Page 11 of Safeguarding the Witness

“I’m worth the big bucks.” He gestured to the window. “What are you seeing out there?”

“Feeling the going-home vibe. I can’t actually see the farms, vineyards and forests, but the farther west we go, I know what’s there. I can almost smell the rich, thick, moist air after being in Colorado’s dry climate. I can almost hear the surf.” She exhaled a sigh filled with longing. “It’s been five years since I’ve seen the Pacific.”

“You miss it,” he said. “And you love it. That’s something I didn’t find in your biography. You and your sister were pegged as troublemakers.”

“We had our moments.”

He noticed that she didn’t clarify whether those moments were positive or negative. “I’ll bet you did.”

The twins had also been characterized as being incredibly attractive. Not hard for him to imagine. Even though she was dressed in a T-shirt and cutoffs with uncombed hair and zero makeup, Mollie was a striking woman. He imagined that she and her sister presented an unforgettable picture.

Spence returned to the bench seat behind the table and activated his satellite phone. His first call was to his office secretary, who confirmed his suspicion that WITSEC in Portland had contacted her and wanted to know where to find him. She’d suggested an appointment tomorrow, but US Marshal Jerome Easton insisted on speaking with Spence first. As if they might be able to settle their differences on the phone.

Spence doubted that possibility. His responsibilities at CLF included more than practicing law. As head of security, he often crossed paths with Secret Service, FBI and WITSEC while dealing with clients in need of protection. Most were reasonable, hardworking members of the law enforcement community. Others weren’t. He had no idea where Marshal Easton ranked on the scale of cooperation, and he wanted backup from somebody who was clearly on his side. He put through a call to FBI Special Agent Jesse Jamison, who was based in Salem, a stone’s throw away from the Capitol building. Jamison answered on the sixth ring.

“My caller ID says this is from CLF, which means Spence.” His voice rumbled like a cement mixer—a noise that never stopped him from singing and playing his banjo. He twanged a few notes. “You know it’s after regular office hours. I’m kicking back with a Deschutes IPA.”

“Wish I could join you.”

“The door’s always open.”

“I’ve got a project I’m working right now, and I ran into a snafu with paperwork. If you help me out, CLF has a couple of VIP seats for the Mariners series with the Angels.”

“As if I’d accept a bribe?” Jamison plucked out the tune for “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and chuckled. “I’d help for free but wouldn’t mind the tickets. What do you need?”

“My plane is landing at Salem Beacon Charter in about forty minutes. I’d like for you to meet us and intervene with US Marshals and any other law enforcement that show up.”

“You want me to head them off at the pass?”

Sometimes, Jamison got carried away with his outlaw name. He was no Jesse James. “See you there,” Spence said.

“Not so fast, bud. What the hell did you do to offend the law?”

He hoped to get away with minimal explanation. “It has to do with one of Irma Winchell’s heirs. She was in WITSEC in Denver, and I’m bringing her home to Cloverdell.”

“I knew Irma.”

“Everybody knew Irma.” Her name opened a lot of doors. Irma had a well-deserved reputation for generosity, kindness and wit. Also, a multimillion-dollar estate.

“I’ll be at the airport,” Jamison said.

Spence would have preferred a more active approach than negotiating and using his contacts. He’d rather meet Marshal Easton head-on for a showdown or a throwdown or an out-and-out battle—scenes that would be frowned upon by the senior partners at CLF, including his brother and father. Especially his bro and dad. They didn’t approve of the aggressive techniques he learned in the Rangers. His grandpa Oliver, on the other hand, favored a gung-ho, take-no-prisoners attitude. Spence tried to occupy the middle ground. Though he realized the diplomatic approach usually proved effective, he didn’t like the way Mollie had been bullied and/or ignored by the marshals. He was itching to—as Oliver put it—kick the bad guys right in the keister.

But this wasn’t about him. The priority was Mollie. She’d curled up in her window seat and continued to gaze into the skies with her chin propped on her fist. The glow of sunset burnished her cheeks and forehead. The light shimmered in her streaked blond hair that had dried in natural waves after her quick shower. She looked soft and somehow innocent in spite of her tendency toward eye-rolling and snark.

She deserved the best from him. Today, he hadn’t been careful enough. He’d seen the first thug on the street and hadn’t taken the threat seriously. As a result, she’d been endangered. Chased through the streets and alleys of her neighborhood. Fired upon. Surrounded.

Spence should have done better. He should have known who they were and why they were waiting for her. He needed to find out how long they’d been watching her. Who sent them?

Why now? He had to wonder if his presence had somehow triggered the attack. According to her dad, the threat from the Peligro Cartel had faded after the yacht explosion that killed Madison and her lover, Julio Flores. Flores had been second-in-command and tried to take over after their leader was arrested and subsequently jailed. Though the cartel attempted to continue business as usual, they were rudderless, losing influence with every sloppy mistake. All their efforts went into staying afloat. Many switched allegiance to another cartel. Those who stayed allowed vengeance to slide in favor of profit. Survival of the fittest.

Mollie and her dad had discussed dropping out of WITSEC. The Peligro Cartel had been defanged, and they didn’t think they needed a high level of security. Really? It wouldn’t be the first time Mollie’s dad had misjudged the situation. What should Spence expect next?

Before he left Oregon, he’d gone through the typical procedures to ensure her safety. His SUV stood ready and waiting at the airport with an experienced driver at the wheel. The secluded safe house—tucked away in an old-growth forest by the Clackamas River—was stocked with enough food to withstand a siege and manned by well-armed bodyguards. He’d done this before with several CLF clients and was prepared.

The door from the cockpit opened, and the pilot stepped through. “Excuse me, Spence, but we seem to have a problem at the airport.”

Spence gestured for him to sit opposite. “What’s up?”