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THE CALL FROM THE INSURANCE COMPANY CAME TWO DAYS LATER. Brock was in his office, about to go through the mail Jim had left in a neat stack on his desk, when the phone rang. Seeing the name of the agent, Ray Pratt, on the caller ID, he answered on the first ring.
“Brock, we just heard from the specialist who went over your Cessna,” he said. “You told us it was probably a fuel line. You were right about that. The plane was sabotaged, but not by cutting. The aluminum was eaten away by hydrochloric acid—applied to the lines from both tanks. Whoever did the job was an expert. He—assuming it was a man—had to know exactly how much acid to use, where to put it, and how long it would take to corrode the lines.”
“And to do that, he’d need access to the plane.” Brock felt vaguely sick. “That airport in Vegas had security cameras. Did anybody check them?”
“Yes, but they didn’t show much. There were at least a dozen mechanics going in and out of the hangars. Some worked for the airport, others for the owners of the big jets. Wearing coveralls and a cap, almost anybody could pass for a mechanic, especially from the view of an overhead camera.”
“What about fingerprints?”
“Only yours—and a few of your friend’s on the door and in the cockpit. Whoever tampered with your plane probably wore gloves.”
“Damn.” Brock already knew that the damage was covered by insurance. But the expertise and boldness of the person—or persons—out to wreak vengeance on him was almost overpowering. The worst of it was, the bastard had him spooked. And Brock hated that. He hated that someone else was calling the shots. Most of all, he hated feeling powerless.
“The repairs will take some time—three or four weeks is my best guess. We’ve lined up a good facility. We just need your go-ahead.”
“Tell them to get it shipshape and sell it for me. I’ll buy another plane, maybe one that doesn’t fly itself.”
“I’ll give them the word.”
Ending the call, Brock swiveled his chair to face the window. Looking out over the pastures, seeing the beauty of the land and the animals, had always given him a sense of satisfaction. Now what he felt was worry and a quietly seething rage. The trouble wasn’t over. It wouldn’t be over until he found the cause and ended it—or until he was dead.
The phone was still in his hand. He needed to call Tess and let her know about the plane. He’d only called her once since the crash landing, and that was to tell her he’d been safely picked up. They’d agreed at the time that for her own safety, they would stay apart until the danger was past.
If the monster who was stalking him could kill his prize bull, blow up an innocent old man, and sabotage a plane with murder in mind, he wouldn’t hesitate to harm the woman Brock had come to love.
The decision was his best chance of protecting her. Still, Brock had his regrets. This morning he’d awakened in bed, aching to find her beside him and make love again. Other such mornings—too many of them—would pass before he could make her his.
He made the call. She answered after several rings, sounding breathless. “Sorry. I just helped deliver a pretty little heifer calf. Now I need to get out of the way before the mama becomes protective. Give me a second.”
Brock heard faint rustling and bumping and the sounds of rubber gloves being stripped off before she spoke again. “There, that’s better. What’s happening, is there any news?”
“Yes, the plane was definitely sabotaged. Would you believe acid on the fuel lines?”
“Well, that’s certainly creative.” Brock could picture her in the pasture, shirtsleeves rolled up, hair fluttering in the breeze, sunlight on her beautiful face. “What now?” she asked.
“I’m still working on that,” Brock said, thinking aloud. “But I’m reasoning it out. There has to be more than one person involved. I’m thinking maybe three—the boss who pays the money and gives the orders, a go-between who acts as a lookout and passes information both ways, and the criminal who’s doing the actual dirty work—a cold-blooded professional who doesn’t care about anything but the contract.”
“That does fit what’s been happening.”
“If I’m right, it’s the go-between I need to find. Get the rat, and he’ll give me the others.”
“Be careful, Brock. You’re dealing with dangerous people.”
“I understand that,” he said. “But I’m sick and tired of looking over my shoulder, waiting for the next attack. I’ve got to do something.” He paused, collecting his scattered thoughts. “I miss you, damn it. I want to make love to you again, all night, in a real bed.”
“That’s going to have to wait,” she said.
“I know. But I’m not a patient man. Just take care of yourself, all right?”
He heard a noise on the other end of the phone, like someone calling. “Somebody needs me. Gotta go,” she said. Then the phone went silent.
Brock lingered with the phone in his hand. He’d never told Tess he loved her. He’d been tempted to say the words before she had to end the call. But maybe that was just as well. The timing wasn’t the best.
But their conversation had been just what he needed to organize his thoughts and move him to action. Someone was watching his every move. They’d known when he was picking up the mail. They’d known he’d be flying to Vegas and where he would leave the plane. And they’d passed on the information to a hired killer. If that was true, the go-between, as Brock had chosen to call him, had to be someone he trusted—someone working right here on the ranch.
Leaving the thought to simmer, he turned back to sorting the mail on his desk. A travel brochure and a tire sales ad were tossed into the waste basket. A bill for repairs to the mailbox and front gate was set aside. The last envelope was lying facedown. When Brock turned it over, his heart lurched.
The envelope was addressed in the same grammar school printing as the others. No return address. Same American flag postage stamp. But this time it appeared to have been mailed from Phoenix.
