“I don’t remember either.”
It was true: she was just the same. Michael felt a frisson of attraction. Her power had not abated.
He leaned back in his chair, balanced the tips of his fingers together, and said, “You have a major delivery to the Kerrville depot scheduled in five days. Add that to what’s in the storage tanks, I’m figuring you’ve got somewhere in the neighborhood of eighty thousand gallons.”
Lore shrugged indifferently.
“So I should take that as a yes?”
“You should take it up your ass, actually.”
“I’m going to find out anyway.”
She sighed. “Okay, fine. Yes, eighty thousand, more or less. Does that satisfy you?”
“Good. I’m going to need it all.”
Lore cocked her head. “I beg your pardon?”
“With twenty tanker trucks, I’m thinking we can move it all in just under six days. After that, we’ll release your people. No harm, no foul. You’ve got my word.”
Lore was staring at him. “Move it where? What the hell do you need eighty thousand gallons for?”
Ah.
—
The tanker trucks were being loaded; the first convoy would be ready to move by 0900. For Michael, five days of looking at his watch, yelling at everyone: Hurry the hell up.
One wrinkle, maybe small, maybe not. When Weir’s men had stormed the communications hut, the radio operator had been in the midst of sending a message. There was no way to know what it was, because the man was dead—the morning’s only fatality.
“How the hell did that happen?”
Weir shrugged. “Lombardi thought he had a weapon. It looked like he was drawing on us.”
The weapon was a stapler.
“Have any messages come in since?” Michael asked, thinking, Lombardi, of course it would be you, you trigger-happy asshole.
“Nothing so far.”
Michael cursed himself. The man’s death was regrettable, but that wasn’t the true source of his anger. They should have taken out the radio first. A stupid mistake, probably not the first.
“Get on the horn,” he said, then thought the better of it. “No, wait until twelve hundred. That’s when they expect the refinery to check in.”
“What should I tell them?”
“ ‘Sorry, we shot the radio operator. He was waving office supplies at us.’ ”
Weir just looked at him.
“I don’t know, something normal. ‘Everything’s peachy, how are you, isn’t it a nice day?’ ”
The man hurried away. Michael walked to the Humvee, where Lore was waiting in the backseat. Rand was handcuffing her to the safety rail.
“You should take somebody else with you,” Rand said.
Michael accepted the key to the cuffs and got in the cab. He glanced at Lore through the mirror. “You promise to be good or do you need a babysitter?”
“The man you shot. His name was Cooley. The guy wouldn’t squash a bug.”
Michael looked at Rand. “I’ll be fine. Just get that diesel moving.”
—
The drive to the channel took three hours. Lore barely uttered a word, and Michael made no effort to draw her out. It had been a hard morning for her—the end of a career, the death of a friend, a public humiliation—all at the hands of a man she had every reason to despise. She needed time to adjust, especially considering the things Michael was about to tell her.
They passed through the wires and made their way down the causeway. He brought the truck to a halt behind the machine shed at the edge of the quay. From here, the Bergensfjord wasn’t visible. He wanted a grand unveiling.
“So why am I here?”
Michael opened Lore’s door and unlocked her wrists. As she climbed out of the Humvee, he withdrew his sidearm and held it out to her.
“What’s this?”
“A gun, obviously.”
“And you’re giving it to me?”
“You get to pick. Shoot me, take the truck, you’ll be back in Kerrville by nightfall. Stay, and you’ll know what this is all about. But there are rules.”
Lore said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow.
“Rule one is you can’t leave unless I allow it. You’re not a prisoner, you’re one of us. Once I tell you what’s happening, you’ll see the necessity. Rule two is I’m in charge. Speak your mind, but never question me in front of my men.”
She was looking at him as if he’d lost all sense. Still, the offer had to be made; the woman had to choose.