Jackson Chameleon surveyed the destruction of the home in Montana, satisfied.
“That enough or you want more, boss?” Bulked up from hard labor, Freddie was the superior of the seven men Jackson had hired for this expedition. Ragged whiskers poked out above his stained teeth. Freddie ran weapons and drugs between two Middle Eastern countries and South America and the U.S.
Four men were taken out by booby traps on the mountain Jackson had anticipated. Those four had cleared the way for Jackson and these three.
“Boss?” Freddie repeated.
Boss. An amusing term.
“That will be sufficient.” Jackson cast a quiet gaze at the next man, a North American Indian in worn jeans and a moss-gray chamois shirt who could track the path of a lizard on a bald mountain. “You’re sure no one could follow our trails?”
The tracker dipped his head in abrupt acknowledgment.
“Good.” Jackson ignored the third man, who had lowered his automatic weapon, waiting on instructions.
Freddie had cut the deal for the men and organized the assault while Jackson waited on his Fratelli superior to pull the flight records on the private jet that had transported Abigail. That led him to the helicopter that had transported her next. If not for Fratelli connections within the FAA and FBI he might have hit a dead end there.
Arresting the helicopter pilot and convincing him he was part of a murder investigation to do with the woman he’d transported hadn’t paid off.
Abigail’s rescuer had deep pockets and power.
The helicopter pilot stonewalled them.
But Jackson had a man extract past coordinates out of the helicopter’s navigation system while the pilot was being interrogated. The pilot had made multiple stops that night at equally remote locations.
Jackson had to admire Abigail’s rescuer for his ability to disappear and to keep his identity hidden. But he’d eventually find that, too.
Entangling the pilot with the FAA had allowed Jackson the time he needed to unleash his team before the pilot could possibly send a warning to his wealthy client.
“A job well done.” Jackson applauded his three men. “Now you have a choice to make.”
Freddie frowned. The Native American tracker’s black eyes thinned to evil slits. The third guy-what was his name?-moved his finger to the trigger of his weapon.
Jackson enjoyed this part. “The offer still stands, but it gets better. I only need one of you after today. So you can all take your fifty thousand apiece or you can show me who’s the best among all of you and that person will make a half million on the next job.”
Men who lived and died by their reflexes weren’t slow to make a decision.
The third guy had his finger ready but hadn’t anticipated how fast the tracker could whip a Bowie knife around and shove it into the guy’s heart, then twist.
Number three slid to the floor, pulling away from the knife the tracker wiped on the dead guy’s shirt.
Freddie had his Glock 9mm leveled on his only competition when the tracker stood up and faced him. “Thanks, chief. That made it easy.”
“If you kill me, you won’t live to enj-” A bullet struck the tracker between his eyes.
Freddie sighed heavily. “Hate that. He was a helluva tracker.” He lowered his weapon and faced Jackson. “Guess that makes me your man.”
“I’m not surprised,” Jackson said, congratulating himself on predicting the correct outcome again. He had something special planned for Freddie. Freddie had enemies, including a really nasty one who was not happy about having his drug-running territory poached. “You’re ambitious, right?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” Freddie holstered his weapon and dusted off his hands.
“As soon as we get down from here, I have a load of cocaine for you to move.” This plan lacked true challenge, but Jackson couldn’t waste much time in ridding himself of Freddie.
By tonight, Freddie’s enemy would have a free shipment of cocaine and Freddie would be in multiple pieces.
With no unnecessary killing performed by Jackson’s hand.
The Fratelli would find no fault with his work.
“What about the bodies?” Freddie followed him outside.
“Leave them. Hand me one of the branches you cut.” Jackson took it and erased his footprints leading back the way he’d come up the mountain. Freddie did the same even though his prints had approached from a different direction, but by the time the authorities identified Freddie his prints wouldn’t matter.
Jackson took one last look at the razed house.
This should show the man with Abigail Blanton that she had nowhere to hide and he couldn’t protect her.
Not from the Jackson Chameleon.