Clawback by J.A. Jance Page A

it, Alberto told himself. With his skills as a landscaper, he knew he could get a job almost anywhere, no questions asked and no papers needed, either. This time, though, wherever he ended up, he was determined it would be someplace a hell of a lot cooler than Phoenix.
    They were a long way off the freeway, but the low rumble of traveling semis carried across the raw desert. Gradually, the steady noise seemed to settle Alberto’s frayed nerves. Once they had the money in hand, that’s what they’d be doing—hitting the road. As for the truck? It was Alejandro’s, of course, but maybe one day Alejandro would forgive him. After all, isn’t that what big brothers always did? They forgave you no matter what.
    Ten minutes later, a dusty tan minivan nosed its way into the gravel pit. “See there?” Jeffrey said triumphantly. “I told you he’d be here, and now he is.”
    â€œBut is he gonna fall for it?” Alberto whined, as if one solved problem had instantly been replaced by another. “What if he has a computer along, plugs in the drive, and figures out we’ve brought him a blank?”
    â€œWill you please just shut the hell up?” Jeffrey demanded. “If you’re so worried about all this, maybe you’d better let me handle it.”
    They waited, standing side by side, until the van stopped with the sliding passenger door directly in front of them. It was a nondescript older-model Dodge Caravan that someone had taken the time and trouble to turn into a wheelchair-accessible vehicle. Slowly the rear door rolled open. Next a silver-haired man, seated in a wheelchair and wearing cataract-style sunglasses, appeared in the doorway. When he pressed a button, a heavy-duty metal plate emerged from the floor of the vehicle and then gradually lowered both man and chair to ground level.
    â€œAre they dead?” he asked.
    That had been part of the deal. Even if Dan Frazier had told them exactly where the SD card was and handed it over, the contract had stipulated that neither Dan nor his wife would live to tell the tale.
    Jeffrey stepped forward, assuming the role of spokesman. “They’re gone,” he said. “We saw to it.”
    â€œNo witnesses?”
    â€œNone. We did it right.”
    â€œWeapons?”
    â€œKnives,” Jeffrey said. “We got rid of them along with the gloves and the gowns.”
    â€œGreat. Where’s the drive?”
    â€œGot it right here, sir,” Jeffrey said deferentially as he pulled the tiny device out of his shirt pocket. He was relieved to see that the man was empty-handed. There was no laptop visible. He wouldn’t be able to check on the drive until after Alberto and Jeffrey were well on their way.
    Jeffrey studied the other man’s face as he stepped forward and dropped the drive into the man’s waiting palm. There was no hint that the guy had any concern about their playing him or deceiving him. Alberto was doing the same thing—watching the man’s face. Neither of them noticed as the figure of a shooter materialized around the edge of the minivan’s passenger door. Neither of them heard the bark of a firearm as two carefully aimed shots echoed off the walls of the gravel pit.
    Alberto and Jeffrey didn’t hear the gunshots for one very good reason—they were both already dead.

11
    U tterly astonished, Jason McKinzie could only sit and stare at the bloodied fallen bodies. Jessie had shot them both front and center before either man had a chance to react. Yes, they’d talked about the fact the guys she’d hired for the job were most likely expendable, but Jason sure as hell hadn’t expected her to gun them down in cold blood right there in front of him. That was the whole appeal of white-collar crime. No blood.
    Jason had read about the pink spray in novels and seen it occasionally in particularly violent movies, but never in real life. As for Jessie?