wore a suit; the others were wide in the shoulders and looked like bodyguards in matching long leather coats and jeans. Madison shifted on the ground to get a better view—the van stood between her and the group.

She trained her binoculars on the guards, and, sticking out from the leather folds of their coats, she saw the tips of two MAC-10s with suppressors pointing at the ground. Madison forced herself to breathe and listen. This was the job right now—just to breathe, listen, and be ready. She felt a spike of fear like a bitter taste in her throat.

There were no introductions and no greetings; it wasn’t a coincidence they were all in that field. The buyers had clocked that Conway was alone but didn’t overplay it; nevertheless, Madison was sure they were wondering if he could be taken without killing their prize in the process.

The man in the suit took out a cell phone from his breast pocket. Madison had asked herself how Conway would receive his payment, and the easiest method seemed to be a call from the payer to someone somewhere who’d do the electronic transfer once the merchandise had been inspected, and the bank would send Conway a confirmation message. The merchandise.

Madison scanned the four men and saw the body language of power, threat, and the straightforward trading of goods between businessmen. She read them like players at her father’s table and knew which bodyguard couldn’t wait to get his hands on Cameron and which couldn’t care less.

Their California tans looked out of place in Washington State, and they seemed too bulky to move fast, but they did carry heavy-duty gunmetal. The man in the suit was the deal maker: Madison watched and listened.