She checked her side mirror and saw a vehicle approaching from the rear. It was a red Jeep traveling at high speed. In moments it was on her, passing her, and swerving back into her lane ahead of her. The Jeep instantly slowed to a crawl and Riley had to stomp on the brakes to keep from plowing into it. Riley pulled left to pass and the Jeep veered in front of her, blocking her.
“How odd,” Emerson said, sitting up straighter in his seat.
“There’s a second car on my back bumper,” Riley said. “It’s a black SUV.”
PING! PING! PING! A bullet took out the side mirror.
“They’re shooting at us,” Riley said.
She slammed the brake pedal to the floor, the Redhawk fishtailed to a stop, and the black SUV crashed into the back of the motor home with a loud BANG! Riley pulled forward and stuck her head out the window. The entire front of the SUV was crumpled, and steam spewed out from under the hood.
The red Jeep came to a stop several car lengths in front of the Redhawk. The driver’s door opened and Rollo jumped out and opened fire.
“Holy crap!” Riley said.
Emerson narrowed his eyes. “Ramming speed, Mr. Sulu.”
Riley floored the gas pedal, ducked behind the steering wheel, and aimed for Rollo. Rollo continued to shoot, peppering the windshield, registering surprised horror only an instant before Riley bounced him off the front of the Redhawk and sent him airborne. She put the Redhawk into reverse and backed into Rollo’s Jeep, pushing it off the road and into a ditch.
“Just in case he’s not dead,” Riley said.
Emerson raised an eyebrow. “This is a new side to you.”
“I might have gotten carried away what with being shot at and all.”
“I’m actually quite turned on.”
“You’re a very strange man.”
“Thank you. I have my moments.”
Rollo was a crumpled heap alongside the road, and the man in the black SUV was on his feet and limping away from them. A car traveling in the oncoming lane pulled over and stopped. A good Samaritan looking to help.
“Do you suppose the hit-and-run rules apply when you’ve run over someone who tried to kill you?” Riley asked.
“I imagine it’s a gray area.”
A second car came to a stop in the oncoming lane. The drivers of both cars were out and running toward Rollo.
“We’re not needed here,” Riley said, pulling away from Rollo’s car and easing the Redhawk back onto the road.
“I agree,” Emerson said. “Time to move on.”
Riley squinted through a small clear patch of glass in the windshield. “It’s amazing that we’re alive, considering how many rounds he pumped into this RV.”
“The impact glass helped,” Emerson said. “And he was sighting high.”
“We’re going to have to abandon the Redhawk. And it would be best if it wasn’t found. I don’t want to implicate Vernon’s friend in this.”
“I’ve instructed Vernon to say that the Redhawk was stolen, if anyone should ask. This won’t reflect badly on him or his friend. We can leave the beast on the side of the road. Our larger problem will be getting to Nevada without it.”
“We’ve got a ways to walk,” Riley said. “And we’re going to have to do it off-road, but I know where we can find a ride.”
Dwayne Moon almost choked on his Twizzler when he saw Riley walking toward his patrol car. He got out with his hand on his holstered Sig. The hand on the Sig was more muscle memory than thought.
“Riley? What are you doing here? We heard you were kidnapped.” Dwayne cut his eyes to Emerson. “Is this the guy who kidnapped you? Should I shoot him?”
At twenty-nine, Dwayne Moon was a year older than his sister Riley, but she always thought of him as her baby brother. It was Riley who had taught Dwayne how to ride a two-wheel bike and a skateboard, not the other way around. She helped him with his homework. Taught him cursive handwriting. The multiplication tables. Spanish grammar. And how to nail a grasshopper at a hundred feet with their dad’s old Smith & Wesson. Later, Riley taught him to drive a manual transmission.
For the past six years, Dwayne had been a highway patrolman. He spent most nights like he was spending this one, happily waiting in his speed trap under the Washington Street Bridge on I-40, radar gun at the ready.
“I wasn’t kidnapped,” Riley said. “This is my boss, Emerson Knight.”
