Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Author's Note: In "Flying Down to Rio", Hardcastle decides to pursue Peter Avery down to the island paradise of San Rio Blanco. Mark, having already nearly lost the Coyote in a flaming encounter with the ex-CIA agent turned illegal arms dealer, is reluctant but finally agrees after the judge applies some pressure. Once there, they observe Avery doing business and break into his import company's warehouse to retrieve evidence. Avery decides the judge must go. He gets the local constabulary to set him up and then arrest him for drug possession.

But what about Mark?

The Highest Bidder

by L.M. Lewis

McCormick: You know judge, I don't care if he graduated from Harvard, and I don't care if he speaks six languages. What I do care about is that he was in the CIA for fifteen years. That means he can kill you a hundred different ways with a paper clip.

Hardcastle: No . . . fifty maybe. (Scene 4:"Flying Down to Rio")

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Mark had been all in favor of catching the next plane out of San Rio even before he and Hardcastle had busted into that warehouse and nailed the evidence that might convict Avery. Not that he had much faith in the legal system in that island paradise. Mark figured Avery had a good reason for basing his import business there, besides the pina coladas and the nice scenery.

No, the gun and the paperwork they'd recovered from Avery's warehouse would probably sit in some evidence lock-up somewhere while San Rio's wheels of justice remained solidly rusted. But in the meantime he and Hardcastle would be winging their way back to LA, where the rules of the game were a little more clearly defined.

Mark exited the elevator and strolled across the lobby, stepping aside in the doorway to avoid being run over by a pair of grim-looking khaki-clad local cops on their way in. He couldn't help it; he still felt a shudder of relief whenever a cop ignored him. He shook his head and then ducked it down. Striding along determinedly, he dove one hand into his pocket and pulled out the keys to the rental car.

He turned right, into the dim coolness of the enclosed parking structure, heading toward the elevator there. He was thinking about Aggie Wainwright—and why on earth he thought it was his business to cultivate a romantic interest for Hardcastle—as he poked the up button.

The door opened with a cheerful 'ding' and he stepped in, turning to face the front and . . . Peter Avery. Mark froze. The other man, looking no more threatening than any other rogue former CIA operative, had stepped aboard as well, and the elevator door slid silently shut behind him.

"Good afternoon, Mr. McCormick."

Avery's demeanor was more formal than hostile. At least he hadn't pulled out a paperclip or an umbrella. Mark supposed all the man really needed was his bare hands and the amount of time it would take the elevator to reach the third floor of the garage. That was the button Avery had pushed—the level where Mark had been headed as well.

McCormick didn't manage a smile, but he did come up with a rigid nod of acknowledgment. The elevator had arrived at its destination and he was, surprisingly, not dead yet. As the door opened Avery waved him past.

Mark was tempted to say, "After you," being reluctant to turn his back on the man for even a moment, but it seemed unwise to push his luck at this point. He stepped out.

"We need to talk," Avery said tersely. Mark felt his hand on his elbow—firmly directive.

"About what?" He was being guided toward a shadowy corner, over by the stairwell.

"Your future," Avery said with an icy smile.

Mark gave a brief thought to how long it would be before Hardcastle finished throwing their clothes into the suitcases and came stomping out here looking for his wayward sidekick. He wondered if stalling would do any good. It seemed unlikely.

"Do I have one?" he asked. It had been a sudden, almost whimsical impulse, the kind that had gotten his chops busted a couple of times in San Quentin.

"I think that's up to you," Avery said solemnly. "You've chosen a hazardous profession, you know."

"I didn't exactly choose it." Mark couldn't help the sigh that accompanied that assessment. "Some people kind of get it thrust on them, if you know what I mean."

"Well, so I'd heard."

Avery's expression had gone somewhat thoughtful. Mark found himself staring in astonishment. Then he broke off from that suddenly, thinking it might all be a form of distraction right before the paper clip came out.

"Gotta get the car," he gestured vaguely back toward the vehicle. "We're heading home—out of your hair and everything," Mark assured. "He's got a whole file cabinet of other guys to harass, you know. No point in hanging around here." He smiled inanely and tried to step away.

Avery's grip on his elbow tightened with surprising strength. "You haven't even heard my offer yet," the man hissed.

"If 'no' is one of the options, I think I'll go with that," Mark said nervously.

Avery cracked a half-smile that looked even more dangerous than his previous expression.

"I know quite a bit about you, Mr. McCormick."

Mark raised one eyebrow. "That's . . . nice."

"It's my training, you know. Old habits die hard."

Mark noticed he'd put a slight emphasis on the "die" but since Avery hadn't made any overtly threatening gestures yet, it seemed prudent to simply play along for now.

He swallowed once, hard. "I hope it made for interesting reading, my permanent record."

