"Oh." Crawford looked like he was carefully filing that away for later, and Wilder began to feel as if he were teaching CIA 101. Crawford continued tapping the screen with the stylus. "Nash was in the Australian army. Did seven years as an NCO."
That also made sense. Wilder had had no doubt from their first meeting that Nash had been military. "What was his specialty?"
"Something called SAS."
Wilder went cold. "Special Air Service. Who Dares Wins."
"What?"
"Who Dares Wins. That's the motto of the SAS. They're the Australian equivalent of U.S. Special Forces. They were rounded as the Australian version of the British SAS. Bad guys to go up against, good guys to have on your side." He'd been glad to be on their side during the early days of the Second Gulf War. Not so glad now that he might be going up against one on the set. Fuck, he thought. Connor Nash.
"Does it list his specialty?"
"Weapons. Secondary of demolitions."
Damn. Figured. They didn't have dishwashers in the SAS. "Anything else?"
Crawford took a cautious sip of his beer, as if the liquid were going to attack him. "Nash has worked on fourteen movies in the past twelve years. This is his second one with Armstrong. Which means she could be in on something with him now."
"No." Wilder processed it. So Nash worked for Blue River in between movie gigs. That made sense. With his SAS background he'd earn top dollar. Enough in sixty days to live on for a year if he was reasonably frugal. Then he had his movie income, although Wilder had no idea what a stunt coordinator pulled in. They didn't seem to be living in the lap of luxury on this movie. "Did Nash do any time in Ireland where he might have run into Finnegan?'
"No record of it."
"How about Mexico? Was Nash down there when Finnegan got nabbed?"
"No."
There was a long silence while Wilder tried to figure out the connection between Nash and Finnegan, and then Crawford cleared his throat nervously. "Finnegan did some things in Iraq after the overthrow of Saddam. Smuggling."
Bingo, Wilder thought. "You should have told me that up front, damn it. What are we playing, hide the intelligence here?"
"I didn't put it together until right now," Crawford said. "I mean, I
read the files, but there was so much information I didn't see the possibility of Finnegan and Nash meeting there."
Wilder shook his head. "Anything could have happened after Baghdad fell. The Army had planned on using six divisions, but the politicians screwed up the assault from the north and there were only two and a half. The place was wide open. A lot of vultures just like Finnegan flew in to pick over the leavings." He picked up his beer. "You have a picture of Finnegan?"
"Taken eighteen years ago." Crawford pulled it out of his coat pocket, flashing his revolver again, and handed it to Wilder, who checked his nemesis out: a burly, handsome man with white hair and piercing blue eyes in a truly bad Hawaiian shirt.
Wilder was impressed. The kid had done okay boiling it down and following up on the old director. Of course, he had to be smart; the CIA had probably recruited him out of some Ivy League school that would never have allowed Wilder to look at their catalog, never mind enroll.
Crawford leaned back so that his jacket fell open, again exposing his revolver. "You're probably wondering about my gun."
Nope.
"It's my dad's."
Oh, crap. Wilder ran his hand along the side of his empty mug and gestured for the waitress with two fingers. There was silence until she came and left.
"He was a cop," Crawford said, picking up his beer and taking a deep drink. "He'd been a cop but hurt his knee chasing down a bad guy. They retired him at quarter pay and he couldn't take care of a family on that. So he worked security at a supermarket."
Wilder wanted to leave. There was Armstrong with Nash dogging her, and Finnegan lurking in the background, making money for shit-head terrorists, and the ghost in the swamp… He cut off Crawford's life story: "Could Finnegan have somebody in the swamp?"
Crawford looked disappointed at having his story interrupted. "What makes you think someone is there?"
"I felt it today. I heard a strange noise."
Crawford made a face. "Probably just some fisherman or hunter."
"No," Wilder said. He figured telling Crawford about Pepper's ghost wouldn't go over well. "There's somebody bad in there. What are you not telling me?"
Crawford froze and then tried to shrug it off. "Nothing. I'm telling you nothing."
"Screw you," Wilder said, shoving his chair back. "Your man almost got a little kid killed—"
"No, no," Crawford said. "We really don't have anybody in the swamp."
