The Case Of The Persian Plague

The Case Of The Persian Plague

Book Four of

The MacMaster Chronicles

a novel by

Jason Lord Case

NEW YORK

The Case Of The Persian Plague

Second edition copyright ©2018 Jason Lord Case

All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment and remains the copyrighted property of the author. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-0-9825616-0-7

Published by Red Petal Press, New York.

Smashwords Edition

Book and Cover Design by Red Petal Press

Cover photograph courtesy of PhotoXpress

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Gordon Douglas.

Also Available From This Author

The MacMaster Chronicles series

Honorable Assassin

Killer To Die For

Fallen Star

Table of Contents

Title Page

Front Matter

Dedication

Chapter One: Deputy Rothchild

Chapter Two: San Luis Valley

Chapter Three: Liquid Load

Chapter Four: Recruitment

Chapter Five: Munitions

Chapter Six: Transfer

Chapter Seven: Escape

Chapter Eight: Van Gogh

Chapter Nine: Plague

Chapter Ten: Cursed

Chapter Eleven: Unchained

Chapter Twelve: Payoff

Chapter Thirteen: Auction

Chapter Fourteen: Petroleo

Chapter Fifteen: Retribution

Chapter Sixteen: Redemption

Chapter Seventeen: Direction

Chapter Eighteen: Dispersion

Chapter Nineteen: Staging

Chapter Twenty: Lights

Chapter Twenty-One: Launch

Chapter Twenty-Two: Redline

Chapter Twenty-Three: Chicago

Chapter Twenty-Four: Vasilii

Author’s Note

About the Author

Chapter One

Deputy Rothchild

Deputy Rothchild checked his tie in the reflection afforded by the glass over an advertisement for a popular play. His tie was silk but not gaudy; a reserved color with a thin diagonal stripe. It was newer and sharper than his off-the-rack suit. He checked his impeccable shave and his perfectly professional haircut.

The Director had not summoned Deputy Rothchild for some time, but it never paid to look shabby when the call did come. There was also no excuse for not showing up post-haste. His day-to-day activities were immediately suspended by the summons. Few people would miss him at his mundane, paper-pushing, government job. It was just a front for his real activities, though he was strictly required to show up on time daily unless otherwise engaged.

The last time the call had come, it was regarding that Syrian terrorist threat. The assignment had not gone as well as had been hoped, But, the deputy mused with pursed lips at least we only lost one citizen and one agent. The scar across his chest itched, reminding him how close he had come to being decommissioned on that job.

Rothchild squinted against the rare sunshine as he exited from the darkness of the railway tunnel. He stood out like a single blood cell in the arteries of the city. This district of clerks, jurists and bankers led to standard clothing. The quality and age of the suits differed but those who stuck out were those not thus attired. The lack of available parking had even the most prosperous riding the underground and eating their lunches in the dozens of small, exclusive local restaurants when they did not bring bagged lunches.

The internet café that Deputy Rothchild entered had redeeming features that drew a great deal of business, including many couples. The booths had highly polished hardwood walls from the floor to the ceiling that had been sound-deadened with insulation. The booths also had solid wooden doors with stout locks. There were no terminals in the café, but each booth had high-speed cable connections sprouting from rich, walnut tables and supported wireless connections as well. The soft leather seats were cleaned constantly along with the walls and floors. It was not unusual for customers to arrive in the morning and not leave until late. The front doors were never locked though business was negligible at night. The owner was comfortably and constantly reaping a small fortune from his innovative business; he did not need the additional contribution provided by the one booth in the back, which was almost never available to the usual customers. This was the booth to which Deputy Rothchild was guided. He was provided with a cup of tea as he waited a short time, with the door closed but not locked.

The deputy fidgeted a bit, wishing he had been in closer proximity to his laptop computer when he had gotten the call. It was not the data on the hard drive he was missing, which was statistical data for the London Census Bureau. For one thing, nobody entered the internet cafés without a computer of some sort. For another thing, he could not open the other door without computing power of some sort, and he was loathe to borrow the owner’s private machine even though it was available to him. The owner was not currently on hand, and though he had been directed to the private booth without question, Rothchild still preferred to wait. He picked a bit of lint off his suit and reviewed what he had seen as he entered. There had been nothing to alarm him in the slightest, but old habits die hard.

