“By now they’re on the lookout for this vehicle,” he said.
Reyes reached to his chest and pulled on his limo driver’s uniform shirt. It ripped cleanly away, revealing another shirt underneath. Tearing at the tabs on his pants, he unleashed the pleats. “Sunglasses,” he said to Truitt, who handed them over the seat. He placed them over his eyes. At the same time, Huxley ripped the Velcro-attached legs off her leather pants and reached into a compartment in the rear of the limousine and removed a conservative skirt, which she slipped under herself and zipped up. Peeling off her false eyelashes, she took a plastic bag from Truitt and removed a wet cloth and scrubbed her face clean of the garish makeup.
“Looks like we’re good to go,” Truitt said.
Reyes pulled to the side of the road and the four climbed out. Walking through an alley, they made their way toward the Main Market and split into groups of two. Back on the street, the limousine sat running with the door open. A police officer would find it there in less than ten minutes. But the vehicle had been cleaned of clues and there would not be much to report.
CABRILLO touched the garage door opener halfway down the block and the door began to rise.
Once the van was inside and the door had shut again, everyone piled out. “They have descriptions of everyone by now,” he said quickly as he popped the top off a fifty-five-gallon drum containing their change of clothes and disguises, “so change fast and make an exit.”
Removing a folder from the top of the clothes, he set it aside and quickly dressed. Once he was changed, and the others were doing the same, he opened the packet and began to remove documents.
“A couple of you are staying in town tonight,” he said, removing passports and hotel reservation forms. “We don’t want too much traffic heading back to the Oregon. As always, the rule is no boozing, and stay where we can reach you so if there’s a change we can alert you.”
He handed out the various assignments, then stared at the group.
“So far so good,” he said, just as a siren approached.
Cabrillo ran over to a window, but the car continued past the building. “Fire truck,” he said. “Ross must be safely away.”
He walked back to the group. “Okay, men,” he said, “make like an egg and scramble.”
Filing out through a side door, the men went their separate ways.
PRYOR steered the Scarab around the end of the Southern Peninsula, then set a course for where the Oregon was anchored. Ross stepped into the opening between the seats next to the helm.
“How’s he doing?” Pryor asked over the noise of the racing boat.
“Not too good,” Ross said. “He’s lost some blood and the top of his ear as well.”
“Is he in pain?”
“Damn right, it hurts,” Reinholt said.
“We should contact the Oregon,” Pryor said, “so they can have the clinic ready.”
“We’re on radio silence,” Ross said. “The authorities might hear.”
Pryor turned and looked back at his fallen friend. Reinholt smiled gamely. “The Oregon’s monitoring all the frequencies, right?” he asked.
“Ground, sea and air,” Ross agreed.
“And we need to maintain silence on the marine bands.”
“Right.”
“But the helicopter can talk, because if it goes silent, air traffic control will know something’s up, right?”
“Yeah,” Ross said, suddenly understanding.
Pryor reached for the walkie-talkie on his belt. “These can sometimes transmit on the aviation bands.”
Ross grabbed for it and hit Scan. A few seconds later, a burgundy 737 passed overhead and Ross could hear the pilot receiving final clearance. Pressing Talk, she gave the call sign for the helicopter. A few moments before, he had landed and transferred Spenser and Crabtree to a waiting car. He had just returned to remove his headset when the call came in. Another two minutes and he would have been gone.
“Helicopter four-two, X-ray, Alpha,” he said, “go ahead.”
“Six-three, report one Indio,” Ross said over the roar of the boat’s engines.