"What then?"
Crawford hesitated, and Wilder stood up, leaning forward toward the CIA agent.
"Wait." Crawford swallowed. "When Finnegan was nailed in Mexico he was buying the art on consignment. For a Russian named Simon Letsky."
"That doesn't sound Russian."
"A Russian Jew. Known as the Smart Don."
Aw shit, Wilder thought and sat down. Why couldn't it be the Dumb Don?
"Letsky is reported to be the most powerful organized-crime boss in Russia. My source couldn't tell me much, but Letsky is considered by many insiders to be a very bad man. Finnegan stole the jade for him."
Wilder glanced at the white-haired smiling Irishman in the photo. You asshole, you're in way over your head, aren't you? "And Letsky probably wasn't very happy about his fifty-million-dollar Viagra shipment being taken."
"XT "
No.
Wilder tried to figure the angles, but hell, he was just a Special Forces guy, not a cop. "And you think Finnegan is laundering money through the movie for Letsky in order to pay him back?"
Crawford shrugged. "It's the logical deduction."
"No, it isn't. Four million isn't close to the fifty million Letsky paid."
"I can do the math," Crawford said, looking sullen. "But Letsky most likely didn't put the entire amount up front. Probably just enough to entice Finnegan to get the jade, with the balance paid on delivery. But that's it. That's all I know. I'm not keeping anything else from you, I swear."
Wilder gave up. He stood, sliding the picture into his pocket, shook his head, and walked out.
When he was on the sidewalk, he looked back into the diner. Crawford had switched seats and was facing the door, almost smiling.
Wilder paused. Why was Crawford smirking? He'd missed something. He could feel it. He shook his head again and went toward his Jeep. It was late and he just wanted to get some sleep before the next fuck-up happened.
With Crawford in charge, there was bound to be another one along pretty soon.
The next afternoon, Lucy met Daisy when she got off the shuttle at the Wildlife Refuge.
"How are you doing?" she asked. "You okay?"
Daisy nodded, still a little wobbly. "I think that cry did me good. Well, the cry and you. Thanks for rescuing me again."
Lucy waited for a smile and didn't get one. "Well, that's my job. Daize, about the pills—"
"I didn't take any today," Daisy said, tiredly. "I figure you're here, maybe I don't need them. Just hand everything over to you, no worries." She sounded brittle, almost angry, but then she finally smiled— weakly, but still a smile—and said, "So where's your secret weapon?"
Lucy nodded to the side of the road, where Wilder looked less delighted to be dressed just like Bryce, who looked less than delighted, especially with his copy of Bryce's knife strapped across his chest. Wilder was so much the real thing that he almost made the knife look right. "The swelling's gone down on Bryce's face so that's all right. We're good to shoot. How's Pepper?"
"Looking for craft services, of course." Daisy's smiled wavered "Aunt Lucy needs her apples since Stephanie is falling down on the job."
"Stephanie is mad as hell about something," Lucy said, resigned to having an assistant who hated her. "She's stomping around sneering at people. But then,
what else is new?" She looked around for Pepper and didn't see her. "Pepper didn't go—"
"Into the swamp? No." Daisy sounded sure. "And she never will again without J.T. She was really terrified in there until he rescued her. She says she's J.T.'s egg now, which I don't get, but if it keeps her out of the swamp, what the heck." She looked at Lucy. "You really hit the mark with her, buying that Wonder Woman outfit. The only reason she didn't wear it to bed last night was because I told her she couldn't wear it today if she did. She put it on the chair beside her bed and stared at it until she fell asleep. You did good, Aunt Lucy."
"Good." Lucy put her attention back on Wilder, looking lean and tough in camouflage, and Bryce in the same getup, looking like he was going out for Halloween.
"So they're still pals?" Daisy said, looking at them, too. "Even after Althea?"
Lucy shook her head at the mystery that was men. "I'm guessing Bryce doesn't know that Rambo did Bambi. Plus, Wilder did save Bryce's butt in that bar fight, so Bryce has to love him for that."
"J.T. saved a lot of people yesterday," Daisy said.