“Well, damn,” Dwayne said, “I told Mom you weren’t kidnapped. Why didn’t you call her this week? She’s been worried sick.” He hauled back and studied Riley. “Are you sure you’re not kidnapped? Maybe you got a case of what do you call it when you get a crush on your kidnapper? Stockroom syndrome?”
“It’s called Stockholm syndrome, and I don’t have it. And I didn’t call Mom because we’re off the grid. I don’t have a phone.” Riley sniffed at Dwayne’s uniform. “I smell burger and onion rings.”
“I just ate the burger, but I got onion rings left. You want some? I even got ranch dressing.” He looked toward Emerson. “The three greatest contributions the United States made to world culture are jazz, rock and roll, and ranch dressing.”
They all piled into Dwayne’s patrol car, and Dwayne passed the onion rings around.
“You can use my phone to call Mom and Dad after I call you in,” Dwayne said.
“You don’t need to call us in,” Riley said. “I’m fine. I wasn’t kidnapped. There was no crime committed.”
“The feds have a BOLO out for you. I got to bring you in.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’m a law enforcement officer, sis. I got responsibilities. How did you know I’d be here anyway?”
“You have to make your monthly quota. I figured you’d be at your favorite speed trap. How’s it going?”
“For crap. Nobody speeds anymore. Gas prices are too high.” Then he added, “You’re looking good, sis.”
“Thanks, so are you.”
He nodded toward Emerson. “This guy treating you all right?”
“Yes, I am,” Emerson said. “She’s my amanuensis.”
“I oughta punch you right in the mouth,” Dwayne said.
Riley did an eye roll. “It means ‘assistant.’ ”
“So I’m guessing you’re off the grid because the feds are looking for you and you don’t want to be found,” Dwayne said. “I get why they’re looking for you. They thought you were kidnapped. The big Q is why don’t you want to be found?”
“Without going into a lot of detail, we’re looking for some of Emerson’s inheritance,” Riley said. “It’s…missing.”
“Oh man, does this have to do with that missing gold scam?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Lowell won’t shut up about it. He keeps going on about Miss M. and Mr. K.” Dwayne’s eyes opened wide and he gave a bark of laughter. “Hot damn! That’s you isn’t it? Miss M. The M stands for ‘Moon.’ Am I right? Am I right?”
“Perhaps I should cloud his mind,” Emerson said.
“Too late,” Riley said. “That ship sailed.”
“Are you really that Mysterioso guy?” Dwayne asked Emerson.
“Sometimes,” Emerson said. “Other times, no.”
“Could I have your autograph?”
“No,” Emerson said.
“We were following a lead on the gold when we had a transportation mishap,” Riley said to Dwayne. “I was hoping I could borrow the GTO. Without Dad knowing about it.”
“You mean you want to steal it?”
“Did I say ‘steal’? No, I did not. I said ‘borrow.’ ”
“What do I say when he finds out it’s missing?”
“Tell him you took it to Jimmy to get serviced. Tell him the check oil light was on.”
“He does all that himself. He doesn’t trust Jimmy.”
“Then tell him I stopped around and borrowed it and there was nothing you could do to stop me. And you can tell him I’m okay.”
“He?
??s gonna yell at me. I hate when he yells at me. And then Mom’s gonna be mad because you didn’t stop there and she’s gonna cut me off from dessert. And tomorrow is meatloaf and chocolate cake. You owe me for this one. I might not even help you except it’s not every day I get to meet a celebrity like Mysterioso. Wait until I tell Lowell. He’s gonna poop himself.”
—
Dwayne dropped Riley and Emerson off at Motel 5 on Interstate 40 and promised he’d be back in the morning. A week ago Riley would have thought twice about sharing a bed with a strange man, but now she was too tired to care. And she was thinking that Emerson was strange in a nonthreatening way that was sort of charming. One room for the two of them was okay with her. If the NSA or FBI broke down the door she’d rather not be alone.
So here she was at one A.M., wide awake with Emerson’s arm casually thrown across her, his body radiating heat, his breathing even. They’d watched some television, crawled into bed with most of their clothes on, and Emerson had fallen asleep without incident. She was struggling. She was especially struggling for the last half hour when the arm curled around her. Crap on a cracker, she liked it! How horrible is that?
