Prior Bad Acts (A CainHarper Thriller Book 2) by D. P. Lyle

Author:D. P. Lyle [Lyle, D. P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Suspense Publishing
Published: 2020-10-19T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 36

The drizzly rain intensified. Water dripped from the bill of Dalton’s cap as he walked around the SUV to the driver’s side. He slammed a fist against the roof.

“Goddammit.”

This was becoming a true clusterfuck. A witness. Now the cops were looking for him and the SUV. Time to get undercover before another clueless citizen saw him. He scanned the road, forward and back. All clear. He yanked open the door but before he could step in, he heard the unmistakable rumble of a car engine and the whine of tires on wet pavement, coming up the hill toward him. A black sedan rounded the corner. He tilted his head downward, shielding his face with the cap’s bill.

The car slowed.

Keep going, he thought.

It didn’t. The vehicle pulled across the road and stopped twenty feet from where he stood. The door creaked open and a man stepped out, rounding the front of the car.

A cop.

Fuck me.

“How you doing?” the man said.

“Fine.”

He noticed the officer’s hand rested on the service revolver on his right hip. Dalton felt the weight of his own weapon tucked into the small of his back.

“I’m Officer Duckworth. And you?”

“Sammy. Sammy Foster.”

“Where you headed?”

“Looking for a friend’s place. Got a little lost.”

The officer nodded. “Easy to do up here.” He took a few steps but stopped fifteen feet away. A cop move. Never get too close.

“Is there a problem, Officer?” Dalton asked.

“Don’t know. Is there?”

“Not that I see.”

“Good, good. Mind if I see your license?”

“What for?” Dalton asked.

“We’re looking for a car. One like yours.”

“Mine? Really? Why?”

“Just something we’re investigating.” He nodded again. “Your license?”

“It’s in my vehicle.”

“Why don’t you get it for me? I’ll run your plates in the meantime.” He turned toward his cruiser.

“You don’t need to do that.”

The cop stopped, turned back. “It’s just routine.” He gave a quick nod.

“I don’t think so.” Dalton withdrew his Glock and shot the man in the right side of his forehead. The cop dropped like a stringless marionette.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Dalton scanned the road again. Up and down. Quiet.

He dragged the dead man off the road and dumped him in the backseat of his sedan. He searched his pockets, found what he was looking for. His cell phone. He dropped it on the gravel and crushed it with his boot. He picked up the fractured device and tossed it into the backseat, where Duckworth lay. He climbed behind the wheel, spun it around and drove it to the edge of the gravel where the grassy strip sloped downwards, only the deep valley beyond.

Cop cars have radios, GPS, all kinds of tracking crap. Probably even in this Podunk town. Dalton lifted the hood and disconnected the battery. That should take care of that.

He reached through the open driver’s door, released the emergency brake, and settled the gear shift into neutral. He grasped the windshield frame and, using his weight, rolled it forward. It picked up speed until it tipped over the edge and disappeared into the valley. He heard the crashing of trees and shrubs, the scraping of metal.

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