"Fucking hero," Lucy said, trying to keep the warmth out of her voice. Thank God, Gloom was too busy to hum Bonnie Tyler at her. Change the subject. She nodded toward the long straight road ahead of them leading into the Savannah Wildlife Refuge, now crowded with cast and crew, one of whom was reporting to Finnegan. "Great location. No trees to screw up the chopper and we don't have to pay to shut it down to traffic."
"Yep," Daisy said. "Great place for J.T. to fall out of a helicopter."
"Well, at least it's keeping him out of bars," Lucy said. "I don't like the way that fight happened."
Daisy shrugged. "Couple of good old boys trying to be tough, beat up the famous actor."
"Bryce isn't that famous. Plus, he's a comedian. It'd be like kicking a mime."
"Very tempting," Daisy said.
Lucy grinned at her. "You are feeling better."
"Yeah." Daisy sighed. "Listen, I probably overreacted last night with that crying fit—"
"Your kid lost in a swamp full of gators?" Lucy shook her head. "No, I'd say you were right on the money."
"I could not find Crafty," Pepper announced from behind them, and Lucy turned and saw her, looking frustrated in her blue-and-white-starred skivvies and blue cape, her binoculars around her neck. "I wanted to get you apples and then look for my ghost, but I cannot find Crafty."
"It's over there, honey." Lucy nodded toward the table full of junk food that was set up out of the way of the cameras.
"Great," Pepper said and started toward it.
"No candy," Daisy called after her. "Only fruit." She shook her head and started after her daughter, and Lucy was still smiling when she turned and found Connor in front of her.
"She okay?" he asked, nodding toward Pepper with real concern on his face. "I heard this morning—"
"Where were you last night?" Lucy said, wanting to smack him. He'd given Daisy drugs, damn him.
"Rehearsing with Karen," he said, looking taken aback. "You know, the helicopter pilot—"
"I know," Lucy said.
Nash frowned at her. "Damn, Lucy, if I'd had any idea Pepper was in trouble—"
"What were you rehearsing?"
"This stunt." He grinned at her. "Hey, you want to know what I'm doing, you need to stick closer."
He might have been with Karen, but he hadn't been rehearsing, she thought. That was why Stephanie was looking like murder. Lucy looked past him to Wilder, the antithesis of him in every way. "I don't want to know that much about you," she said and walked over to the monitors, leaving him stunned behind her.
Wilder had been having a trying afternoon. First there was Bryce's gun: It was a stunt gun, but Bryce held it in a way that made Wilder nervous. Then there was Wilder's outfit: He was dressed identically to Bryce in the stupid tiger-stripe fatigues and web gear with his copy of that damn knife strapped across his chest, looking like an idiot. And finally there was Armstrong across the road, distracting him, talking to Daisy, looking a lot like Wonder Woman except for that long dark braid down her back. II he ever got close enough, he was taking that braid down—"
"How do I hold this thing?" Bryce said, frowning at the gun.
Wilder sighed. "Here." He held out a hand for the submachine gun.
Bryce reluctantly parted with it, and Wilder took the MP-5 in his hands. It was a German-made gun, the weapon of choice among counterterrorist units around the world, the same as the one Wilder had cached close by, except that his would work for real. Out of the corner of his eye, Wilder could see Nash watching them.
He removed the magazine and then checked the chamber. The rounds were blanks and there was a blank adapter plugged into the barrel. He checked to see that the adapter was secure, since it could be lethal if it became a projectile fired by the blast from the blanks. Just to be safe, Wilder knelt down and quickly thumbed out the thirty rounds from the magazine onto a box, making sure every single one was a blank. Then he began reloading.
"What are you doing?" Bryce asked.
"Making sure no one gets hurt, particularly you."
Bryce nodded. "That's good. I remember that guy died making that movie. You know, Bruce Lee's kid."
Wilder remembered reading about that. The stunt gun had malfunctioned. "That won't happen here. Nash did a good job."
"Thanks a fucking lot, mate," Nash said from behind them. He looked at the gun in Wilder's hand. "Satisfied?"
"Just doing my job."
