Free Rising Phoenix by Kyle Mills Page B

over, their lives had continued on similar paths. Hobart had joined the DEA, and Swenson, the L.A. Police Department’s narcotics division. Later, when Hobart had taken the security chief post at the church, he’d brought his old friend in as his right-hand man.
    “Shit, John, he’ll probably change his mind next week.”
    “Not that big an issue, really. There’s some stuff I’ve been wanting to do and this’ll give me a chance to do it.”
    Swenson snatched an untouched piece of bacon from Hobart’s plate. “What do you have going? Starting a private contracting business?”
    “In a way. Actually, I asked you to come here ’cause I want you to come and work for me. I think I’ve got something for you that you’ll find more fulfilling than chasing Simon Blake around.”
    Swenson looked interested, as Hobart knew he would be.
    Swenson had been married for almost six years when his wife had been killed in a car accident. They seemed to have had a perfect marriage—she was one of the few women able to adjust to the life of a cop’s wife. Between that and Swenson’s rare talent for separating his personal life from the job, it looked like a relationship that was going to last. Hobart couldn’t remember exactly when she had died, but it was sometime in the mid-eighties—maybe ’84.
    As he recalled the story, it had been a clear night in Chicago and Helen had been returning from a college where she was taking classes. The stretch of road where she died was perfectly straight. Inexplicably, a car coming in the other direction ran off the road, through a grass median, and head-on into her Volkswagen Rabbit. The other driver survived, protected by his one-ton pickup. Helen had been decapitated. Later it was discovered that the driver had been hopped up on some drug or another.
    “So?” Swenson prompted.
    Hobart had spent most of the drive to the cabin trying to figure out a way to hedge on his offer to Swenson. Not to give too much away. He hadn’t been able to come up with anything practical. There seemed to be no alternative to jumping in with both feet.
    “I intend to stop the illegal narcotics trade in the U.S.”
    Swenson laughed and gnawed on the piece of bacon. “Don’t tell me the DEA’s taking you back.”
    “I’m serious, Bob. America’s being torn apart by drugs—you ought to know that better than anyone. I’ve decided to put a stop to it.”
    “Never knew you were such a patriot, John.”
    “I think of it more as an interesting challenge.” He wasn’t joking, and from Swenson’s expression, it looked like that was beginning to sink in.
    “Hey, I’m with you in theory, John, but let’s face it, the war on drugs is a joke. You and I devoted some of the best years of our lives to chasing our tails.”
    Hobart put his fork down and took a deep breath. “That’s true, we did. But now I think I’ve found a way to make up for that lost time.”
    “Planning on running for President? I don’t see you as the baby-kissing type.”
    “I’m going to poison the drug supply.”
    Swenson dropped what was left of the strip of bacon onto the table and stood. He walked back into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. Hobart went back to his breakfast.
    “You’re serious,” Swenson said from the kitchen. It was a statement and not a question. He came back around and took his seat, sipping at the steaming mug.A deep crease appeared in his forehead as he mulled over what he’d just heard.
    “Why not? I assume you agree that it would take care of the problem.”
    Swenson nodded. “Yeah. It’d work. Given the right scale.”
    Hobart had expected a more enthusiastic response than the blank stare he was getting. Had it not been for Swenson’s wife being killed by a narcotics user and his subsequent bitterness, Hobart wouldn’t have dreamed of trying to recruit him for this operation. If Helen were still alive, Swenson undoubtedly would have marched into the nearest FBI office and