The New Guinea Job (A Case Lee Novel Book 2) by Vince Milam

Author:Vince Milam [Milam, Vince]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kindle Press
Published: 2018-02-05T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

Marcus’s outside footsteps woke me. My hand withdrew from the .45’s grip, nestled in the sofa cushion. I knew those footfalls. Took comfort in them over the years. And now I was flat-out lying to him. The Case Lee version of justice’s blind scales tilted toward the take-care-of-the-situation side of things. But lying to a blood brother caused the scale’s fulcrum to squeak. Paperback across my chest, boots off, I was in the middle of a languid stretch when Jake entered and saw me. The dog ensured—through lapping licks aimed faceward—that his presence was recognized.

“Good. You need rest,” Marcus said, wrestling his work boots off at the door. “You never excelled at acceptance of the healing process.”

The wound hadn’t barked today, but I remained aware of its endeavor-limiting presence. I’d visited Marcus’s workshop, nestled in a corner of his large barn, and loaded sufficient supplies into a borrowed field bag for tonight. Five rolls of duct tape. An industrial-size bottle of superglue. Thirty feet of half-inch nylon rope. I lifted a pair of night-vision binoculars and an emergency sleeping bag from his gun closet. Tossed them into the field bag, along with extra ammo for the .45 and my Delta first aid kit. Just in case.

“I’m in full-blown acceptance of how fine it is lazing around. Get to recover from Bo and Catch.”

“A wearing pair, no doubt.” He smiled and moved toward the kitchen area. “Drink?”

“Not now, thanks.”

“Well, these old bones could use an elixir.”

“How’re the bovines?”

“They look good. Healthy calves. If I don’t screw things up, should pocket a few dollars this year.” He popped the cap off a longneck beer. “What do you feel like for dinner?”

I scratched behind one of Jake’s ears. A back leg lifted with synchronized joy. “Been invited to Irene’s.”

A soft glance came my way. “Sounds good. I think I’ll grill a burger and fall asleep watching a movie.”

He didn’t pry or tease or question. No judgment.

“Take my vehicle.” He eased into a leather chair and placed socked feet on a padded ottoman.

“Think I’ll walk.”

“Suit yourself.”

We chatted, Marcus channel surfed, and comfort draped the environment. The conversations masked silent anticipation. The rising tide of retribution delivered. And the exercise of a well-honed skill set. A little before eight, he snored gently, dirty plate alongside the armchair. The fireplace logs cast a perimeter of warmth. I eased out the back. Jake shot a questioning look but laid his head back down.

Moving clouds, stars, and an increased bite from the wind greeted me. Marcus said we might get a dusting of snow. The field bag over one shoulder, I cut across Marcus’s ranch, pace steady, loosening muscles. Off to spend time with Irene. A bite to eat. Take out the trash.

Aromas of ginger, soy sauce, and flash-cooked food greeted me. Irene had changed into fresh jeans, a snap-button blouse, and a turquoise-inlaid belt buckle. She appeared half-recovered from this morning’s trauma.

“Glass of wine?”

“No, thanks.”

“Oh. Right.” She tossed a worried look and bit her upper lip, sprinkling a few final spices into a wok.

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