The door opened and another man entered, looking almost exactly the same as the deputy. Both men had pasty skin from not enough sunlight and blond hair cut in the same current style. Neither of them wore any facial hair, and their suits were the same color though the newcomer’s tie was polyester. He also carried both a laptop computer and an umbrella. The two men greeted each other tersely, each simply nodding slightly and saying Deputy. The umbrella went into the ornate cast iron stand by the door, and the laptop was plugged into the access cable and power outlet without ceremony.

A knock on the door announced a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits for the newcomer. Before the door was closed behind the waiter, a third man arrived dressed in the same nondescript suit. He had a walking stick with a contoured handle and a laptop computer, though he did not plug in his equipment nor park his stick in the stand. The third man declined a cup of tea. The two already inhabiting the cubicle exchanged the same terse greetings, and the third man locked the door. Then they got down to business.

The web site accessed from this room was the only one accessible here, and without a password no page could be opened here at all. The cable in this booth was dedicated and needed to be turned on from the counter where the coffee, tea and biscuits were ordered. Since the door was usually locked, there was seldom comment about the dead line. In this case, there were three people so each entered a different password and with the final press of the enter key, a door opened in the back of the booth. Hydraulic pistons slid back the polished wooden wall and exposed a set of dusty narrow stairs heading downward. The door closed automatically behind the last man as they began to descend. The second deputy to enter grumbled about the lack of illumination and opined that he was going to fall down the stairs and break a leg one of these days.

The stairs ended with a dimly lit underground passageway, several hundred meters long, terminating at a steel security door. The peeling paint attested to the age of the door, evidence that the internet café was not the first business to be used as access to this facility. The door had been updated with a keypad for access at some time in the past. It had not received the retina scan or fingerprint recognition systems so commonly in use elsewhere in the government, nor had it gotten a fresh coat of paint.

Once again, all three men entered their passwords and gained access. When the door opened, one inadvertently made a brief sneer over the smell that issued. Deputy Rothchild had been here enough times to expect it and the third man simply had enough self-control to ignore it.

The circular underground chamber was redolent with stale tobacco and the musty smell of mold. The ventilation systems were as old as the chamber itself and in need of replacement, but the government funding was difficult to procure due to the secretive nature of its very existence. Any renovations to the area would possibly expose its existence to tradesmen or the general public. This was undesirable enough to forestall upgrades to the system, possibly forever.

A small, wizened gnome of a man whose pallor made his visitors pale skin seem healthy by comparison sat at the head of a large table that dominated much of the room. The walls were covered by computer screens displaying images from secret cameras at the entrance, feeds from spy satellites, reams of data, wanted posters, maps and constantly changing images from CNN, USPN, BBC and a hundred other networks not so easily identifiable or understandable. The circular wall of screens was broken by a couple of closed doors, in addition to the entrance the deputies had negotiated.

The man at the head of the table did not stand, though it was not immediately apparent that he could not. The huge pipe he clenched between his teeth was fuming furiously, the smoke slowly drawn into a vent in the ceiling. He was dressed in the flowing robes of a Persian in contrast with his stark white skin. The robes hid the hump of his back and flowed over his useless legs. His thick glasses magnified his eyes, quick and sharp, somehow belying his physical faults. His hair was wild and unkempt, mixing with the smoke from his pipe in a seemingly symbiotic manner.

Please be seated. His voice brooked no argument, telling of long years of responsibility and command.

There were more chairs than deputies, but the portfolios spread on the table were at the near end. The three deputies seated themselves and began to examine the documents and photographic reproductions that had been laid out for them.

James, please bring water for our guests. The Director’s voice had barely ceased when one of the doors opened and an ancient man in a butler’s uniform entered pushing a cart with a pitcher of water and eight glasses on top. On the middle shelf of the cart was a collection of bottles, none of which contained a less potent fluid than 80-proof liquor. On the bottom shelf was a collection of ale, stout and porter. The invitation was obvious but none of the three deputies elected to take advantage of it. They did accept a glass of water each. The piercing eyes of their host noted the reactions of each as if they were lab animals presented with an experimental choice.

As you can see from your portfolios, we have a situation. I feared this sort of thing would happen after Turkey annexed Northern Iraq. Truthfully, that section of Turkey should never have been given to the Persians. I fully expected it would be retaken when the Americans invaded Iraq from the South. If I remember, the Turkish government made that offer at the beginning of that ill-fated invasion. That, however, is not our concern. The Crown gave up all rights to that area almost a century ago.

