Assignment Sumatra by Edward S. Aarons

Author:Edward S. Aarons [Aarons, Edward S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Action & Adventure, Crime, Espionage, Fiction, Mystery, Spies, Suspense, Thriller
ISBN: 9780449141236
Published: 2013-06-03T23:00:00+00:00

It was an old jeep that had gone off the road and hung over the embankment to a small, wooded ravine. The headlights gave him warning a few hundred yards ahead. The road passed over a trestle bridge of teak logs, with sharp drops on either side, and there seemed to be no way to get around the wreck site without a long and tedious climb along the mountainside. It would take too much time, and he had none to spare. Durell walked across the trestle and merged with the shadows on the other side, watching silently.

The driver of the old jeep wore a wide, white Stetson, a dirty, white shirt, and faded, tight, blue jeans, along with Texas boots. He stood about two inches over six feet and was as American as apple pie. Durell watched him struggle and curse with his effort to wedge some small logs under the wheels to gain traction enough to back away from the embankment on which the vehicle hung. The cursing was pure Texas crude.

Durell gave it three minutes, watching, and considered the time he might save getting into town. He could go around the jeep by cutting through the brush, unseen and unheard. But he did not think the vehicle or the man was there by accident. He watched the Texan move off, looking for small pieces of fallen logs to wedge under the jeep. There was enough light from the jeep’s headlights to see him clearly. When the man had gone about thirty paces down the road, searching, Durell moved quickly and silently toward the jeep, coming up to it behind the bright headlights, and looked in at the front seat. There was a flying helmet hanging from the door handle, and a hol-stered gun lay on the muddy floor beside the gas pedal. A big gun, an antique, a long-barreled Colt’s .45 Frontiersman. Durell picked it up. No accident at all. He checked the cylinder and saw it was fully loaded. It was a lot of gun. A slug from this gun would knock a man off his feet, even if it just grazed him.

“Hey!”

The Texan had seen him and was running back. He saw the Frontiersman in Durell’s hand and checked himself.

“It’s all right,” Durell called.

The man in the white Stetson was sandy-haired, bony-faced, with a long, stubborn jaw. He was in his midtwenties. His eyes, under bushy brows, were wary and a little frightened.

“Who are you?”

Durell said, “American, like you. I think you came here looking for me, right?”

“Depends on who you are, mister.”

“Durell. Cajun.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“Are you really stuck here, or just playing games.”

“Stuck. Put away my gun, huh?”

“I’ll keep it. We have no problem,” Durell said. “Have you got a name?”

“Dawson,” said the Texan. He gave a short laugh, a snort of surprise. “I run the air-taxi service here. You hear a Cessna land a while ago? That was me. Mel Dawson. It’s Melvin, but don’t call me that.”

“Who sent you along to find me?”

“Why, it was your boss and mine, friend.

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