might give to an ant farm. He handed a small digital recorder to the closest guard. “If he starts talking, record it with this.”
“What about him?” the guard asked as he nodded toward the cell across from Cole’s.
Fixing Lambert with a cold stare, Waylon replied, “He’s still under observation. Observe him. As for you,” he said to Cole, “you’re in our custody on a temporary basis. Whether you’re handed back to the authorities as a cop killer or allowed to slip through the cracks after you’re reported as having killed yourself while in custody is up to you.”
“That motherfucker tore my fucking throat out!” Chop roared.
Waylon, as well as the rest of the guards, locked everything back up to how it was supposed to be and left Cole with the cuffs around his wrists. The sound of the elevator doors opening mixed with the crackle of a stun gun. After that, Chop didn’t have anything else to say.
“Jesus,” Cole groaned once the hallway was clear. “This is the strangest life I’ve ever known.”
“The great James Morrison of the even greater Doors,” Lambert said. “Great music. Genius lyrics.”
“You listen to the Doors?”
“What? You think I’m just some token Mexican who only digs Santana?”
“Didn’t even know you were Mexican.”
“I’ve got true soul, man. All music flows through me.”
After Cole lowered himself onto his bunk and curled into an aching ball, he was serenaded by an off-key rendition of “L.A. Woman.” Without Chop in his cell to terrorize him, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the concert.
Chapter Six
Canadian-U.S. border
Ten miles west of Niagara Falls
After renting a cheap room in Toronto and resting there overnight with her Beretta grafted into her hand, Paige was more nervous about crossing the border than she was about stealing the car she’d used to do it. In that time, she’d cleaned up her arm well enough to find less damage than she’d been expecting. The muscle tissue was scraped and gouged, but was still solid enough to function. A few injections of healing serum from the kit strapped around her ankle did a good enough job to get her on the right track. She wasn’t one hundred percent, but could barely remember what that felt like anymore.
The vehicle she’d stolen was a little blue Toyota Tercel missing a taillight, several loops of electrical cord holding the rear bumper in place. The shabby exterior matched an engine that rattled noisily under the hood in what could very well be its last hurrah. Whoever the previous owner was, they were probably glad to be rid of the heap and collect the insurance. When she pulled up to the border crossing station, Paige was concerned that she might not be able to get the car moving again. An even bigger concern was that her friend in uniform had already met with the same lying little prick who had turned Rico against her.
“Hey, Mike, it’s me again,” she said with a tired smile.
Wearing his fifty-plus years on a face that was weather-beaten and scarred by three jagged grooves running all the way down his left cheekbone, Mike smiled and waved away the other Border Patrol officer who started to approach the car. “Back so soon? Usually you guys spend a little more time to get to know a place.”
“Things went better than normal,” Paige told him. “Just headed home.”
“Where’s Rico?”
Mike wouldn’t have made a great spy. That much was certain. On the few occasions she’d needed to get into Canada, he’d been extremely helpful in either waving her through or arranging for one of his friends to let another Skinner pass somewhere else along the border. He’d made several calls to help Gerald into the Great White North, and was the one to grease the wheels for Cole to reenter the States after Gerald and Brad were killed. None of those things made it any easier for her to tighten her grip around the Beretta hidden beneath the flap of her jacket.
“He had to stay behind,” she told him, while praying that he didn’t know anything more than a retired trucker and ex-Marine who’d been jumped by a Yeti in the Adirondacks should know. “Cleanup stuff. You know the drill.”
Mike let out a tired breath and nodded as if he was simply praising the fact that Mondays were indeed the worst. “Yeah. I hear that. Should I expect him soon?”
“Not sure.” Before his experienced eyes picked up on something that might delay her any further, she faced forward and set her sights