She finally found sleep somewhere around two A.M. When she work up at six-thirty Emerson was showering. An hour later they checked out of the motel and walked across the street to a gas station convenience store to wait for their rendezvous with Dwayne. Riley had a Coke Slurpee and nachos, and Emerson ate three granola bars.
“Wow, three granola bars,” Riley said. “Do you know how many calories you just swallowed?”
“I have a high rate of metabolism,” Emerson said. “And I probably consumed less than you did with those nachos.”
“No way,” Riley said. “The cheese is fake. There’s almost no food value in the nachos and hardly any calories.”
“Then why do you eat it?”
“It tastes good. And they didn’t have any hot dogs.”
“You would have a hot dog for breakfast?”
“Only if there weren’t any cinnamon rolls.”
The Pontiac GTO pulled into the parking lot. All thirty-five hundred pounds of it, growling the low rumbling sound that used to be the mating call of the American automotive industry.
Dwayne swung the heavy door open and climbed out, tossing Riley the keys. “It’s all yours, sis. Don’t scratch the paint.”
“Did you tell Mom and Dad it was for me?”
“Yeah. Mom’s stompin’ around in a state. Dad says for you to be careful. He said to give you this.” He handed Riley a heavy brown paper lunch bag.
Inside was their dad’s old Smith & Wesson.
Riley teared up and nodded. “Tell him thanks. Can we drop you somewhere?”
“No. Freddie Schmidt is gonna pick me up and then we’re going to the all-you-can-eat buffet at Big Bob’s.”
—
Emerson sat in the passenger seat, holding the gun awkwardly in his hands while Riley drove the GTO. “Is it loaded?” he asked.
“It’s loaded.”
“It belongs to your father?”
“Yep. My father used to be a sheriff.”
“I remember. Was that difficult for you?”
“Not at all. He taught me how to use a gun. He also taught me right from wrong. I always wanted to grow up and help people. Somewhere in college I decided the best way to do that was to safeguard their money.”
“That’s what you’re doing now,” Emerson said. “On a global scale.”
Riley hoped that was true.
They passed Albuquerque and Flagstaff and drove in silence. They stopped only for the occasional bathroom break or fast food drive-through, until twilight, when they saw the ambient light of Vegas in the distance.
Riley felt a stir of excitement in her chest. She loved Vegas. She loved the lights, the fountains, the size of the fakery, and the noise of the casinos. Most of all, she loved that she could soon get out from behind the wheel and into a comfy hotel room.
“We can’t walk through a crowded hotel lobby,” Emerson said. “Someone might recognize us and call us in. We need to find a motel where I can register us and you can go straight to the room.”
“Are you going to cloud the clerk’s mind when you register?”
“I doubt it will be necessary. I think I’m sufficiently disguised.”
Riley agreed. He didn’t look like the photo that was displayed by the news media. No more ponytail. No perfectly tailored tuxedo. His hair now fell across his forehead and curled over his ears, and he had a three-day beard. He looked more like a pirate than a billionaire.
A half hour later Riley pulled into a budget motel five miles from the Strip. Emerson registered and they trudged up the stairs to their second-floor room. Riley threw her backpack on one of the two queen beds, and Emerson dumped his duffel bag and rucksack on the floor.
“Home sweet home,” Riley said.
“They have complimentary coffee in the morning.”
“And television and flush toilets.”
“One really doesn’t need much more than that,” Emerson said.
“It’s not the Carlyle.”
Emerson looked around the room. “No piano.”
—
Riley fell asleep halfway through a sitcom rerun and didn’t wake up until seven the next morning.
“I smell coffee,” Riley said, sitting up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
“Interesting,” Emerson said, handing Riley a cardboard container of coffee. “You slept through the fire alarm but you woke up when I entered the room with coffee.”
“There was a fire alarm?”
“At five-thirty. I didn’t feel threatened so I ignored it. When I went down for coffee they said someone accidentally set their wastebasket on fire, but no damage was done.”
“I don’t suppose they had food down there?”
