60 miles between Phoenix and Sunset Ridge. An hour of riding through country that remembered when this land belonged to no one, when borders were meaningless. And the only law was survival. Jack's hands on the handlebars were steady despite everything. Despite the rage simmering in his chest like banked coals.
Despite the fear, and yes, it was fear, he could admit, that now that he was making a mistake. That his mother was right. That going back to who he'd been was the door that once opened wouldn't close again. The turnoff to Sunset Ridge appeared as a ghost might suddenly half hidden, easy to miss if you weren't looking. A dirt road leading west into nothing.
No signs, no lights, just tire tracks in the dust and the knowledge that something existed out there in the dark. Jack slowed, turned. The Harley's engine changed pitch as pavement gave way to packed earth. The road wound through increasingly rough terrain. Rocks jutted from the ground like broken teeth.
Scrub brush clawed at the darkness. In the distance, maybe 3 miles ahead, Jack could see lights. Faint, scattered. The ghost town wasn't quite as dead as he thought. He killed his headlight, rode the last mile by moonlight and instinct.
Better to arrive unseen. Better to understand what he was walking into before he walked into it. The first buildings appeared like shipwrecks emerging from fog. Old structures from the mining days, the 1920s, maybe when men had come here chasing copper and silver and dreams of wealth. Most of it was rubble now.
Collapsed roofs, walls dissolved by time and weather. But here and there, signs of recent activity. A building with a new roof. Tire tracks. The smell of generator fuel on the wind.
Jack stopped a quarter mile out, got off the bike, stood in the darkness and listened. Voices, distant but clear in the desert air. Men talking, laughing. The clink of bottles. Somewhere a radio playing country music from a decade ago.
He moved forward on foot, leaving the Harley hidden behind an outcropping of rock. His boots were soft-soled, designed for motorcycles, but quiet enough for stalking. Old skills returning. The ability to move through space without disturbing it. To become part of the landscape rather than an intrusion upon it.
The voices came from what had once been the town's main building. Probably the mining company's headquarters. Two stories, stone construction, still mostly intact. Light spilled from windows covered with something plastic sheeting maybe or canvas. Keeping the light in and curious eyes out.
Jack circled around back. Found what he was looking for. A window half covered, just enough gap to see inside. Three men sat around a table playing cards. Beer bottles scattered like ammunition casings.
Money in the middle of the table. All three were young, 30s at most. Hard looking. The kind of hard that came from violence as profession rather than passion. None of them were Marcus Webb.
Jack watched for 10 minutes, learned their rhythm, the way they moved. Which one was jumpy, which one was confident. Which one kept looking at the door like he was expecting someone. The one expecting someone stood up. "I'm going to check the perimeter."
The other two barely acknowledged him. Cards were more interesting than caution. Jack moved away from the window, waited in the shadows beside the building's corner. Counted to 30 in his head. The man emerged from a side door, flashlight in hand, cigarette dangling from his lips.
He walked the perimeter like a man going through motions. Bored. Unaware. Jack stepped out when the man's back was turned. "Don't move."
The man froze. The cigarette fell from his lips. Bounced once on the ground. Glowed briefly in the dark. "Hands where I can see them," Jack said quietly.
The man raised his hand slowly. "Who?" "Quiet. You make noise, your friends come running, and this gets messy. You understand?"
A nod. "Turn around. Slowly." The man turned, saw Jack, saw the leather jacket, saw something in Jack's eyes that made his own eyes widen. "Marcus Webb," Jack said.
"Where is he?" "I don't" Jack took one step forward. That was all it took. The man's jaw clenched. Fear response.
Prey recognizing predator. "Let's try that again," Jack said. "Marcus Webb, where" "He's not here. He left yesterday. Won't be back until tomorrow."
Jack studied the man's face, looking for the lie. Didn't find it. "Where did he go? I don't know, man. I swear.
He doesn't tell us his business. We just watch the place while he's gone. The purse, Jack said. The one brought here this afternoon. Three men robbery on Grand Street.
Where is it? Now the man's eyes shifted. A tell. I don't know about any purse. Jack's hand moved faster than the man could track.
Grabbed his collar. Pulled him close enough to smell the beer on his breath. Wrong answer. Okay. Okay.
The man's voice pitched higher. Webb took it with him. Whatever was in it, he wanted it bad. Said it was worth more than all of us combined. Said if we touched it, we'd end up in the desert in pieces.
Where did he take it? I told you I don't know. He got a call yesterday. Someone called him about something from the old days. About some kind of evidence.
He went crazy when he heard. Started making phone calls. Then he took off. Said he had to verify something. Check with someone who'd know the truth.
Jack's mind worked through possibilities. The microfilm. Webb knew about it. Had known for a while probably. The robbery wasn't random.
It was targeted. Webb had sent those boys specifically for Martha's purse. Specifically for the locket. But he didn't have it. Jack did.
Which meant Webb had the purse but not what he was looking for. Which meant he'd be frustrated. Dangerous. Scrambling to figure out where the locket went. Which meant Jack had leverage.
When does he come back? Tomorrow. Early. He said he'd be here by noon. Jack released the man.