Nomad: A Frank Sherman Thriller (Frank Sherman Thrillers Book 4) by Joel Austin

Author:Joel Austin [Austin, Joel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-03-10T16:00:00+00:00

Vanessa struggled to say anything when Sherman slid back into the Ford. The driver, who looked a few years shy of drinking age, was clutching at his face. Blood streamed out of his pimply nose, covering the green shirt he wore with splotches of red that turned copper brown as they dried.

“He’s just a kid.”

Sherman glanced back at the aftermath of his actions. She was right about his age. The driver was young and inexperienced, but swimming in the deep end of life where the consequences cut deep and fast. He’d given a lesson worth learning early, when the damage only amounted to stitches.

The kid was lucky, Sherman thought, he’d killed younger people for far fewer reasons. In some parts of Iraq any boy over fourteen was considered an enemy combatant by the very nature of being able to shoulder a rifle. A time when puberty could get you killed.

“A broken nose is a learning opportunity.”

“For what?”

“Not to follow us. Better he learn it now and live to regret his mistakes.”

Vanessa sighed as they headed west across shimmering puddles of heat. “I’d like to plead ignorance and say I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’ve met my father. He’s a grade-A asshole, but I learned to think on my feet and fend for myself.”

“And you deserved better,” said Sherman. “All kids do.”

“But not him?” she flicked her thumb back over her shoulder.

“He’s old enough for the draft. That’s old enough to learn the hard way.”

“One of Tripp’s guys, right?”

“He was waiting by the A&W as we came back into town. Too interested in us to be anything but a tail. Not very original either. Could have rotated cars. Maybe three or four staggered down the road with overlapping coverage.”

The dip into tradecraft amused Vanessa who felt she’d bridged an invisible gap into his world. “Is that what you do?”

Sherman smiled at her probing question. It was a good try. “No,” he answered. “We’d blow him up with a drone.”

“Oh.”

“Not a lot of room for company over there.”

They had passed the city hall and the low-slung police station resembling a muffin with no top. The west side of town beckoned. Vacant lots lay covered with scraps of trash and pieces of dead vegetation like beige sores upon the urban landscape. The notary and accountant came and went in a garish display of hand painted billboards. Beyond that stood the overlapping arrows of development, pointing toward the unbuilt subdivision, with each amount barreling towards zero. A history of desperation.

“Follow the signs,” said Sherman, pointing towards the office they’d visited days earlier.

“Seriously?” asked Vanessa. “You think it’s Jones?”

“Call it a gut reaction.”

“He’s my real estate agent.”

“You said he had fingers in all the little pies.”

“Not guns.”

“Why not? Drugs, guns or stolen cars. If you’re after money it doesn’t matter. One isn’t better or worse than the next.”

His point was valid, and she nodded silently at first. “He does like his money. Maybe you’re right.”

The BMW sat resolute against the ebbing economic tides of real estate.

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