The thought sent acid into his stomach.
Skye opened the door and walked out towing her carry-on. She smelled like cinnamon and sugar, and he fought the urge to lean down and bury his face in her silky dark hair.
“Anything else?” he asked a little gruffly. “Your weapons?”
She tapped her purse. She usually carried a .380 in her handbag or wore it in an ankle holster. “My Glock and a spare are in my carry-on. I’ve got a stun gun in there, too.”
He nodded, not surprised she was prepared. Edge loaded her stuff into the truck bed, locked down the tonneau cover, and they set off down I-25. They didn’t talk much. The subject of last night rode the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t bring it up. Had she called a friend to come over? She’d mentioned the new guy at Nighthawk, Morgan Burke. Edge hadn’t met him, but he’d heard the guy had a big reputation with women.
He’d been a marine, so Skye’s leg wouldn’t be a problem. Hell, it wouldn’t be a problem for any man with half a brain.
A couple hours into the trip, Skye rested her head against the window and fell asleep. He tried not to wonder if she’d had as much trouble sleeping last night as he had.
He tried not to think of the night ahead. Beekman’s phone still pinged off a cell tower near Chamaya. They’d be setting up operations in a motel somewhere in the area. One room or two? That was the question. He’d let her make the decision. And prayed it was the one he wanted.
* * *
With Edge driving, they made the 310-mile journey to Chamaya in under five hours. A couple of pit stops and a drive-through food run at a Mickey D’s added another twenty minutes. They came in from the north via NM-17 and drove down Main Street, basically all there was to the tiny town.
The old Hotel Chamaya dominated one block, a two-story wooden, false-fronted structure with a balcony running the length of the second floor. The place looked like it came right out of an old western movie. Down a ways, there was a co-op called the Chamaya Mall made up of vendor stalls.
Other businesses included the Evergreen Book Store and Thrift Shop, a grocery store attached to an Ace Hardware, a Family Dollar store, and a Speedway convenience store and gas station. For food, there was a pizza parlor, Jose’s Tacos, Josephine’s Espresso and Bakery, the Chamaya Café, the Buckhorn Bar and Grill, and the Franklin Family Diner.
A couple of motels sat along NM-17 at the edge of town, but Skye had booked one of the cabins at a place called the Antlers Lodge, which was west of town on Highway 84. Beekman’s phone continued to ping in that area. It was just a matter of tracking the signal down.
First, they wanted to get settled in.
Edge pulled up to the manager’s office. Skye went inside and got the key to their cabin, one of only five, from a grizzled old man named Charlie, who walked her back out to the truck and introduced himself.
“Nice to meet ya,” Charlie said to Edge through the rolled-down pickup window, his thin white hair wafting in the breeze. “You’re in cabin five. Best we got. It’s just down yonder.”
He pointed toward the wooden building at the end of the row, farthest away from the road. “Got nice views off the porch toward the mountains. Two bedrooms, so there’s plenty of room, and a wood-burning stove. Got a kitchen, fully equipped. If you need anything else, just come see me.”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Edge said, still contemplating the fact Skye had booked a cabin with two bedrooms.
They unloaded their gear from the truck and went inside. The cabin was neat and clean, the kitchen compact but, as Charlie had said, fully operational. The sight of a coffeepot on the counter next to the sink was the best news yet.
“Let’s see if Zoe has any updates,” Edge said. “Then we’ll go to the grocery store and buy a couple days’ worth of supplies. If Zoe can find the exact location of Beekman’s cell, we can head out there tonight and take a look.”
“Sounds good.”
Edge watched her haul her carry-on into one of the bedrooms. It took every ounce of will not to follow, toss his canvas bag up on the bed in the same room. Instead, he stood in the doorway looking like a fool, hoping for an invitation that never came.
A disappointed breath whispered out. Turning, he carried his gear bag into the other bedroom, then returned to the living room.
“Decent place,” he said, surveying a dark brown sofa and chair with tan and burnt-orange throw pillows.
“Plenty of room to set up,” Skye said. They both had laptops, iPads, comms, and weaponry, including guns and tactical vests, and gear for colder weather. The altitude here was 7,800 feet, a high mountain valley surrounded by craggy, pine-covered peaks. The days were still warm, but the nights could drop into the twenties.
They were just about finished getting organized when Skye’s cell phone rang.
“It’s Zoe.” Putting the phone on speaker, she set it on the round pine kitchen table.
“I’ve got something for you,” Zoe said.
“You’ve pinged Beekman’s final location,” Edge guessed, hoping he was right.
“Sorry, he’s dropped off the grid. No cell service as of the past half hour. His last location was about ten miles west of Chamaya. But I’ve got something almost as good. I’ve found a connection between Sunstar and a corporation called Orion Properties, Inc. Dig deep enough, plow through enough companies owned by other companies, you come up with two names that appear in both ownership chains—an attorney named Carl Wisen and a CPA named Oscar Andreyev. They’re both located in Las Vegas.”