This will be a next to impossible task unless there is more information than this, quipped Deputy Forster.

Next to impossible and impossible are two different things, Mr. Forster. Do you mean that we cannot assist our Turkish allies in retrieving a British subject?

It will be difficult. Not fully impossible. We need native allies and money to determine where the victim has been taken. Not Turkish contacts, but original Kurdish inhabitants or we will never succeed. We will end up in an information vacuum with a target on our foreheads.

Mr. Forster, I had no intention of sending any of the three of you into that region. Not only is it too politically volatile but the Crown cannot be implicated in dealings with terrorists. It is bad enough that we are in communication with the enemy by e-mail. They are not as primitive as they once were. These communications are not secure; scrambled, yes, but still not secure. We must use an independent on this; one without dedicated ties to the Commonwealth.

Deputy Rothchild made a studied effort not to appear as relieved as he was, in truth. He resisted the urge to scratch his chest where the scar itched suddenly. Who then, Director, will spearhead this operation?

I was thinking MacMaster.

The steely self control that the three deputies had exhibited when the news was given that they would not be assigned to the Middle East operation all but gave way with the new bit of information: Deputy Forster’s eyes closed, Deputy Rothchild examined his tie and Deputy Phillips chewed the inside of his lip and knocked the tip of his cane three times on the hard cement floor. The Director’s lips took on a small, twisted smile as he saw their reactions. Is there a problem with that, Gentlemen? he asked.

Director, um… Deputy Forster began but fell into an uncomfortable silence.

Director, Deputy Rothchild took over. Gordon MacMaster is a mad Scottish bull. I am sure you have not forgotten the Peruvian affair?

Yes, I remember. A highly efficient ending to a sloppy affair. A bit extreme but efficient.

A bit extreme? Director, he brought down a mountain on a small village. If efficiency means killing everyone in the area then, yes, it was efficient but hardly subtle. Deputy Phillips was on the verge of scolding his superior.

The Director was unfazed. No one died that was not engaged in cocaine production. Nobody but the drug syndicate missed them and they were replaced within days. Agent MacMaster completed his mission and when he was done, nobody knew he had been there. He was extricated without further incident, and the entire affair was written off as a natural circumstance. If every mission went off that well at the end I would consider my life’s work fulfilled. The steel in The Director’s voice preempted any further argument.

I don’t like it. Phillips looked at the two who were dressed as he was and got silent confirmation. They did not like Gordon MacMaster’s work though he had never been accused of not being thorough.

Perhaps we should review that bit of work to clarify just what did happen according to the press.

The Director scooted his wheelchair over to a terminal at the wall and accessed the Peruvian newspaper, La Industria from Chimbote. This is the only newspaper that actually printed the story. It was squashed by, of all things, the weather. El Niño hit rather hard that year and the earthquake that accompanied it was much more dramatic news. As a fishing town, Chimbote is much more interested in the affairs of the sea than some. Ah, here it is. Give me a second… There!

A picture popped up on the screen along with the headline El Castigo de Dios? The picture was of the remains of a fortified mansion, built abutting a cliff. Access was restricted from the front by the walls of a narrow canyon. It looked to be as secure a location as a Swiss bank until one focused on the carnage wreaked by the avalanche that had wiped it out.

The Director smiled sarcastically at the three men visiting his stronghold. You see, gentlemen, the rumor mill has once again churned out unpalatable grist that sits not well in the stomach, but rises again and again in ever changing form. When I said efficient, I meant efficient. Humberto Juancarlo de Humacao thought he was above national and international law. It seems he was not above the natural law of gravity however. The most local newspaper reported it as the Wrath of God and the international press never even picked up the story until weeks later. Then, with the area clear of our agents, we turned it into front-page news to overshadow a different event and blamed it on the seismic instability of the area. There was no slaughter of innocents, as you believed.

Gentlemen, I rely on field agents for my information, not newspapers. If you cannot give me more reliable information than this then I need a different set of agents. I cannot believe you swallowed the story of the village being buried without some research. It is not as though you do not have resources. A simple search would have revealed the extent of the assault, and yet, you allowed your own prejudices to let you believe what you wanted to believe. The Director’s voice was getting rough and he called for James to bring him a porter. The Deputies were relieved to accept two stouts and a porter. They drank in silence, embarrassed by their lack of knowledge.

