The Wrong Man - An Alex Dorring Thriller by Vince Vogel

Author:Vince Vogel [Vogel, Vince]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-05-28T22:00:00+00:00

27

Deja vu. Months ago, Dorring had also been wet and cold in a forest. Having crawled out of a different river. One in Nevada. Not the Ukraine. This time with shotgun pellets stuck in his back.

He made his way through the trees and bracken back to the motel. The cops had already gone. The sedan was gone. The keys had been in the room. In the room, his guns were also gone. Dorring marched to the end of the log cabin motel. It was where the office was. The old timer on the other side of the counter jumped in his seat when the wet, bloodied figure of Dorring came through the door with an angry look on his bruised face.

“Which police department did you call?” he said.

The old man jumped off his chair as quick as his old bones would carry him and went for a revolver he kept under the counter. But Dorring was too quick. He stepped rapidly across the three yards of floorboards and had hold of him by the neck before his fingers reached the gun.

Dorring hauled him up and across the counter.

“Which department?” he growled into the man’s face.

“They called me,” the old timer said, his frightened eyes staring up at Dorring. “They were local. County sheriff. They said you killed a whole lot of people up in Carson City.”

“I’m gonna kill a whole lot more.”

There was a cell phone in the top pocket of the old man’s plaid shirt. Dorring snatched it out and placed it in his wet pocket. Then he leaned over the counter, still holding the old man with his other hand, and took the revolver, placing it in the waistband of his jeans. Then he searched the old man’s pockets, the guy just letting Dorring do it, trembling in his grasp. There were keys.

“Where’s your car?” Dorring wanted to know.

“Around the side of here.”

“Which direction did they drive in?”

The old man went to speak, but Dorring held his hand up.

“Don’t lie,” he added. “If I go the wrong way and have to come back, I’ll kill you for sure.”

“They went back towards Carson,” the old man said.

Dorring was making sure. The other way was twenty miles and then the state line: outside their jurisdiction. He’d been certain they’d go in the other direction—towards Carson City—but wanted to make double sure there wasn’t some police station a few miles the other way.

Dorring picked up a telephone from the desk and ripped its cord from the wall. Then he asked the guy to sit and used the cord to tie his wrists and ankles to a chair. Placing a cleaning cloth he found in a drawer into the old man’s mouth, Dorring switched the lights off and left.

The old man’s station wagon was where he said it would be. Dorring got in, started the engine and put his foot down, the wheels spinning on the gravel.

As he drove through the darkness of the Lincoln Highway, he got the old man’s mobile out and dialed the FBI contact.

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