"So am I. And I've been doing it a hell of lot longer than you have. Don't mess with my gear after I've prepped it."
Wilder nodded and glanced over at Armstrong and caught her watching them. She turned her head, and he thought, Go away, Nash. Far away. Iraq would be good. Afghanistan. Pluto.
Nash looked pointedly at his watch. "You guys good to go? Or you got a bar fight you got to get to?"
"I want to be in the chopper," Bryce said, lifting his chin, and Wilder forgot Armstrong to focus on this next disaster.
"You will be in the chopper," Nash said. "For the ground shot once we land the bird after the air shots. It will look like you're in the air, so don't worry."
"No," Bryce said. "I want to be in it for the first part. Where it catches up to the car. The skid sequence before the jump."
Wilder thought, Oh, fuck.
"No." Nash said it as an order.
That's telling him, Wilder thought. Not that it's going to work. Bryce had that mule look on his face again.
Bryce drew himself up, his face blotchy with stress. "It's a daylight shot, so I should do it. People have to see me in action scenes to think I'm an action hero. I can do it. I held my own in the bar fight. Just ask J.T."
Nash looked at him, one eyebrow raised.
"Bryce didn't hesitate," Wilder said, truthfully. He got in the way, but he didn't hesitate.
"Lucy isn't going to—" Nash began, but Bryce cut him off.
"So don't tell her until it's over. I'm the star here."
Nash looked at Wilder, mad as hell but fighting to keep a lid on it. "Are you saying he can do this? That you will guarantee he won't get hurt?"
"Nope," Wilder said.
"I'm getting in that copter," Bryce said, "and I'm going to stand on that skid, just like a real action hero." He caught himself. "I am a real action hero."
"Uh, Bryce," Wilder said.
"And if I don't get to do the stunt"—Bryce drew himself up—"I might get so upset that I couldn't shoot for a while. I ill maybe next week. That would cost you more than the insurance."
"Fuck," Nash said, his voice savage now.
"It will save you time with the helicopter," Bryce said. "You won't have to keep it here to do my shots on the ground because they'll already be done."
"Listen, Bryce," Nash began in a totally new voice, almost begging. "We've storyboarded this and—"
"I'm in the helicopter on the skid or there's no more shooting this week."
 
; "Lucy will go crazy," Nash said.
"I'm the star."
Wilder sighed. He'd seen behavior like this before. A three-star general had come to Afghanistan and demanded stupid things in exactly the same manner. Wilder had been tempted to toss a grenade his way.
Nash glared, looking like he wanted to chuck a grenade or two himself. "Fuck it. It's your ass." He stalked off, pulling his cell phone out.
"Let's get this done," Bryce said, his voice deeper now that he was feeling macho.
Wilder ignored him and cocked his head as a familiar sound reached his ears, sending a surge of adrenaline through his body. Inbound helicopter. It's just a movie, Wilder reminded himself, but it didn't matter. Going in on a mission or getting pulled out, that's what the sound of a helicopter meant to him.
''Let's go," Bryce said, channeling G.I. Joe, as a four-seater Bell Jet Ranger with the doors off touched down.
Wilder followed him to the helicopter. Once inside, he leaned forward to get the pilot's attention, easier to do because the doors were off. Her name was Karen Roeburn, Bryce had said when he'd pointed her out, the same tough-looking brunette in an Army flight suit that Armstrong had pointed out the day before. His second ex-wife used to come home dressed like that, smelling of jet fuel.
Wilder tapped the pilot on the shoulder, and she turned and lifted her visor.
"I'm Wilder," he yelled over the sound of the rotors.
"I know," she yelled back. "Captain. J.T. One each. Government issue."
"Bryce is going to be on the skid today in the air, so keep it low and give him a smooth ride."
The look on her face told him what she thought about that. "I take orders from Nash, not from you."
"Right." He sat back, noting that she was programming a handheld GPS, a global positioning system that she had attached to her knee-board. He found that odd; it wasn't like it was hard to find this place in the daylight.
"What are you doing?" Wilder shouted to be heard above the chopper noise.
She looked startled for a second. "Fixing waypoints."
"Why?"