After a few minutes The Director began again. There is some information I cannot access from here. For instance, where is Gordon MacMaster? He effectively disappeared after his last official assignment. Is he available for service? Can he be contacted? Is he living with the South American woman he was reported to have taken under his wing? I expect you to answer these questions for me within 24 hours.

Yes, Director, answered Deputy Forster, he is available.

You know this?

Yes, sir, our intelligence is only weeks old. He has taken his Argentine woman to the American State of Colorado where he has taken up residence in the woods. Costilla … Castillo County, I think, in the mountains, Forster trying not to let a sneer color his voice.

Well, you’ve almost redeemed yourself.

I’m not sure of that, sir. The wilds of Colorado may be a daunting area to locate a man in.

"Mr. Phillips, you will go to Colorado and locate Gordon MacMaster, retain him and apprise him of the Arab situation. I do not expect to see you again until you have completed this simple mission. If you find you cannot accomplish this mission, I never expect to see you again.

Mr. Forster, you will provide Mr. Phillips with all the information in your possession and then proceed to Greece. Mr. Particka has the physical end of our bargain sealed up there.

Mr. Rothchild, you will move the liquid assets to Athens."

That’s a large load of cash to transport on a commercial airline, sir.

Yes, Mr. Rothchild that is a large liquid load. That is why you have been given the assignment and that is why you will be accompanied by Agent Sylvan. The two of you are to be a couple from Surrey vacationing in Greece. Agent Sylvan speaks a passable Greek and has been cleared by Internal Security. She knows very little of the nature of the operation and has no need to know more. The two of you will not leave sight of each other or the payload for a second.

I’m sure I can accomplish that. Deputy Rothchild’s demeanor relaxed and he smiled widely. He took a final draught of his stout and sat back.

Yes, The Director’s sneer was a mix of disgust and appreciation, I’m sure you can. Are there any questions at this point?

Deputy Rothchild was the first to ask the question that was hanging in the air. What makes this man worth the expense and potential scandal of our involvement?

The Director fixed him with a cold stare. That, sir, is none of your concern. You have been given an assignment and you will carry it out. The larger picture is nothing you have the political or mental resources to appreciate. You will perform your duties as described and reap the benefits thereof. If, at some point in the future, I deign to apprise you of the Service’s motivations in this matter then you will have been so informed. Until that point, you will act as though God himself has spoken to you. Is every one in agreement?

When nobody said a word, James was summoned back with a bottle of Canadian whiskey and four large glasses. The deputies were less appreciative of the whiskey than the beer, though the whiskey was a good blend. After a couple of rounds their tongues loosened and the questions started to flow more openly. The Director did not allow them to become soused and it was unlikely that they would have done so, but once they were a bit looser planning actually improved.

Chapter Two

San Luis Valley

Under the guise of an astronomer/geologist looking for asteroid fragments, Deputy Phillips learned that the San Luis Valley of Colorado is the largest high-mountain valley in the world. At 7500 feet above sea level and ringed by the Sangre de Cristo and San Juan Mountains, it encompasses 8000 square miles, roughly a twelfth of the size of the Island of Great Britain. This was daunting until he subsequently learned that the population of Castillo County was less than 4000 inhabitants and 800 of them lived in the county seat.

When he arrived in the town of San Luis he went immediately to the Hall of Records, somewhat of a misnomer for the basement of the Castillo County Courthouse. There, under the dim light of a 40-watt bulb, he went through the records of recent real estate purchases. Nothing was listed under Gordon MacMaster, but there had been a large purchase credited to an Anastasia Viuda. The name did not ring a bell but evoked a crooked smile nonetheless. It was the only Hispanic female on the register of recent transactions but there was more to it. Phillips repeated the name to himself three times then broke into his crooked smile again.

Most of the lots for sale were 5 to 20 acres of land. Most lots had no buildings but had been developed for cattle ranches. The upside for ranchers was they did not need to be cleared; the downside of this was they had no trees on the flat valley floor. Anastasia Viuda had bought several consecutive parcels of land leading from the town of Los Fuertes, south and east of the Sangre de Cristo Range. Deputy Phillips was certain he would find his quarry there.

Phillips’ next stop was the motel on Main Street, the only lodging in town. He was also the only customer of the motel. The owner was quite pleasant and obviously lived on premises. After securing a room, he left his rented Ford in the parking lot and walked to a restaurant for some lunch.

