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It wasn’t much quieter there. The revelry had spilled outside too. But the noise had more area to dissipate.
“Travis?”
“Yeah. I’m trying to find a private place to talk. Hold on a minute.” He wove through the partiers and tucked himself into a corner of the terrace, his back to the crowd. “I’m set.”
“I have another job for you.”
Not the news he wanted to hear.
“It better not be risky, like the last one.”
“It doesn’t have to be. I’ll leave the execution up to you. And I’ll have no further need of you after Thursday.”
Best news he’d had in weeks.
“What’s the job?”
“Thursday afternoon, Bri will get a message directing her to be in the pumpkin patch at the Kirkwood farmers’ market at four o’clock. I want you to intercept her there and escort her to a different location.”
Travis frowned. “You mean show my face?”
“Unless you can think of another approach.”
He stared into the darkness beyond the string of whitelights that delineated the outdoor party zone. “Are you crazy? If she sees me, I’m toast. Besides, she won’t go anywhere with me.”
“There are ways to persuade people to do your bidding. I’m sure you have such a tool on your person as we speak.”
The pressure of the concealed carry holster in the small of his back registered, even as his heart stuttered. “That’s kidnapping. I’ll end up behind bars for the rest of my life.”
“No, you won’t. If you plan this well, no one will be able to identify you. That’s what disguises were made for.”
The person on the other end of the line was certifiable.
“Bri will know it’s me, no matter how much I try to disguise myself.”
“That doesn’t matter. Bri won’t be around to identify you.”
Travis’s hand began to shake, and the scotch sloshed onto his fingers. He set the drink on the railing that enclosed the patio, glanced around, and lowered his voice. “I’m not going to kill anyone.”
“I’m not asking you to. All you have to do is deliver her to the location I specify. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“You’re going to kill her?” That was almost as bad. It would make him an accessory.
“You’ll be gone before that happens. I’ll handle the actual deed. And I don’t plan to get caught.”
“I don’t like this.” Pranks were one thing. Killing—directly or indirectly—was another.
“Tough. The alternative is that I go to the police with evidence of your other lapses in judgment.”
That would be a disaster, coming on top of the problem waiting for him in Idaho.
He was stuck.
Swallowing past the sour taste on his tongue, he gripped the edge of the railing and did what he had to do. “Fine. I’ll deliver her. But that’s it.”
“Get ready to take down directions.”
“Hang on.” He fumbled in his jacket for a pen and a slip of paper. Extracted the receipt where he’d jotted the phone number for the waitress who’d shared a few happy hours with him. Flipped it over. “Ready.”
