what a babe she was, he mused, stroking the rich leather seat as he drove. No one made cars like this anymore. She could suck a gas pump dry and empty a man’s wallet without ever coming up for air. Hard to resist a beauty with that combo of skills—especially when she made the man feel so damn good while it happened.
Harry’d been a sucker for a slick set of wheels his entire life. Make it a convertible, he was over the moon. A muscle car, and he was in hog heaven. His mother had driven a classic and fully decked out 1971 Riviera GS, his father a 1969 Camaro. He’d never cared who took him to school. He only cared about not riding the bus.
For his sixteenth birthday, he’d wanted a ’69 Pontiac GTO. His parents had given him a ’71 Cuda ragtop instead. Black and bumblebee yellow. He’d been voted junior class president right then and there.
He who dies with the most toys wins . Wasn’t that what the bumper sticker said? It was always about the coolest car, the fattest wallet, the hottest honey, the biggest dick. Funny how so little had changed.
The second thing he’d done was to hunt down the one single person most likely to lead him to what he wanted—the dossier he’d promised to find for Ezra Moore. The dossier that would never see Ezra’s hands without first seeing the fine-tooth electronic comb belonging to the analysis team waiting even now at the Smithson Group’s Manhattan ops center.
Inquiries, both discreet and not so—the first made as an SG-5 operative, the second in his role as a collector of modern military memorabilia—resulted in one name popping up repeatedly. A Texas treasure hunter named Georgia McLain. He’d found her in jail in Waco, and he liked her already.
What wasn’t to like? The woman wouldn’t take no for an answer, went after what she wanted with a vengeance, found no lengths too far. That dedication played into Harry’s hands. Especially since sweet Georgia McLain appeared to be after the same thing he was.
The background check he’d run yielded a mother who had died of pneumonia when Georgia was five, and a father who had died in the federal prison where he’d been incarcerated seventeen years before for his role in the TotalSky scandal—a detail Harry knew not to tuck too far away.
She had one living relative—a brother, Finn—and Harry had no trouble tracking down his photo, driving record, vehicle identification number, and license tag as well as the make and model of his truck. Then he’d spent the night in McLennan County and waited for little brother to show.
The thing he found most interesting about his treasure hunter went back to the cool car, fat cash observation of earlier. For someone who hunted treasures for a living, the woman had zero in the way of assets, liquid or otherwise. He’d found no property in her name, no DBA, no Bahamian, Cayman, or Swiss accounts.
It would appear she pocketed the proceeds from one find and lived off those funds while hunting down the next. It would appear that way except for the fact that there were no records of her locating any items of significant worth in the last three years. There had, in fact, been little activity notched on her notoriety belt since her focus had narrowed.
Not such a big market out there for specializing in military papers. Her interest, he reasoned, had become personal at the same time she’d dropped off the map—right after her father’s death. To Harry, that obsession was the best kind of news.
And when combined with the death of General Arthur Duggin, the upcoming auction of the man’s library items, and her arrest for trespassing on the General’s property, well, this beautiful, never-ending stretch of concrete between Waco and Dallas seemed to be exactly the right track.
He glanced beneath the dash at the GPS navigator that doubled as a tracking device. The signal sent out by the transmitter he’d slipped inside the wheel well of Finn McLain’s pickup showed brother and
Harry’d been a sucker for a slick set of wheels his entire life. Make it a convertible, he was over the moon. A muscle car, and he was in hog heaven. His mother had driven a classic and fully decked out 1971 Riviera GS, his father a 1969 Camaro. He’d never cared who took him to school. He only cared about not riding the bus.
For his sixteenth birthday, he’d wanted a ’69 Pontiac GTO. His parents had given him a ’71 Cuda ragtop instead. Black and bumblebee yellow. He’d been voted junior class president right then and there.
He who dies with the most toys wins . Wasn’t that what the bumper sticker said? It was always about the coolest car, the fattest wallet, the hottest honey, the biggest dick. Funny how so little had changed.
The second thing he’d done was to hunt down the one single person most likely to lead him to what he wanted—the dossier he’d promised to find for Ezra Moore. The dossier that would never see Ezra’s hands without first seeing the fine-tooth electronic comb belonging to the analysis team waiting even now at the Smithson Group’s Manhattan ops center.
Inquiries, both discreet and not so—the first made as an SG-5 operative, the second in his role as a collector of modern military memorabilia—resulted in one name popping up repeatedly. A Texas treasure hunter named Georgia McLain. He’d found her in jail in Waco, and he liked her already.
What wasn’t to like? The woman wouldn’t take no for an answer, went after what she wanted with a vengeance, found no lengths too far. That dedication played into Harry’s hands. Especially since sweet Georgia McLain appeared to be after the same thing he was.
The background check he’d run yielded a mother who had died of pneumonia when Georgia was five, and a father who had died in the federal prison where he’d been incarcerated seventeen years before for his role in the TotalSky scandal—a detail Harry knew not to tuck too far away.
She had one living relative—a brother, Finn—and Harry had no trouble tracking down his photo, driving record, vehicle identification number, and license tag as well as the make and model of his truck. Then he’d spent the night in McLennan County and waited for little brother to show.
The thing he found most interesting about his treasure hunter went back to the cool car, fat cash observation of earlier. For someone who hunted treasures for a living, the woman had zero in the way of assets, liquid or otherwise. He’d found no property in her name, no DBA, no Bahamian, Cayman, or Swiss accounts.
It would appear she pocketed the proceeds from one find and lived off those funds while hunting down the next. It would appear that way except for the fact that there were no records of her locating any items of significant worth in the last three years. There had, in fact, been little activity notched on her notoriety belt since her focus had narrowed.
Not such a big market out there for specializing in military papers. Her interest, he reasoned, had become personal at the same time she’d dropped off the map—right after her father’s death. To Harry, that obsession was the best kind of news.
And when combined with the death of General Arthur Duggin, the upcoming auction of the man’s library items, and her arrest for trespassing on the General’s property, well, this beautiful, never-ending stretch of concrete between Waco and Dallas seemed to be exactly the right track.
He glanced beneath the dash at the GPS navigator that doubled as a tracking device. The signal sent out by the transmitter he’d slipped inside the wheel well of Finn McLain’s pickup showed brother and
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