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But Grace resigned. Now she has all of her brains and expertise and no federal bureaucracy cramping her.”
    “She’s good for you,” Rand said, surprising both of them. “The last time you came after me, we ended up brawling.”
    Faroe smiled like a choirboy. “Yeah, she’s knocked off some of my rough edges.”
    Rand gave the other man a long look. “You’ve still got plenty to go.”
    “Makes your heart warm, doesn’t it.”
    Shaking his head, Rand gave in. “What do you want?”
    “St. Kilda has found the Siberian.”
    Rand went completely still. Then his heart slammed and his senses sharpened to the point of pain, the hunter fully in control for the first time in years. He’d searched long and hard for his twin’s murderer, only to be frustrated by failed states and stonewalled by his own government.
    “You’re certain?” Rand asked.
    “Very. You still have the negatives?”
    “Yes.”
    Faroe waited.
    Rand started gathering up his painting supplies. “My cabin is just through the trees. We’ll talk there.”

8
    Pleasure Valley
Friday
10:37 A.M. MST
    K ayla Shaw let the silence expand as she looked at the Bertones. She was a ranch girl, born and raised. She rode, she shot, she killed her own snakes with the little folding knife she always carried.
    But she had a cold feeling that Bertone was way beyond her varmint-killing skills.
    It’s too late to worry about your job. Worry about your freedom instead.
    And with that, Bertone had pocketed her little recorder.
    She hadn’t asked for it back. She knew she wouldn’t get it.
    “I do believe that’s as silent as I’ve ever heard our little banker be,” Bertone said after a time, smiling at his wife.
    Elena’s smile was meant to comfort Kayla.
    It didn’t.
    “There’s no need to be frightened,” Elena said casually. She tapped the heavy letter-size envelope that Kayla had dropped. “This is a great opportunity for you. Every woman needs her own independent means. This is how you’ll become free.”
    Silently Kayla watched the Bertones. She sensed that the less she said, the less she’d sink into the quicksand that suddenly had appeared beneath her feet.
    Andre sat down next to Kayla and laid a large, plain brown envelope on the white linen tablecloth.
    “You become free,” Bertone said, “or you lose your freedom. The choice is yours.”
    Kayla swallowed and hoped her voice sounded less frightened than she was. “What choice?”
    “Quite simple. You’re a felon.”
    “What?”
    “Whether you suffer or avoid the consequences of being a felon,” Bertone continued, “is your choice.”
    “I haven’t done anything,” Kayla said.
    Bertone smiled. It wasn’t a gesture of reassurance. “You concealed the origins of five million dollars in dirty money.”
    Unable to force any more words from her throat, Kayla could only shake her head.
    “Trust me,” he said, laughing at the irony. “The money was dirty. You laundered it. According to your ridiculous government, that’s worth up to ten years in federal prison.”
    “All I’ve done is provide you and your wife with routine banking services,” Kayla said hoarsely.
    Bertone stroked his fingers over the brown envelope. “You opened several accounts at American Southwest for my lovely wife’s art-oriented activities, correct?”
    Adrenaline rushed through Kayla, thawing the ice in her throat, her gut. “That’s what I’m paid to do—open accounts.”
    “And you’ve accepted numerous deposits from our Aruba and Barbados banks to replenish those accounts,” Bertone said.
    “Only when Elena had unusually large bills.” Kayla looked atElena. The woman was sipping coffee and thumbing through the society pages.
    “Don’t forget the Russian paintings I bought for Andre’s birthday a few months ago,” Elena said without looking up. “The sum was several millions of dollars. Five, in fact.”
    “You paid what the gallery charged,” Kayla said. “Way too much, in my