The Starshine Connection by Buck Sanders Read Free Book Online

than most introductory exchanges, though—the cop references were the only recurring theme. The sentences were so nonsensical
     that they could not be faked.
    “Cops steal too, darlin’.”
    “No, cops don’t steal,” Anna said. Slayton could hear the mocking tone in her voice and realized she thought this whole game
     was stupid. “Cops
cop.”
He suddenly wondered if he wasn’t being set up. It would not be beyond someone as mercurial as Anna.
    As she spoke, she extended a white envelope, which the man accepted. Slayton had watched her pack the envelope with hundred-dollar
     bills less than an hour earlier. She had been naked when she did it, sitting primly in a desk chair back in the suite. Wordlessly,
     the dude in the racing jacket returned to the Trans-Am.
    Slayton noticed that the windows of the Trans-Am were heavily mirrored all around, but he could still make out a green glow
     of dashboard lights inside. Total silence. Nothing happened as the men inside counted and reassured themselves. More time
     clicked off. Slayton was used to this sort of stake-out, and conditioned himself to such waits to insure he would not fall
     victim to unexpected problems like leg cramps, from freezing in a single position for long periods of time. He could wait
     as long as the guy in the racing jacket needed.
    The door opened again, and the man returned to Anna’s car wordlessly. She rolled the window down a second time. The man nodded,
     and she acknowledged him.
    Another stage completed.
    He moved to the trunk of the Trans-Am as it yawned silently open, unlatched, apparently, by the driver of the car. The man
     approached and the trunk opened like the door on a haunted house—by itself.
    From inside the man hefted a box, and at that moment everyone present had one thing in common: they all knew what was inside.
    The only people who did not know what was going on were the two Treasury agents parked in a black Mustang a block and a half
     away. They had been special-requested by Slayton, and their job was to follow the Trans-Am, to report on its destination.
    “And this is important,” Slayton had added over the phone. “No arrests, no problems. Stay with them and don’t give yourselves
     away. You don’t even exist. When they stop, find out where. From there, I’ll handle it.”
    So far everything was touchy but satisfactory. The man lugged the box to the garage and placed it on the floor next to the
     Targa, where Anna could see it. Slayton noted that the box was sealed, as if for shipping. It looked innocuous as hell.
    The man turned on his heel and the Trans-Am burst into powerful life as he returned to it. The bars of brake lights flashed
     once before the auto screeched away a little too enthusiastically, leaving brief black tire-marks on the pavement in front
     of the garage. When it had vanished—though the sounds of the pilot’s power-shifting could still be heard in the distance—the
     garage door glided automatically down and everything faded to black inside.
    The interior lights of the Targa did little to dispel the darkness as Anna got out.
    “There’s the spoils, honeybunch,” she said. “Happy now?”
    “I’ll let you know in a couple of days,” Slayton said, emerging from his hiding place.
    “I don’t really know what I’ll do with that much,” she said, eyeing the box. “I mean, after what you were telling me about
     it. But I’ve had loads—I’ve never done anything like that halfway, and if you don’t know that, you should have guessed by
     now.”
    “Some people are sensitive to its negative effects. That doesn’t mean all people. You lucked out.”
    “True, babe. Let’s go back upstairs?”
    Slayton snorted a little laugh. “It’s almost sunup.”
    Her eyes went hard and black. “I didn’t ask you for the time.”
    “Just can’t get enough of this tired old body?”
    “Something like that,” she grinned, her arm snaking its way around his waist, leading him away from