The local sheriff was sitting at the counter having a cup of coffee and chatting with the middle-aged waitress. Deputy Phillips sat beside him deliberately and ordered from the menu. His accent elicited stares and comments. It was quickly evident that they had very few international visitors in this quaint little town. Since Interstate 25 was almost 70 miles to the east, the town was spared the truck traffic. Without an interstate any closer than that, though, they got very few visitors of any kind. A man in a business suit, speaking with a British accent stuck out like a lone tree in a wheat field.

Good Morning, sir, he began with a smile. This is a lovely town you have here.

The overweight sheriff looked at him warily, not sure whether or not he was being facetious. It’s the oldest town in Colorado, he said with a voice reminiscent of a gravel pit conveyor.

"Fascinating; to have such a long history and yet remain so appealing. Most older towns are subject to decay but this one has been maintained beautifully.

People here like to see things kept in order. We don’t have much but we like what we have. The sheriff began warming to the newcomer’s presence.

Well, I for one am charmed.

The waitress refilled the sheriff’s coffee cup unbidden and turned to get Phillips’ order from the slide-through to the kitchen.

The sandwich was palatable but the deputy was more interested in the conversation. There must not be an awful lot of crime in these parts, then, he began and noted that the sheriff’s jaw tightened slightly.

Most of the problems come from outsiders. The sheriff’s voice became less cordial, as if his handling of the office were being brought into question. His seamed and sun-browned face turned toward his new acquaintance and asked, What is it that brings you to San Luis anyway? You don’t look like a rock climber in that suit; you look like an insurance salesman. If you’re here to sell vacuum cleaners you’ve come to the wrong town.

Heavens no, I don’t scale rocks, I collect them. Phillips held out his hand and said, John Farmer, Archeologist. I’m here to scout up some asteroids if I can. It seems there have been some chondrites found in the valley and I thought I might scout around a bit. His crooked smile and sparkling blue eyes seemed open and honest. His accent lent him an air of refinement and his announcement that he was an educated professional went a long way to smoothing his reception.

Just call me Johnny, or Sheriff. The sun-browned face broke into a smile for the first time that day. Pleased to meet you but I think you might be a little out of place. There was a group of you guys a few years back in the Colorado Springs area. Found all kinds of dinosaur bones. That’s what they said, anyway. I don’t believe in that stuff, but I can’t stop anybody else from believing in it.

Broaching the eternal science versus religion debate with local law enforcement was the last thing Deputy Phillips wanted. He quietly bent to the task of chewing up his unusually, for him, large sandwich.

Where was it you wanted to look for these chondarts?

Oh, it will need to be closer to the edges of the mountains since anything falling on the valley floor would have been covered by the eroding ranges years ago. I was thinking near Los Fuertes.

Take 152 to 242. Los Fuertes is about six miles down the road. There’s no sign for the town but follow 242 and it’ll take you there. There’s no lodging there but we have a nice motel here in town.

Thank you so much, Sheriff. You’ve been a great help to me. Please let me pay for your coffee. Phillips reached into his inside pocket for his wallet.

I get my coffee free, here. Leave it as a tip for Janice. Have a nice day and stay out of trouble.

Of course, sir, I never cause trouble. I hope you have a nice day as well.

I always have a nice day, Mr. Farmer.

As the deputy left he heard Janice saying Wasn’t he pleasant? He did not hear the sheriff’s reply and did not think much about the man after that.

Deputy Phillips was aware of the eyes on him as he walked back to the motel. He realized at that point that the suit he was wearing was the wrong attire for a high mountain desert valley and changed into blue jeans and a flannel shirt when he got back to his room. He also recognized that he was breathing heavily in the thin mountain air.

With a small pack of implements in the back seat, to enhance his disguise, he headed out for Los Fuertes. The terrain was alien to him and seemed desolate. There was very little traffic and those vehicles he did see were mostly pickup trucks. In a short time he was in the next to last town on the road. It didn’t actually deserve to be called a town.

