Free The Savage Dead by Joe McKinney Page A

with the setup. Nobody was getting in here without bringing down an immediate response, and his agents didn’t have to work in crappy conditions to make sure that happened.
    Satisfied, he went inside and met Paul Godwin, who, as usual, was on his cell phone.
    “Okay,” Paul said. From his stiff, attentive posture, Juan figured he was talking with the senator. “No, he just walked in. Are you ready for us? Okay.”
    He hung up the phone and he and Juan shook hands.
    “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
    “Not a problem,” Juan said.
    He nodded at the sling holding Juan’s left arm. “How’s the arm? Does that hurt?”
    “It’s all right,” Juan said.
    “I’ve never known anybody who got shot before.”
    “I don’t recommend it.”
    Godwin forced a laugh, but Juan could tell how uncomfortable he was. “Sounds like good advice. Listen, that reminds me. She’s been pleased with how well your team has done keeping a low profile. Considering how everything’s been going after the shooting, you guys have really done a great job. We’re concerned, you know, with her image. With the press being what it is, it doesn’t pay to be a bad neighbor.”
    “I imagine not. Is that what she wants to talk to me about?”
    “Not exactly. Here, come with me.”
    Paul gave a quiet courtesy knock on a white door that led into the rest of the apartment, waited a moment, and then opened the door and ushered Juan into a spacious sitting room. The floor was hardwood, the white wood-paneled walls adorned with paintings of Senator Sutton’s ranch near Val Verde Springs, Texas. This sitting room was where Senator Sutton did most of her press conferences, and the room had been on the news enough recently that, upon stepping into it, Juan felt like he was entering a place he knew well, despite having never been, like the set of a favorite sitcom.
    Senator Sutton rose to greet him. She was wearing a red pantsuit over a black blouse, and when she shook his hand, it was with the firm, self-assured grip of a woman accustomed to holding court.
    “Won’t you have a seat, Agent Perez?” She gestured to one of the white high-backed chairs opposite the corner of the couch where she always sat during press conferences. “We have coffee or tea. Soft drinks, if you prefer.”
    “I’ll get it, ma’am,” said Paul. To Juan, he said, “Black coffee, two sugars, right?”
    “Uh, okay. Sure. Two sugars.” Juan was lost as to how Paul knew his tastes in coffee until he remembered they had been at the table together for a while that night at the Washington Hilton. The man had spent so much time on his cell phone that night Juan hadn’t thought he’d been paying attention. Clearly, he’d misjudged him.
    Sutton already had a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of her, and she sipped it, waiting for Paul to come back with Juan’s coffee. Juan glanced up at the paintings on the wall.
    “Your ranch looks like a nice place,” he said.
    “Thank you. Wayne and I like it, too. You’re from Del Rio, aren’t you, Agent Perez?”
    “Yes, ma’am.” But he didn’t elaborate. The house where he grew up looked quite a bit different from her ranch, and she seemed to sense that in his silence, for she didn’t press for more details. They may have hailed from the same part of Texas, but they were still from different worlds.
    Paul came back with his coffee, served in a fragile porcelain cup on a saucer that reminded Juan of a little girl’s tea set. But when he drank it, his eyebrows went up.
    Christ, he thought. The rich drink good coffee.
    “I’m going on vacation,” Sutton said.
    The comment caught Juan off guard. “Oh?”
    “Yes, a cruise, actually. To Cozumel.”
    Juan coughed on his coffee and had to put it down on the table between them. “Oh,” he said. “Mexico. Really?”
    Sutton glanced at Paul and chuckled. Paul was on his cell phone again. He didn’t look up, but he chuckled, too, and Juan had the feeling he was