Close Call by Laura Disilverio

Author:Laura Disilverio [Disilverio, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: political mystery, Mystery, laura disilvero, mystery novel, Mystery Fiction, Political Fiction
ISBN: 9780738749624
Google: SBzODAAAQBAJ
Amazon: B01APSYPSO
Goodreads: 30258745
Publisher: Midnight Ink
Published: 2016-09-08T04:00:00+00:00

30

Fidel

Fidel Montoya exited the limo at the high school in Fredrick, Maryland, smiling and waving, his narrowed eyes scanning the crowd assembled for the state-wide track meet. Jimmy emerged from the car after him, straightening a tie that was too damn loud. It looked like a box of Crayolas had vomited on it. Montoya averted his gaze. Teachers and students, some with signs reading Vote for Montoya or A Vote for Montoya is a Vote for America crowded to the edges of the sidewalk at Lee High School, hemming him in. Ragged cheers flared up as his supporters caught sight of him. He ran a finger around his collar. Damn it. He wasn’t going to be scared away from campaigning by his close encounter with an assassin’s bullet. The vote was just days away and polls showed him neck-and-neck with his opponent. And this was a high school, for God’s sake, not a meeting of the John Birch Society. Sure, high schoolers went postal now and then and shot each other or their teachers, but he’d never heard of one assassinating a political figure. The tension in his shoulders eased and he waved again, striding confidently forward to shake hands with the principal. Not a bad-looking woman, for someone his own age. Playmate-of-the-Month tits under a straw-colored suit jacket and a full lower lip he could suck on for days. And she found him attractive. Montoya held her hand a moment longer than necessary, looking deep into her eyes. Jimmy coughed behind him.

In his peripheral vision, Montoya glimpsed a student approaching on his left. At least he looked like a student, with lank hair brushing his shoulders and a pimply face. He wore a black T-shirt and cargo pants with a heavy chain threaded through the belt loops. Two silver hoops pierced his eyebrow, and an earring with a grinning skull dangled almost to his shoulder. A backpack hung from one hand. A tattoo of a black widow in a web crawled up his right forearm and disappeared under his sleeve. Loser, Montoya thought, then made himself think of the kid as a voter. He might be eighteen. He released Principal McDermott’s hand to follow her into the auditorium, thanking God that Jimmy had never gone in for that Goth look. He’d dyed his hair green once, and he wore butt-ugly ties, but—

“Congress-dick Montoya!”

He turned involuntarily at the sound of his name. The loser was within feet of him, digging a hand into his backpack. Montoya froze. Jimmy, several steps in front, turned to cut off the teen, but it was too late. Even as Montoya broke free of his trance and moved toward the building, which was only steps away, the kid hurled something.

God, not a grenade! Montoya grabbed the principal’s arm—was he going to use her as a shield or thrust her behind him?—and ducked.

Splat.

“Gross, dude” and “totally putrid” drifted from the assembled students and teachers as the rotten egg smacked into Montoya’s back. A hideous stink fouled the air.

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