“Vending machines. Nothing suitable for breakfast. We can get something once we’re on the road.”
Riley took a fast shower and got behind the wheel with her hair still damp. The sun was bright but the air had some chill to it. She followed Interstate 15 north to U.S. Route 93, leaving Vegas behind. The road had a steady uphill climb.
“I think my ears just popped,” Riley said. “How high are we?”
“Groom Lake is a salt flat at an elevation of 4,462 feet. It’s in a high-desert environment. I believe Route 375 will be coming up shortly. You need to go left on 375.”
Riley paused when she reached the two-lane road. “The sign says EXTRATERRESTRIAL HIGHWAY.”
“I fear Groom Lake has become a theme park.”
“Do I keep going?”
“By all means. We’ll be meeting our guide at a diner on this road.”
“Does it have a cross street? A mile marker? A name?”
“No, no, and I don’t know, but I’m sure you’ll recognize it when you get there.”
Riley thought that was an unjustified vote of confidence.
“It’s lunchtime and I’m getting hungry and there’s nothing out here,” she said after several miles. “Are you sure there’s a diner? One that actually sells food?”
“I have no reason to think otherwise.” Emerson sat forward. “I believe it’s just ahead of us.”
Riley squinted against the sun and saw a silver double-wide shimmering in the distance. A couple one-room bungalows and several small campers and trailers had been arranged behind it. The sign on the double-wide said EARTHLINGS WELCOME. She supposed it meant them, because there were no other earthlings in sight. The diner was in the middle of freaking nowhere. A dusty pickup truck, an even dustier Chevy Volt, and a dented and Bondo-patched Volvo station wagon were parked in the lot in front of the double-wide. A small hand-painted sign stuck into the hard-packed dirt advertised OUT OF THIS WORLD FOOD.
“Clever,” Riley said.
“More sarcasm?”
“Astonished disbelief.”
Riley shrugged out of her hoodie, wrapped the gun securely
inside, shoved the bundle under the seat, and got out of the car.
Inside the double-wide was a jumbled display of alien kitsch. T-shirts, mugs, and shot glasses lined shelves, all bearing images of bulging-eyed gray aliens and glowing spaceships. A counter ran along one wall. A few barstools that had been patched with duct tape lined the counter. Behind the counter, a hard-faced waitress with a pink apron and a lot of teased-up hair gave Emerson the full body scan. A large American flag hung on the wall behind the counter.
“Patriotic,” Emerson said.
Riley nodded. “It reminds me of the bars back home.”
They sat at one of the Formica-topped tables and looked at the plastic-encased menu. The waitress ambled over with coffee.
“What’ll it be, hon?” she asked Emerson.
“Grilled cheese,” Emerson said.
“Go figure,” the waitress said. “I had you figured for a carnivore.”
“I’m the carnivore,” Riley said. “I want a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke.”
The waitress walked off, and a weathered forty-something woman left her seat at the counter and approached Riley and Emerson. The woman was wearing a flak jacket with a military insignia over the pocket, her long blond hair was going gray, and her eyes were hidden behind mirrored aviators.
“The migrating birds fly low over the sea,” she said to Emerson.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Riley thought. Should have brought the gun with me. This woman is a nut.
Emerson looked up at the woman. “The toothless tiger rules the restless jungle.”
“Oh boy,” Riley said.
“That was our countersign,” Emerson said to Riley. “If I’m not mistaken this is our guide.”
The woman pulled a chair up to the table, sat down, and leaned in close. “Yep. I’m your guide, all right. I’m Xandy Zavier. That’s Xandy with an ‘X.’ My real first name is Amy, but screw that.” She focused on Riley. “Who are you?”
“I’m Riley Moon.”
“Cool. What’s your real last name?”
“Moon,” Riley said.
“Oh, I thought, ‘Moon,’ you know…” Xandy made a whistling noise and looked around. “There’s a lot of whackos here.”
Riley looked at the military insignia above Xandy’s pocket. It was an image of an alien wearing a lobster bib and holding a knife and fork with the words TO SERVE MAN above it. Yeah, Riley thought, a lot of whackos.