Читать книгу Patriot Strike - Don Pendleton - Страница 12

Chapter 4

“You blew that guy away like it was nothing,” Adlene Granger said.

“You saw him,” Bolan answered. “He was suffering.”

“So that was mercy?”

“Partly.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll agree we couldn’t help him, right? And who knows when the first responders might arrive.”

“We could have called it in anonymously.”

“Then what? If they saved him, what comes next? You want him talking to police, or to whoever sent him and his buddies after you?”

“How do I know that they weren’t after you?” she challenged.

Bolan ticked the points off on his fingers. “First, nobody knows me here. Second, there’s no way they could know who was specifically coming to meet with you. Third, the Yukon had a set of Texas plates and wasn’t rented. Fourth—”

“All right, I get it.”

They were rolling north on Dwyer Avenue, circling back toward Alamo Plaza and Granger’s car, left in the parking lot when they had ducked the shooters there. Taking their time, they might have been returning from a late date, taking in a movie.

Or a massacre.

“Okay, so someone set me up.” Her voice was grim.

“Not necessarily,” Bolan replied.

“How’s that?”

“Did you tell anyone about our meeting?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then no one could have leaked it. They’ve been trailing you. You missed it. These things happen.”

“Trailing me. Damn it!”

“They obviously knew your brother. Maybe they had time to check his cell phone after he was—”

“Killed. Go on.”

“But even if they didn’t, you’re a logical connection. Sister, law enforcement, who else would he talk to?”

“No one.”

“What’s your next move?” Bolan asked her.

“Try to stay alive, I guess. How’s that?”

“When are you back on duty?”

“After Jerod’s funeral. I’m on bereavement leave.”

“About the funeral...”

“Oh, God. Don’t tell me.”

“It’s the first place that they’d look for you, after your home.”

“God damn it! So, I can’t go home and can’t bury my brother? That’s just frickin’ great!”

“You can report what’s happened. See about protective custody.”

“For life? Get serious. You’re only here because I couldn’t trust the locals or my own department.”

“What, then?” Bolan asked.

“Looks like I’ll be a fugitive.”

“I hate to mention this,” said Bolan, “but you dropped one of those guys back there.”

“He was escaping. Sue me.”

“I was thinking of ballistics.”

Granger thought about that for a moment, then replied, “No problem. Texas doesn’t have a database of cartridges or slugs from law enforcement weapons. Maryland tried that, a few years back, and ditched it. Said the deal was too expensive and had never solved a crime.”

“So, what’s your next move?”

After more thought, then she said, “How ’bout I stick with you?”

Now it was Bolan’s turn to think. He hadn’t come to Texas looking for a sidekick, only information that would clarify the situation and, if need be, point him toward potential targets. Granted, local expertise might come in handy, but he didn’t want to take responsibility for Adlene Granger’s safety.

Or was it too late to make that call?

“You’ve seen the way I work,” he said. “It just gets worse from here.”

“You’re not a normal Fed, I take it,” almost smiling as she spoke.

“Not even close.”

“Some kind of spook then.”

“More or less.”

“I shouldn’t push it, right?”

“Good call.”

“You’re not collecting evidence to build a case.”

“Correct.”

“A little Texas frontier justice, maybe?”

Bolan let that pass. They were a mile out from the Alamo.

“Look,” she continued. “All I’m saying is, I know what fighting’s all about. Tonight wasn’t first blood for me.”

“I’ve seen your file,” Bolan informed her.

“Oh? Well then.” A brief hesitation followed. “So I have a file? In Washington, I mean?”