John took out a tin of Altoids and popped several into his mouth, savoring the piquant tang. “Shame,” John said. “Colson isn’t their kind of town. Not big enough to get lost in the crowd. Not small enough for true isolation.”
“I don’t need a shell to tell me something big is going on.”
John gave a slight nod. “Too bad Colson wasn’t built elsewhere.” He offered Fernando an Altoid.
“No thanks,” he said. “Unless you’re hinting that I need one.”
John put the tin away.
“I suppose this is where I take my leave,” Fernando said, handing John the keys to the car. “I noticed that my payment is already in my account.”
“You have a good reputation. Where are you off to now?”
“A job in Cordoba.”
“Argentina? Good beef down there, if you know where to look.”
“I usually know where to look.”
“That’s why you make the big bucks,” John quipped.
“Something like that. Tonight’s chore should go well if you approach your target discreetly. Keep to the shadows.”
“I always do,” John said.
Fernando paused. “I hope you never come after me,” he said. “Just send me a postcard and I’ll turn myself in.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Do they ever see you coming?”
“Rarely. Colson may be different. They’ll be on the lookout after tonight.”
“Happy hunting,” Fernando said with a two-fingered salute. “Watch your back.”
“Watch yours.”
Fernando climbed into the gray sedan and drove out of the parking lot. John entered the Buick, relieved as he cranked it up that the engine sounded healthier than the weathered exterior had led him to expect.
John followed the route on the map until he reached the outskirts of town, where buildings became scarce. Ridgeline Way wound around the shoulder of a hill, and his destination drew near. An abandoned quarry. Why was his work always taking him to abandoned quarries and deserted mines and seedy inner city bars? He needed a new occupation, a job that would entail extended visits to lazy tropical beaches and quaint woodland cottages.
Just over a mile from his destination, John pulled the Buick onto the shoulder of the road. If his targets were keeping a sharp lookout, they might have noticed the car heading up the road and seen the headlights go dark. Not probable, but he preferred to be ready for all contingencies.
Getting out of the car, John rummaged through the trunk, selecting gear. Handcuffs. Tear gas. A tranquilizer gun. A vial of neurotoxin. Four straitjackets. Among other things.
Taking a final peek at the map, John set off up the street. Another lonely road in the middle of the night. Not unsettling, except that it felt so familiar. Alone in the dark, he was at home.
His eyes adjusted until the moonlight seemed bright. The upkeep on the road was poor. Too many potholes. He reached an intersection where a dirt road branched out from Ridgeline. John stepped off the asphalt and paralleled the dirt road, treading silently through the brush, choosing a circuitous route in order to keep himself concealed.
After walking for several minutes, John peered into the quarry. Industry had transformed the side of the hill into a stony amphitheater. Below the chiseled cliffs sat a dilapidated school bus. John might have assumed it was derelict had he not known that Samson Wells had come to town earlier that evening. The rundown bus made for a shabby lair, but a lair nonetheless. Only a fool willingly entered the lair of a magician. But this lair was temporary—the defenses were limited. John would flush him out.
The guards posed a problem. Not unexpected, but still troublesome. John crept along the edge of the quarry until he ascertained that two guards stood watch, one at either end of the bus.
He would have to subdue them delicately. A sloppy attack would not suffice. John could not afford to seriously harm the guards, the consequence of an unusual condition he had dealt with for decades.
Due to a powerful curse placed on him years ago, John himself suffered any direct injury he inflicted on another. If he broke someone’s leg, his leg broke. If he knocked someone out, he went to sleep. If he killed a person, he would die. So finesse was always required.
One guard was tall and stocky, his face lightly pockmarked, his brown hair tied back in a ponytail. He held a wooden baseball bat. The other was a Vietnamese woman—young, short, and slim. No visible weapons. John had met Samson Wells once, and was generally familiar with his reputation, but had no idea what abilities these two apprentices might possess.