American Blood by Ben Sanders

Author:Ben Sanders [Sanders, Ben]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Thriller, Adult
ISBN: 9781466863170
Google: ctWxCAAAQBAJ
Goodreads: 25664215
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2015-11-16T11:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-FIVE

Marshall

Heading back north, he turned off Highway 84 at St. Michael’s Drive, three miles south of town, and pulled in at a motel on the left. It was a newish-looking place, two-story, tan plaster with a steep gable roof in orange tile. The sort of color scheme that reminded you this was Santa Fe.

There were a handful of cars in the lot, and he parked up beside another Silverado. The phone was in three pieces on the seat beside him: handset, battery, and SIM. An antitracking precaution, necessary now both sides of the law were after him, but he reassembled the device and turned it on. It was slow to wake up, almost a minute before it let him access the settings and disable the GPS. They could still triangulate him off cell tower pings, but it was far less accurate than going by the phone’s onboard chip, which he knew would broadcast his position every few seconds, good to within about ten feet.

Not that he had a penchant for mischief, but part of him almost hoped he was being tracked. Maybe they’d see a dot sitting there on the map and peg him as a motel guest. Or perhaps they’d see it all in context with the highway right beside him and figure he was a southbound runner. There’d be some arguing about what was planned, guys speculating about misdirection.

He left the phone balanced on his knee while it decided if he had messages. He counted off a minute. Nothing. He picked up the phone and dialed his voice mail service for the WITSEC address, the number Cohen normally got him on.

Three messages, standard where-are-you inquiries:

Bill Masters from sheriff’s CIB. Delete.

Someone Martinez from Albuquerque PD. Delete.

Lucas Cohen from the marshal’s service.

Marshall clicked off and started shutting down the phone, had second thoughts and took his finger off the button.

He clucked his tongue and sat a while, just weighing up what was sensible. Then he called the message service again and the machine recited Cohen’s number, halting and stilted. Marshall dialed. Cohen made him wait a while, but he got there.

Marshall said, “Did you find your Nazi golf caddy?”

“Yeah, we got our boy. Didn’t come as quietly this time. Found out I’m a Cohen, so he kicked up quite a fuss. Some kind of fascist thing.”

Marshall waited.

Cohen said, “I see you got yourself in some alarmin’-looking events tonight.”

“You could call it that, I guess.”

“I’m glad I didn’t find that tenant of yours all chock-full of bullets.”

“Felix is long gone.”

Cohen said, “I reckon it might be best if you come in. Have a talk about things.”

“You’re not tracking my phone, are you?”

“No, I most certainly am not. I don’t have those sorts of facilities in my kitchen.”

“Well that’s good.”

Cohen said, “You have any idea where Troy Rojas might be?”

“No.”

“What about Cyrus Bolt?”

“Same again.”

“You know if he’s still breathin’?”

“That’s a slightly different kettle of fish.”

Cohen said, “Right.” Drawing it out a bit, like he heard the unspoken bits, too. He said, “I think we at least need to sit down with one another.

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