Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty: Never Say Die / Presumed Guilty

“That’s hardly an answer.”

“Maybe at heart I’m still the Boy Scout helping old ladies cross the street. Maybe I’m a nice guy.”

“Maybe you could tell me the truth.”

“Have you always had this problem trusting men?”

“Yes, and don’t change the subject.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. He sat drumming his fingers against the beer bottle. “Okay,” he admitted. “So I fibbed a little. I was never a Boy Scout. But I meant it about helping you out. The offer stands.”

She didn’t say a thing. For Guy, that silence, that look of skepticism, said it all. The woman didn’t trust him. But why not, when he’d sounded his most sincere? He wondered what had made her so mistrustful. Too many hard knocks in life? Too many men who’d lied to her?

Well, watch out, baby, ’cause this one’s no different, he thought with a twinge of self-disgust.

He just as quickly shook off the feeling. The stakes were too high to be developing a conscience. Especially at his age.

Now he’d have to tell another lie. He’d been lying a lot lately. It didn’t get any easier.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m not doing this out of the kindness of my heart.”

She didn’t look surprised. That annoyed him. “What do you expect in return?” she asked, her eyes hard on his. “Money?” She paused. “Sex?”

That last word, flung out so matter-of-factly, made his belly do a tiny loop-the-loop. Not that he hadn’t already thought about that particular subject. He’d thought about it a lot ever since he’d met her. And now that she was sitting only a few feet away, watching him with those unyielding eyes, he was having trouble keeping certain images out of his head. Briefly he considered the possibility of throwing a little sex into the deal, but he just as quickly discarded the idea. He felt low enough as it was.

He calmly reached for the Heineken. The frostiness had gone out of the bottle. “No,” he said. “Sex isn’t part of the bargain.”

“I see.” She bit her lip. “Then it’s money.”

He gave a nod.

“I think you should know that I don’t have any. Not for you, anyway.”

“It’s not your money I’m after.”

“Then whose?”

He paused, willing his expression to remain bland. His voice dropped to a murmur. “Have you ever heard of the Ariel Group?”

“Never.”

“Neither had I. Until two weeks ago, when I was contacted by two of their representatives. They’re a veterans’ organization, dedicated to bringing our MIAs home—alive. Even if it means launching a Rambo operation.”

“I see,” she said, her lips tightening. “We’re talking about paramilitary kooks.”

“That’s what I thought—at first. I was about to kick ’em out of my office when they pulled out a check—a very generous one, I might add. Twenty thousand. For expenses, they said.”

“Expenses? What are they asking you to do?”

“A little moonlighting. They knew I was scheduled to fly in-country. They wanted me to conduct a small, private search for MIAs. But they aren’t interested in skeletons and dog tags. They’re after flesh and blood.”

“Live ones? You don’t really think there are any, do you?”

“They do. And they only have to produce one. A single living MIA to back up their claims. With the publicity that’d generate, Washington would be forced to take action.”

He fell silent as the waiter came by to collect the empty beer bottles. Only when the man had left did Willy ask softly, “And where do I come in?”

“It’s not you. It’s your father. From what you’ve told me, there’s a chance—a small one, to be sure—that he’s still alive. If he is, I can help you find him. I can help you bring him home.”

His words, uttered so quietly, so confidently, made Willy fall still. Guy could tell she was trying to read his face, trying to figure out what he wasn’t telling her. And he wasn’t telling her a lot.

“What do you get out of this?” she asked.

“You mean besides the pleasure of your company?”

“You said there was money involved. Since I’m not paying you, I assume someone else is. The Ariel Group? Are they offering you more than just expenses?”

“Move to the head of the class.”

“How much?”

“For an honest to God live one? Two million.”

“Two million dollars?”

He squeezed her hand, hard. “Keep it down, will you? This isn’t exactly public information.”

She dropped her voice to a whisper. “You’re serious? Two million?”

“That’s their offer. Now you think about my offer. Work with me, and we could both come out ahead. You’d get your father back. I’d pick up a nice little retirement fund. A win-win situation.” He grinned, knowing he had her now. She’d be stupid to refuse. And Willy Maitland was definitely not stupid. “I think you’ll agree,” he said. “It’s a match made in heaven.”

“Or hell,” she muttered darkly. She sat back and gave him a look of pure cast iron. “You’re nothing but a bounty hunter.”

“If that’s what you want to call me.”

“I could call you quite a few things. None of them flattering.”

“Before you start calling me names, maybe you should think about your options. Which happen to be pretty limited. The way I see it, you can go it alone, which so far hasn’t gotten you a helluva lot of mileage. Or—” he leaned forward and beamed her his most convincing smile “—you could work with me.”

Her mouth tightened. “I don’t work with mercenaries.”

“What’ve you got against mercenaries?”

“Just a minor matter—principle.”

“It’s the money that bothers you, isn’t it? The fact that I’m doing it for cash and not out of the goodness of my heart.”

“This isn’t some big-game hunt! We’re talking about men. Men whose families have wiped out their savings to pay worthless little Rambos like you! I know those families. Some of them are still hanging in, twisting around on that one shred of hope. And you know as well as I do that those soldiers aren’t sitting around in some POW camp, waiting to be rescued. They’re dead.”