Prey Read online

  For the past year he’d been training for this, making preparations, studying and learning and getting the timing down just right. Maybe he was too careful in making certain nothing he did would signal Davis that he himself had been alerted, but he’d bypassed certain toys and tools that might, if Davis was enterprising enough to search his belongings, have made him wary because they weren’t something Chad would ordinarily have possessed—at least, not as far as Davis and everyone else knew. That meant no sophisticated GPS, no satellite maps, no passport. His passport was safe in a post office box here in Butte, easy to retrieve when he needed it. He’d have bought an airline ticket in advance, but he wasn’t certain exactly which day he’d need it, so that was something he’d have to do at the last minute. No big deal.

  Chad enjoyed the disconnect between the way people perceived him and how he really was. No one, literally no one, had any idea what he was capable of, but then he’d spent almost his entire life carefully building his persona, crafting his mask, as if he’d known from childhood that one day his life would depend on it. He’d been blessed—or cursed, depending on how you looked at it—with ordinary features, and he’d worked hard to make himself even more ordinary. He kept himself in fairly good shape, something no one would ever guess to look at him, because he deliberately dressed in clothes that never quite fit properly, that made him look shorter and heavier, and as dweebish as possible. Who would ever be wary or suspicious of a slightly plump Woody Allen? No one. And so he’d gone about his life all but invisible, and all the while he’d been amassing a fortune right under their noses.

  It was second nature to him now; he didn’t even have to think about stuttering, or the slightly off-balance way he’d taught himself to walk, or the fumbling way he handled everything from a water glass to a cell phone. God, the CIA could take lessons from him in undercover guises.

  Mitchell Davis approached the baggage claim area, pulling a rolling duffel behind him and carrying a computer bag in his other hand. Chad stumbled to his feet, dropping his cell phone and sending it skittering across the floor. Clumsily he lurched for it, and when he straightened his face was red from being bent over. He didn’t let himself even glance at the computer bag, though it was a solid confirmation, if he’d needed one, that Davis was on his electronic trail. He felt a little bit of a thrill, because Mitchell Davis would have him killed without a second’s hesitation if he could find what he was looking for, but at the same time Chad was contemptuous of Davis, not only for bringing the laptop but evidently not being aware enough of where they were going to realize that not only would there not be wifi everywhere, there wouldn’t even be cellular service.

  “Good flight?” he asked, automatically monitoring the amount of nervousness he let enter his tone. He judged it to be perfect.

  Davis grunted. He was several inches taller, his hair going gray, his eyes cold and hard. “I hope you’ve already got the rental.”

  “It’s waiting for us. I got a four-wheel-drive SUV, is that okay? I thought we’d need one for, um, the room in back and all that. But I can change if—”

  “It’s fine,” Davis said curtly. “Let’s go.”

  Davis was accustomed to people kissing his ass, but he wasn’t usually that brusque. He’d want to be certain, though. Chad was too good at what he did for Davis to have him eliminated without solid proof. There were money launderers, and then there were true currency geniuses, and Chad was the latter. To some people, those more astute than others, that would have been a tip-off, so Chad had countered that signal with his degree in accounting and the implication that his talent with money was more along the lines of savant than savviness. That way his talent could be regarded as an oddity, an outlier, rather than an integral part of his overall intelligence. For this he thanked that Tom Cruise/Dustin Hoffman movie about the autistic savant, because that was the image that had been planted in people’s minds.

  Davis followed the signs to the rental parking area, with Chad trailing behind, pulling his own duffel. “It’s the red one,” he said, keeping the uncertainty and nervousness foremost in his tone. “Is that okay? Red’s kind of—We can get another color, maybe something black, if you don’t—”

  “Who cares what fucking color it is?” Davis interrupted impatiently, and held out his hand. “Give me the keys.”

  “Keys? Oh. Oh, sure.” Chad released his duffel and let it fall, rather than standing it upright, as he fumbled in his pocket for the keys to the rental. No way would his character’s persona argue about who was driving, the way a more dominant man would, even though he’d been to the Powell place before and actually knew where he was going. He’d fudge on that, too, consulting maps and directing Davis to make at least one wrong turn. The very last thing he wanted was to have Davis the least bit on guard.

  Perception. It was all about perception.

  Angie couldn’t remember what Chad Krugman looked like, but she did remember that he didn’t ride very well, which meant it was a good thing they were trailering the horses most of the way. She’d made arrangements for a place to park her truck and trailer, and they’d ride the final eight, maybe ten miles. Unless Krugman had been practicing his horsemanship, he’d still have a sore ass, but there wasn’t anything she could do about that other than offer her sympathy, and she’d have to do that silently, because in her experience most men got all bent out of shape if she so much as hinted that they couldn’t do something as well as she could, even when it was glaringly obvious.

  When he and his client drove up just before dark, she automatically looked at the man who got out of the driver’s seat, but he wasn’t familiar at all. She was a little surprised, because logically Krugman should have been driving—he’d been here before, therefore he was more familiar with the sometimes confusing twists of the dirt roads, which might or might not be marked. She then looked at the passenger, and even though she’d refreshed her memory by looking at his photograph, there was still a blank moment before she had a vague “oh, yeah, now I remember” kind of thing that underscored how unremarkable Chad Krugman was.

  He was an inch or two taller than she, soft around the middle, with thinning dark hair and forgettable features. His clothes were kind of baggy, and just as forgettable. He wasn’t ugly, he wasn’t attractive, he was just nondescript. If his personality had been stronger none of that would have mattered, but he might as well have been born with “ineffectual” stamped on his forehead in glowing neon, except that would have been too memorable. Whatever he did for a living, Angie was fairly certain he’d never be a howling success at it. He’d muddle by, mostly by escaping notice, and that would pretty much define his life.

  His client, Mitchell Davis, was almost Krugman’s polar opposite. Angie smiled at both of them as she went down the steps to greet them. Krugman smiled hesitantly in return, but Davis merely gave her a dismissive look, as if he had more important things to do than being polite.

  “Ms. Powell, it’s nice to see you again,” said Krugman, and when Angie held out her hand he hastened to grab it in a slightly moist grip.

  “You, too,” Angie said easily. “And please call me Angie.”

  “Of course. And I’m Chad.” He looked pleased, then that expression was chased away by an anxious one as he said, “Mr. Davis, this is our guide, Angie Powell. Angie, Mitchell Davis.”

  Davis merely nodded his head while he looked around, his sharp gaze taking in her less-than-new truck and the horse trailer that had seen better days; his upper lip curled slightly. She kept her face bland. Maybe her truck and equipment weren’t brand new, but they were in good shape and got the job done. “I’m glad to meet you,” she said, keeping her manners in place even if he wasn’t making any effort to do the same.

  Davis was everything Krugman wasn’t. He was taller, leaner, his dark hair touched with gray at the temples. His features were hard and chiseled, his eyes a clear gray. His movements were crisp, authoritative. His clothes fit him as if they’d been custom made for him.