Free MORTAL COILS by Unknown

Post.
     
    The
building that matched the address in the lawyer’s file had been painted brown
to look like wood (it didn’t) and had a quaint Bavarian façade out front. Just
the kind of tacky you’d expect in a Californian wine-country tourist trap.
     
    There
had been no Post on the mailboxes in the lobby, however, so he decided to try
the building manager to see if he could get a forwarding address.
     
    Welmann
went up the steps and marched down the hallway to the manager’s apartment, 3A.
     
    Digging
into his pocket, he grabbed his fake police shield. He then checked his Colt
Python in its holster. He paused to make himself presentable—as much as anyone
could in camo sweatpants and a black T-shirt. He zipped up his light polyester
jacket.
     
    He
knocked, three times, hard, like a cop in a hurry.
     
    Welmann
waited and shifted his weight.
     
    He
hoped Robert made it back to the boss, and that the Mercedes was in one
unscratched piece.
     
    The
kid had a good head, but there was too much “rebel” in Robert. He’d wash out of
Driver’s training, which might be a good thing. Sixteen-year-old boys ought to
worry about “kid” stuff: sex, drugs, and rock and roll . . . not becoming some
hero.
     
    Welmann
heard footsteps and saw the peephole go dark. The door opened without the usual
unlocking of dead bolts and unlatching of security chains.
     
    He
puffed up his chest and furrowed his brow. He’d need a good head of steam to
blow at this manager—impress upon him that withholding a forwarding address
would be obstructing justice. He looked up, fake shield in hand . . . but the
bluster stalled in his throat.
     
    The
woman who answered was tall. How old? Fifty? Sixty? Hard to say. A mature
woman, but with looks like hers, she could have been on magazine covers. Her
cropped silver hair was elegant, and Welmann easily imagined her as the femme
fatale in his favorite noir flicks.
     
    “Can
I help you?” she asked, studying him like a smear of dog poop on her boot.
     
    Welmann
had that elevator-going-down feeling—just enough to throw off his equilibrium.
     
    He
glanced into the apartment. There were a billion books: shelves on every
vertical surface and stacks that overflowed into neat piles. They were real
books, too, with leather and gilt letters; not a TV Guide in sight.
     
    Whatever
was bugging him, he didn’t see it . . . but he felt it: his skin itched and he
fidgeted. There was something dangerous here.
     
    “I’m
looking for—”
     
    Then
he spotted them: at the end of the hall, sitting at a table, were Eliot and
Fiona Post. They blinked at him with the same deer-in-the-headlights look as in
their photographs.
     
    The
uneasy elevator feeling in Welmann halted—as the elevator snapped, and his
stomach leapt into his throat.
     
    He
connected the dots. The manager in 3A. Post kids in 3A. No Post on the
mailboxes because they were being hidden by the woman who stood in front of
him. The woman he’d been trying to track down: Audrey Post.
     
    Welmann
looked into her gray eyes and only then really saw her.
     
    He
couldn’t pull his gaze away. There was power there—not like the shadowy
illusion printed on Crumble’s business card, either. This was the roar of the
ocean surf, an inexorable tide that sucked him deeper.
     
    He
was drowning. Couldn’t breathe.
     
    “Looking
for what?” she asked. “Mister . . . ?”
     
    His
trance broke and he found his voice. “Welmann,” he whispered, and cleared his
throat. “Marcus Welmann.” He gave her a slight bow, which was the jerkiest
thing he’d done in a long time. Somehow, though, it felt like the only thing to
do.
     
    Her
gaze hardened and she opened the door wider. “Come in, Mr. Welmann.”
     
    When
his boss had given Welmann this mission, he had been crystal clear: find Audrey
Post, report back, and do not under any circumstances engage.
     
    Here
he was engaging.
     
    Welmann
could sort this out—but he’d have to talk his