"Interesting?" Avery's smile broadened slightly. "Yes, I suppose you could say that. "And then I got to see a little of your talent last week in LA. You certainly had my full attention there for a few minutes."

"You got lucky with that gas spill," Mark pointed out. Hardcastle had warned him about his tendency to mouth-off but he couldn't help it sometimes.

Avery didn't seem to be annoyed at the remark. He merely shrugged nonchalantly, still smiling.

"Which brings me to the matter at hand."

The man's tone had become more intense and Mark felt himself tightening up again.

"You know San Rio is like a second home to me. I have many contacts here—men in high places. Some of them are involved in the local racing scene. You're familiar with the Caribbean Circuit?"

Mark nodded once, warily.

"You know there's no extradition treaty between San Rio and the U.S.?"

Mark said nothing.

"That means, of course, that the minute you set foot on the ground here, whatever hold Judge Hardcastle and the State of California had over you was basically null and void."

"Not exactly," Mark said reasonably. "It might be unenforceable here, yes, but it would still be waiting for me, if I ever tried to set foot in the States again."

"But why would you?" Avery smiled. "You have no family. Your recent career arc has been . . . well, shall we just say it's been less than spectacular? Every month you spend fetching and carrying for Hardcastle is another nail in your professional coffin. You could get a fresh start in San Rio—and with my contacts and expertise, you wouldn't even be limited to here."

"And why should I believe you'd make all this happen?"

Avery took no apparent offense at the question. He spread his hands, palms up. "Let's just say I'm a businessman. I've seen you in action twice, now. No question; you've got what it takes. If you can drive like that when people are shooting at you, I don't think there's much doubt that you can handle the pressure on the track."

"So this has nothing to do with Hardcase?"

Avery shrugged. "I won't deny that throwing a wrench into his plans would be the frosting on the cake."

"That's all you want to do," Mark pushed a little harder, "just steal his talent and thumb your nose at him?"

Avery's expression stayed fixed. Of course he'd had fifteen years of practice. Mark had hardly expected the guy would blink. Then, unexpectedly, the man cleared his throat. Mark felt himself twitch but Avery ignored it.

"I can understand your hesitance," the man said smoothly. "There's the matter of the car. I imagine it means a great deal to you."

That hadn't been the reason why Mark wasn't jumping at the offer, but now that it had come up, he added it to the list with a sense of guilt over his absentmindedness.

"And you think that by staying here, you'd forfeit your ownership of it."

Mark swallowed hard again, still wondering how the hell the Coyote had managed to slip his mind.

Avery had turned slightly and sidled up to him, in an avuncular way that was decidedly creepy. Mark tried not to flinch as the man's hand descended onto his shoulder.

"I've taken all that into account," Avery said quietly. "You'll find I'm very thorough. The vehicle is still involved in the probate system, it appears. All you need to do is inform Ms. Johnson of your decision to stay here in San Rio and advise her to reattach the Coyote to her father's estate. She inherits, and then my contacts in California can ship the car here."

Mark's brain had frozen at the mention of Barbara's name. Not that his recent history—or his friendship with her—was any sort of secret, but the notion that Avery had taken an interest in all that was frightening. So far, though, the man was beaming at him like Santa on a bender. It was left to Mark's imagination to see the potential threat that lay beneath every promise. But they were there, and it didn't seem prudent at this point to be ungrateful.

"Sounds . . . interesting," he temporized.

"And once the car is here," Avery went on, laying the rose-colored paint on everything, "you can put it to use in some demo races. Get the right people interested and both you and Ms. Johnson could end up the very happy partners in a production program."

Mark forced a smile. He managed a nod of sorts. Part of him could even imagine such an outcome. He knew the Coyote was as good as Flip had said. It was only the shadow of her father's death that had made Barb unwilling to pursue its development. If he could talk to her, persuade her—

He startled, suddenly back in the here-and-now. This was Peter Avery. He couldn't be trusted.

That thought almost immediately led him to the inverse corollary which could be summed up in two words: unlike Hardcastle. He wasn't exactly sure where that had come from, or even if it was relevant at the moment, since Hardcase was up on the third floor of the hotel blithely throwing clothes into a suitcase.

He thought a paper clip might have been more humane. Avery dangling a juicy red apple, backed by the unspoken threat of harm—to him more than likely, and to Barbara quite possibly—was cruel and unusual punishment. On top of everything else he had to convince the man he might be interested, without actually going anywhere with him.

"You understand I still don't trust you," Mark said. It was a perfectly logical thing to say to someone like Avery. Anyone who trusted him out of hand was either naïve or foolhardy.

Avery nodded. "Of course."

"And I'd have to check some things out—that no-extradition business."

"Naturally. Hardcastle didn't mention that to you, eh?"