Los Fuertes was more like a junkyard with a couple of buildings thrown in. Recycling was not something that happened in this area, and cars and pickup trucks that no longer ran ended up here. It was like a mechanical elephants’ graveyard full of the carcasses of modern times with a few scavengers scratching at the picked over carcasses. So different was it from the city of Denver that had seen his incoming flight, or even the county seat, that Phillips was taken aback. He had traveled extensively and had seen mountains and deserts, plains and cities, but the high mountain desert was new to him. The post apocalyptic aspect of Los Fuertes made him feel he had been transported to the set for a second-rate science fiction movie.

He pulled into the only gas station in town and filled his tank, though it was still half full. It was, of course, a Petroleo brand station, as were almost all of them. He bought a Coca Cola from the attendant who may have been fourteen years old and found him eager and hungry for conversation. The boy joined him when Phillips took a seat outside the station. They sat on rickety chairs, and the boy began asking questions about where he was from and what he was doing in the asshole of the world. Phillips answered, giving his new occupation as an explanation for his interest in the area.

Well, we got rocks, the boy said. We got cows, rocks, rabbits and wrecks, as my grampaw used to say. Hey, if you need a guide, I been here my whole life. I know every gulley, spring, stream and arroyo around here. I work cheap too.

That may be an option. The deputy was cautious about involving locals though he knew they were his best resource. He had no intelligence on what cover MacMaster was using and did not want to compromise his potential allies.

I can take you wherever you want to go. Just give me a couple of minutes and my dad can watch the station while we find whatever you’re looking for.

You don’t get many visitors here, do you?

Shit. People don’t even come here to die, just send their dead trucks here.

So nobody has moved in recently.

Not for a couple of years. Last people to move in was a couple of years back, but they didn’t really move into town.

Phillips didn’t want to seem too interested in the new additions to the town but needed to prompt the boy. I should think this would be a nice area to retire to. Were they retirees?

No, they didn’t look old enough for that. I only see ‘em when they stop for gas. A big guy and his Mamasita. Boy, she looks good though. Tall, long black hair. Not that I like Mexicans, ya know, but she looks like a handful and a half in the sack. I wouldn’t mess with it. Her old man looks like lumberjack. Hey, you want something a little stronger than that soda pop?

Certainly. Phillips contained his further interest. He knew he was on the right track now.

The boy came back out of the service station with a half-full liter bottle of Black Velvet and a clean rag. He unscrewed the cap and wiped off the top with the rag, then he took a generous pull off the bottle before handing it to his new friend.

If the foreigner was surprised by that he did not show it, simply took a swig off the bottle himself and handed it back. The boy took it back inside and brought out a fresh pack of cigarettes. The deputy did not ordinarily smoke due to his lungs having been scarred by a poisoned gas incident, but he accepted one anyway. He was pleased by the texture of the smoke, much smoother than European cigarettes. He smoked in silence while his young benefactor went on about how he was going to get out of the valley and move to Denver or Las Vegas. The whiskey was warm in his stomach and the unaccustomed nicotine made his head swim slightly. Finally he realized that the boy had fallen silent.

So, your parents don’t mind if you smoke?

What’s to mind? I make my own money and pay for what I drink and smoke. He couldn’t care less about me or we wouldn’t be here. Mom was smart, she left.

By the way, my name’s John Farmer.

Oh, hey, I’m sorry. Frank.

Pleased to meet you, Frank. Have you got a last name?

Spring Elk.

A Native American name?

Yeah. Not being from around here, you probably can’t tell but I’m a quarter Pawnee. I don’t want to hear any bullshit about drunken Indians either

I assure you I had no intention of saying any such thing. I am no expert on American history but I do know that the American Indian got the worst of the deal.

Well, a quarter Indian don’t make me an Indian. So you need a guide or what?

The newcomer had not intended to hire any locals but was impressed by the candid way Frank Spring Elk carried himself. Yes, he said I would be happy to have you show me some of the area.

Great, I’ll get my truck. You can’t drive that car off road and you can’t get to where you want to go otherwise. I’ll open the garage. You’ll want to park the car in there or it might get stolen.

Phillips doubted the car would be stolen in such a remote area but acquiesced regardless. Putting the car in the repair bay would hide his presence somewhat.

You got a pair of boots? Those shoes won’t last long in these parts.

Yes, I have a pair of boots in the trunk. The boots were new, purchased at an outfitters shop near the airport. Phillips had taken pains to make them look as though they had seen some use.

When the Ford was safely ensconced in the garage and a deal had been struck for the boy’s services, Frank Spring Elk pulled his pickup truck out from behind the