Free The Prophet (Ryan Archer #2) by William Casey Moreton Page B

breakfast. Everything was as it should be. The kitchen smelled of rising dough and sliced fruit.
    Alexander preferred to prepare Tatum’s breakfast drink himself. It was an organic smoothie made of fruit, vegetables, a variety of nuts and seeds, juices, and flax oil. The final ingredient, Alexander carried in his jacket. He removed a pill bottle from one pocket and removed the lid. It was filled with small white tablets. He tapped three into the palm of his hand and put the bottle back inside his jacket. Then he placed the chalky tablets in with the rest of the ingredients inside the mixing machine, pressed the lid on tight, and pressed the power button. He blended the drink until the end product was green and thick.  
    When the rest of breakfast was ready, he placed the food on a tray and delivered it to her room. She was rising from her knees when he knocked on the door.
    “I’m just finishing,” she said.
    “Breakfast is served,” he said with a smile.
    “Smells delicious.”
    He set the tray on a table in the small chapel and excused himself.
    “Take your time eating,” he said on his way out. “Then we have a very busy day ahead.”
    Tatum took a drink of the smoothie and smiled. It tasted yummy. The smoothie had quickly become her favorite part of breakfast.

    * * *
    Archer’s arm was still bleeding. He’d gotten some nice road rash from his tumble through the gravel after being thrown free of the Mercedes. He stopped to get gas and stepped into the restroom to find a paper towel. He tore one from a dispenser on the wall and wet it under the faucet. He dabbed at his elbow as he crossed the parking lot to his truck. There was also blood coming from above his left eye. He had noticed it in the mirror as he wet the paper towel. He looked like someone had attacked him with a cheese grater.  
    He was pissed that the car tag had proved to be a dead end so far. He was ready to get his hands on the two goons in the Mercedes and beat their heads together. Plus, it didn’t seem like much of a stretch to assume that when he caught up with the goons in the suits, it would only be one more short step to finding Tatum.
    He picked bits of gravel from the seat of the Land Cruiser. The windshield was grimy with dust. He flicked the lever and squirted wiper fluid onto the glass and let the wipers do the best they could. He turned the key in the ignition and glanced at traffic. The cuts down his arm stung like hell. There was blood on the steering wheel.  
    The driver of the Mercedes and his partner looked American but could have been from anywhere. They hadn’t spoken. Archer had every detail assigned to memory. He couldn’t wait to do some damage. The wind was in his face and the sun was bright. It was a perfect California day. A day like that would give Tatum a heart attack.  
    Archer’s cell phone rang and he retrieved it from the passenger seat.
    “Archer,” he answered.
    The voice on the other end was hesitant. “Uh, are you the guy from last night?”
    Archer did a quick mental search and identified the male voice immediately.
    “Glen, is that you?”
    “Yeah.”
    Cecile’s fiancé, the weed dealer.
    “Glad to hear from you. Did Cecile make it home last night?”
    There was another long hesitation. “No, actually, she didn’t,” Glen said.
    “Did she call?”
    “No, dude. Her mother called about an hour ago and said the police are at her house. That’s Cecile’s legal address. She still technically lives with her mom. So, the police are there and her mom’s like all crying and upset and stuff. It sounds like Cecile might be in trouble.”
    Archer changed lanes, cutting through traffic as he accelerated.  
    “What are they saying, Glen? What are the police there to tell her? Is Cecile okay?”
    “I don’t think so, dude. Her mom said something about an overdose, but that’s crazy. I’m kind of worried, dude.” His tone was rising. The weed was probably making him paranoid.
    “Are the cops