He had, actually. In fact it had been in the file Hardcase had practically force-fed him. The idea that it applied to him as well as Avery had only flitted briefly though his mind back in LA. Hardcastle wasn't careless; he was exceptionally attentive to details, which meant he hadn't considered that there was any risk in Mark knowing that particular fact.

Mark frowned. Avery was actually stepping away. Could it be as easy as that? Was the guy actually going to let him out of his sight?

"Think about it," Avery said pleasantly. "But remember, it's a limited-time offer. I'll only be here one more day. If you turn your back on this deal, I guarantee you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

Which might be shorter than you think. Mark tried not to let his frown deepen. He forced himself to relax. He nodded once in unspoken acknowledgment and even turned his back on the man, trying to keep his pace down to an unworried stroll.

At the last moment he paused and swung around—slow and loose so as not to appear a threat.

"Where can I reach you?"

Avery flashed a smile. "The penthouse suite, this hotel. Stick with me and you'll raise your standards, too. Why don't you give it some thought down in the bar? I gave them your name. You can put it on my tab."

Mark nodded again. It was neither a yes or a no. His relief at getting away unscathed was almost immediately swallowed up in a wash of confusion. Why the hell had he even thought of that last question, let alone voiced it out loud? He wasn't actually considering jumping ship.

It was just part of the act—

But it was over; he was letting you walk away.

Mark frowned to himself. He was past the elevator and risked another glance back. Avery was already gone, probably into the stairwell. Mark shook his head as he approached the rental car. He frowned at it, too, then crouched down on the concrete and took a cautious and thorough look at the undercarriage.

This was nonsense, he realized. Why would Avery have bothered with that whole song and dance if his intention was to blow him up? He put the key in the lock and twisted it decisively. This was how it would be, he realized, for as long as Avery was on the loose and Hardcastle insisted on pursuing him—every turn of a key was a possible death sentence.

And why was it that he felt guilty for even considering deserting Hardcase? What if Avery could make something good happen for Barbara and him? Didn't they deserve a break?

He settled into the driver's seat and put the key in the ignition. The engine turned over, nothing more. He started breathing again. He hadn't really been all that worried. Avery might be crazy, but he was a businessman; he'd take the path of least resistance, and this time that path meant buying off a threat rather than blowing it up.

He grimaced as he backed the car out of its space. It had a slimy sound to it—being bought off. He didn't have all that much left. He completely understood that he was damaged goods—an ex-con, a has-been race-car driver—but he hadn't sold out yet.

Oh yes you did—to Hardcase.

The grimace flattened out into something even grimmer. Was that what he'd done? He followed the downward concrete spiral to the exit, contemplating the nature of compromise. If a guy was forced to sell out, shouldn't he at least go to the highest bidder?

He blinked as the car emerged into the brightness of a baking hot San Rio afternoon and slammed on his brakes as some ditzy thing in a bathing suit wandered across his path. He still had his reflexes, his instincts.

And what was the first thing you thought about Avery's spiel?

Don't trust him.

He pulled the car into one of the temporary parking spots in the loading zone by the hotel's front entrance. He wasn't sure exactly why he did trust Hardcastle. All he knew for certain was that whatever crazy stuff the judge got him into, he would just as certainly get him out of . . . or die trying. It was that last little codicil that was the scary bit, but he supposed that was the part of the bargain that hadn't made it a sell-out.

He put the car into park and pulled the key out of the ignition. He climbed out, almost venturing a smile. He didn't think all his relief was the knowledge that in a few minutes they'd be on their way to the airport. He could always get Aggie's phone number from international directory assistance. It'd be fun to nag Hardcastle about it for a month or so.

He was smiling cheerfully now, as he sauntered into the hotel lobby.

The smile vanished. There were those two cops, with Hardcastle in handcuffs and pitching a fit about his constitutional rights—which he'd left behind in LA. The meaning of it all hit home with a sudden thud, even as Mark asked the stupid questions he already knew the answers to.

One thing was obvious; whatever Avery had or hadn't meant by his promises out in the garage, the man had a whole different proposition for Hardcase. The judge was shouting at him—something about calling the American embassy—as the cops hauled him off.

Mark stood there, helpless. He realized now what Avery had been hoping to accomplish. He distracted you while these guys put the move on Hardcastle. He'd been kept out of the way so the frame-up would go off without a hitch, and as a lucky bonus he was supposed to, right now, be stepping into the bar to give Avery's offer some serious consideration.

If he'd been a moment later he wouldn't even have known what the hell had happened. The judge might just have been another tourist gone missing on an island vacation. Mark turned and headed for the phones without considering any other options. The embassy, Ramirez even—whoever and whatever it would take to pry Hardcastle loose from Avery's clutches.

Whatever crazy stuff Hardcase got himself into, Mark knew it was definitely his job to get him out.