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Sandford stopped firing. “Fine. That’s the way you want it? How about this? We’ll lock you in and set the shed on fire.”

“Wait,” Jason shouted. “Wait. I’m coming up.”

“Throw your piece out first. Then lock your hands behind your head and climb out slowly.” Sandford added, “Quilletta is going to open the door, so you’re only going to shoot her. And if you shoot her, I’ll plug you anyway.”

Quilletta protested. Sandford snarled, “Open the goddamned door. He’s not going to shoot you.”

Jason took a couple of calming breaths. Sandford wasn’t going to shoot him the minute he raised his head up. This wasn’t Whac-A-Mole. He’d want to know what Jason knew, right? And who else knew it.

Although the chief did not seem overly weighed down in the logic department.

Quilletta fumbled with the door, and it slowly rose a few inches.

“Throw your gun out,” Sandford commanded.

Jason put his Glock on safety, tossed it out. He heard it thump down, heard the ugly scrape as it was kicked aside.

“Come on up.”

Jason’s mouth was dry as a wool blanket. His heart was stuttering against his collarbone.

“I’m coming up,” he said, and tugged up the left leg of his jeans.

Quilletta pulled the trapdoor open and jumped to the side. Sandford stood directly in front of the opening. He leveled his weapon, smiling. Jason started slowly up the stairs. The light was unexpectedly bright. He winced, stumbled, and went down on his left leg, drawing his backup Glock from his ankle holster and springing up like a jack-in-the-box, shoving his pistol in Sandford’s astonished face.

“Twitch and I’ll kill you,” Jason gasped. “And if that Vermeer has a hole in it, I’ll kill you anyway.”

Sandford jammed his weapon in Jason’s chest, and felt the resistance of Kevlar. Jason shook his head. Been there, done that, and he was so mad he didn’t care anyway.

He saw Sandford’s eyes flicker as he recognized the truth.

“Drop your weapon,” Martinez shouted from the doorway of the shed. “Do it now.” She filled the doorway in perfect firing stance, despite the fact that she seemed to be wearing a short cotton nightie with a WordGirl pattern over her jeans and boots.

“He’s not kidding,” J.J. leaned through the open window, leveling his Glock. “Take it from me. He has no sense of humor when it comes to art.”

* * * * *

“You’re not staying for the party?” J.J. asked.

“Nope.”

“You’re flying back this afternoon?” J.J. said.

“Yep.”

“I mean, the party is kind of in our honor.”

Sort of. Martinez’s presence the evening before had given the Bozeman RA right to claim credit in the recovery of what local papers were hailing as “the stunning recovery of a record-breaking haul of art and treasures looted by the Nazis.” But mostly the party—thrown by Special Agent Travis Petty—was to celebrate the drawing to a (what would surely be) successful conclusion of the Deerlodge Destroyer case. In other words, two celebrations for the price of one bar tab.

Jason said, “You’ll have to do the honors for both our…honors.”

He was on his way to the airport—only stopping by the Bozeman RA to make sure he hadn’t left anything—any thing that was still his to take—and to say his farewells.

“You’re not going to explain to me what’s actually going on?”

“You know what’s going on. Quilletta Thompson killed her second husband eight years ago in a fit of rage before he could run off with a girl he’d met online. Her uncle Roy and then-boyfriend Police Chief Amos Sandford helped her cover it up and hide the body.”

Not like they hadn’t been over it a million times last night with Bozeman PD, the Gallatin County Sheriff’s Office, SAC Phillips, and finally a bleary-eyed conference call at dawn with the top brass from the SLC Field Office.

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