"YOU CAN RUN, sweetheart, but you can't hide — not from
me."
Brock Hardesty muttered those words to himself after his
top field agent delivered the news he'd been waiting for
months to hear. They'd found Samantha Robbins.
He dropped the telephone receiver into its cradle and
grinned at the high-tech device he held in the palm of his
other hand. With the reverse ID he could monitor what
phone number anyone in the building had dialed. The gadget
electronically recorded the number and length of each call
from his underground bunker beneath Obelisk Enterprise's
top secret headquarters.
At his convenience, Brock could check out any call his
people made. If he discovered anything — anything — suspi-
cious, he had a listening device installed in their office
or assigned an operative to investigate. No one was beyond
his reach.
Certainly not Samantha Robbins. It had taken a little
longer than he'd expected, but he'd found the bitch.
Disappearing was a lot more difficult than people
believed. There was always a trail, a way of finding
someone.
In this case, the key had been cold, hard cash. Money
wasn't his first love, but without it, he couldn't indulge
his true passion. Money often provided a trail or made a
good trap, when he was after someone. He'd patiently
waited until Samantha Robbins bought her condo with cash.
Brock gave himself full credit for finding Samantha. He
knew that the Witness Protection Program — WITSEC —
relocated witnesses in a place where they had no family,
no friends, and little chance of running into someone who
might recognize them. Contrary to what most people
thought, WITSEC did not fabricate credit histories for
their witnesses.
WITSEC created new identities, but it was up to each
witness to establish credit. Getting a credit card was a
no-brainer. So many offers arrived in the mail that it was
a joke, but it would take several years and a clean
payment record for a witness to parlay a good credit card
track record into a home loan.
Samantha was different. She had enough money to buy a
place.
He'd made a list of the states where Samantha had connec-
tions and eliminated them. His agents tracked homes
purchased for cash in the remaining states. Without a
credit history, she would have to pay cash for a place to
live.
Of course, there was always the possibility that she would
rent, but the psychologist he'd consulted insisted
Samantha Robbins was the type who liked control. She
wanted to run things, own things. The shrink had been
right.
As Director of Security at Obelisk Enterprises, it was
Brock's job to make certain the group's interests were
protected — at all times. This woman was a threat. He'd
said so from the day he and the Obelisk brass made a
secret visit to the CFO at PowerTec. As the CFO's
assistant, she'd asked too many insightful questions.
Samantha Robbins had been suspicious about PowerTec's
dealings and should have been eliminated immediately. His
superiors had insisted he allow the dumb-fucks at PowerTec
to handle their employee.
What happened? Just what Brock said would happen. The
snoopy bitch had notified the FBI, and the Feebies had
sent an undercover agent to work at PowerTec. Brock had
been forced to have the agent killed.
Even the Federal Marshals who ran the WITSEC program knew
security should never be taken lightly. Not with this much
at stake. Too many powerful, important people had
everything to lose. They relied on Brock to make certain
nothing went wrong.
Dominating one wall of his office was a world map on a
liquid plasma television screen. The weather satellite
displayed the cloud formations and used green Doppler
striations to indicate where it was raining. Points of
colored light, each the size of a thumb tack, continuously
moved to reveal the positions of the satellites orbiting
overhead.
Using the EPA satellite nearest to where his operatives
had located the Robbins woman, Brock punched a few keys on
the computer. From space the super-magnified camera could
focus all the way down to a single pine needle, and that
lone needle would fill the entire screen. With a few
keystrokes, Brock used the satellite's camera to inspect
the area where she was working.
"Yeah, sweet cheeks. You can run, but you can't hide."
If Brock wanted to find someone, he would. Then that
person would find out the bitter truth.
"You're better off dead."
LINDSEY WALLACE walked across the plaza that was the heart
of Santa Fe's historic district. She pretended to be
casually walking her retriever, but she was checking to
see if anyone was following her. Only a handful of people
strolled on the streets bracketing the square. None of
them seemed to notice her.
Things aren't always what they appear to be.
A good operative wouldn't be easy to spot. According to
what she'd been told, operatives often traveled in pairs.
Frequently they seemed to be ordinary couples.
From behind her shades, she scanned the people in the
area. Two disappeared into buildings. Another rounded the
corner, heading toward La Fonda Hotel. Satisfied no one
was interested in her, Lindsey moved on.
There was a thin line between caution and paranoia, she
told herself. Maybe, just maybe, she'd crossed over the
line.
No, she wasn't being neurotic.
She'd been safe for almost a year, but she would be
foolish to let down her guard. One woman — an experienced
FBI agent — had already been murdered.
She reached Palace Avenue, but stayed on the south side of
the street with Zach beside her. She could have crossed to
walk under the shady adobe portico of the Palace of the
Governors, but she didn't.
Native American women were setting up their wares in front
of the building that dated back to missionary days. On
well-worn Navajo rugs, they arranged row after row of
silver jewelry that had been manufactured in Malaysia.
There was a smattering of pottery and rugs to entice
tourists. Little of it was made at the pueblos, most of it
not even produced in this country. Their once proud
heritage was being lost.
In Navajo she greeted an older woman, lugging her goods to
the palace. "Yaa'eh t'eeh."
She smiled slightly and responded in Navajo, "Yaa'eh
t'eeh."
Like the women assembled under the portico, the elderly
lady wore the traditional velvet blouse with Concho-style
silver buttons and a long skirt that swept across her
squaw boots. Her pewter-gray hair was pulled back into the
traditional figure eight bun worn by women from the
reservation.
Seeing Native America's arts being lost forever bothered
Lindsey. Some of her best artists, like Ben Tallchief,
came from the reservation. She supposed they were the
future of pueblo art — unique, individual pieces, not
tribal art passed down from generation to generation.