Page 51 of Backtrack

Still no sign of an alarm system. If Moffit had one, it was invisible.

Worrisome.

The barn door stood slightly ajar, spilling a shaft of yellow light into the darkness. Pink thought it would be better to go in guns blazing, shoot Moffit in the leg and then demand the diamonds. Duvall slowed to a creep for the last thirty yards, giving himself time to catch his breath. He said the element of surprise would be enough. Moffit was a businessman, not a killer. That was why he’d hired them. They probably wouldn’t even need to draw their guns.

Duvall, breathing more normally now, made a hand sign that looked like he wanted Pink to go through the door first. Pink must have misunderstood, because the two men tried to roll around the frame at the same time, effectively plugging the hole for a harried second before they sorted out who would take the lead. Pink was larger and had more momentum, so he made it into the light first. A flustered Duvall followed tight on his heels.

Instead of lying in wait, or even being ready for them, Moffit was bent under the open hood of a British racing green AC Ace sports car, tinkering with the throttle. The rumbling engine must have hidden their approach.

Momentum had gotten Pink through the door first, but it also made it difficult to stop on the uneven rug. He slid, stutter-stepping to keep his feet under a blindingly bright light. Duvall tripped and fell, sprawling on his face. Focused on immediately locating Moffit, it took Pink precious seconds to realize he wasn’t standing on a rug at all. The floor was lined with clear plastic sheeting. A quick scan revealed that the walls in the corner where Pink and Duvall now stood were also draped in clear plastic.

Even as inexperienced as he was, it didn’t take long for Pink to recognize the gravity of the situation. They’d stepped into a kill box.

Duvall clambered on all fours, slapping the ground in a vain search for his handgun—which had fallen out of his pocket and lay five feet away in a fold of the plastic.

Moffit stood up from the roadster and wiped his hands on a shop towel. “Welcome, gentlemen. I did so hope y’all would come calling this evening.”

He wore a pair of blue oil-stained coveralls that were tight across the chest and shoulders, like he’d had them tailored. A slow Virginia drawl and manicured look made him seem like a Southern plantation owner. He was a tall man, though not as tall as Pink, with sandy-blond hair, perfectly styled with pomade.

He glanced down at Duvall. “What happened to you, Allen? You look like you’ve been ridden hard and put up wet.”

Duvall crawled forward, scrambling for his gun, but Moffit clucked at him.

Pink started to draw his weapon.

“Let’s not!” Moffit let his shop towel drop to the floor.

Only then did Pink realize the man didn’t have to draw a gun. He already had one. He’d been holding a semiautomatic pistol under the towel from the moment he stepped away from the roadster. Pink had never held a Browning Hi-Power, but he recognized the sleek black lines from pictures he’d seen inSoldier of Fortunemagazine.

Duvall froze in place. He looked like an idiot, floundering on the plastic. Pink raised both hands high above his head.

Moffit strode forward and kicked Duvall’s handgun behind him, toward the idling car. He kept walking, one eye on Pink. The Browning in Moffit’s hand carried fifteen rounds in the magazine. He could put a couple in Duvall and Pink and still have plenty left over in case they’d brought friends. Instead of shooting, Moffit flicked his wrist, using the barrel of the gun to motion Duvall to his feet. Duvall sheepishly put a hand on one knee and pushed himself up.

Moffit’s boot came out of nowhere to impact the side of his head with a sickening thwack. A blow like that could have killed him. Moffit must have pulled it. Duvall slumped to all fours again.

“Do I have your full attention, sir?” Moffit snapped.

Duvall swayed in place, loopy, like he might collapse. “You could have brained—”

Moffit struck with his boot again, this time to the point of Duvall’s tailbone. The blow rolled him over and left him writhing inpain. Moffit kept the Hi-Power trained on Pink, nodding to his own boots.

“You need a boot-leather enema as well?” His voice was calm, like he was asking if Pink wanted another Dr Pepper. “Any threats, idle or otherwise, that you feel compelled to get off your chest?”

“No, sir.” Pink stood motionless, hands still in the air. “Can’t think of a one.”

Moffit gave a slow nod. “You are cool under pressure,” he said in his syrup-sweet drawl. “I would hate to have to kill you.”

“I wouldn’t care much for that myself.” Pink relaxed a hair. If this guy was going to shoot him, he would have done it already.

“Truth be told, I’m relieved y’all showed up when you did.” Moffit shot a glance at Duvall, who’d managed to get up on one knee again. Blood dripped from his nose. One eye was rapidly swelling shut. “Apart from that minor misunderstanding about your pistol … are we good?”

Duvall raised the hand he didn’t have pressed against his knee for support. “Oh, I’m golden,” he said. “But if you’re so glad to see us, why’d you set up your place like a damned slaughterhouse? How exactly did you expect us to react?”

“That, sir, is a fair point. The truth is, I keep a lot of expensive cars in this barn.” Moffit waved the Browning in a little circle. “I assumed you’d be upset enough with me that you might force me to kill you. Gunshots produce a powerful back spatter, as I imagine you well know.” He glanced at Duvall who was still bleeding from his nose. “I don’t care to get any on the paint jobs.”

“How did you know we’d come?” Pink asked.

“I didn’tknow,” Moffit said. “I hoped.”