Betrayal by M. L. Buchman

Author:M. L. Buchman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Buchman Bookworks, Inc.

9:43 p.m.

Porkchop

Who shots a kid walking out of a Roundtable Pizza in Southcenter? The one lying three feet from a sun-faded 1993 Kia Sephia compact in a pool of his own congealed blood with his keys still in his hand might know—not that he’s talking to me.

Worse, I knew him. A young wanna-be. Ran into him in the bars a few times. So broke that he drives the Kia, though the car is sporting Michelin rubber. I popped the hood and look it over. Who retrofits a four-barrel Weber carburetor on a stock 1.5-liter engine? I look lower and spot the anti-sway bars for tight cornering.

A kid who’s broke but wants to grow up to be a wheel man is my answer.

Eyewitness stumbling over themselves to describe a big black SUV, no tags, no model, no make. Real helpful in this town—the black SUVs of the 20s had replaced the Hummers of the 80s as the soccer mom’s vehicle of choice.

I have an itchy feeling that if we find the round that punched through Porkchop’s chest and kept on going, that it just might match the one I’d dropped off in forensics from Caldwell’s tire a few hours ago. It had left a plenty big hole as it punched through the kid.

Random chance? Yeah, sure. That’s what happens in Afghanistan when you release a shepherd kid who stumbles on your position and he tells the whole village where to hunt down your unit hiding in the hills. Not random at all.

Connecting a seasoned operator like Caldwell to a wet-behind-the-ears rookie like Porkchop is a long stretch. Caldwell would certainly never make such a hire.

Like the military, the underworld was a realm of single names. Last name, false name, or nickname. The Rangers had tagged me as Wheels Rolling so long ago I’d sometimes check my dog tags to remember my first name. Out of the Army I’d gone back to just Rollins.

Porkchop turned out to be Jeff Davis. Not even a picture of a girl in his wallet. But a three-hour-old plane ticket to Vegas jammed in his pocket. I looked west to see a jet climbing out of SeaTac Airport just over the hill and wondered if that was the kid’s ride out of town? Timing was about right.

“Should have just driven out, kid.” Talking to a corpse, maybe I really did need a drink.

So…what connected the two?

A third party. Someone had hired both Caldwell and the kid to pull a job.

My phone rang. Instead of the contact inside Seattle PD who watched the in-bounds for likely interest, it flared Bitch across the screen. One of these days I’d be standing close enough to my boss to show it to her as it rang. Until then, the joke was mine.

“Hey, Karren.” I’d finally gotten her name, the bar babe who so wasn’t, Senior Agent Lizza Karren. As tough as a drill sergeant with a Marine’s sword rammed up his butt.

“Got a job for you.” Her mood was worse than usual, which was saying something.

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