Free The Blood of Patriots by William W. Johnstone

ridge that marked the start of Randolph’s property. He couldn’t see the house or farm from here but he passed the spot where he had taken the picture. He slowed. In the light, he saw something he had missed the night before: flecks of blood on the ground. That made sense. The intruders had wallowed in the stuff back at the barn then paused here to remove the bags from their feet. Some of the blood would have come off. He pulled over and crouched by the spill. There was nothing but what he had seen the night before: a partial footprint. The blood spots satisfied him that the shoe belonged to one of the pig-killers. The print was left when he put on or took off the bags—the plastic grocery store sacks, most likely—that were used to distort any footprints left behind.
    As he squatted there, Ward saw a black van coming up the road. He hurried to the Prius, punched up the map screen, and pretended to study it. The van stopped behind him, but only for a moment. It pulled around him slowly and he looked up at the dark windows. He could see nothing of the inside as the van continued on up the road.
    â€œToo many years on the streets,” he muttered. There, everyone was a potential criminal from the homeless guy who might shiv you to the fellow officer who might shiv you without a knife, or worse. He pulled from the curb and continued up the road.
    The van had pulled around the fence and was going up the dirt road. No one lived up there but Randolph. Ward slowed. There was no one watching the farmer’s place. He didn’t know if these were the perps, what mischief was intended, or even what more damage could be done.
    â€œBut you’ll never know if you don’t follow them,” Ward told himself. He looked at the clock. Twenty minutes past seven. Swearing, he went around the fence and followed the van at a distance.
    The big, black vehicle wobbled across the field as Ward had done the night before. It stopped well short of the Randolph property, its surface shining like marble in the early morning sun. The back doors were facing Ward. They opened and four young men emerged. They were fussing about something in the van but it was too far for him to see inside the shadowy interior. He didn’t know whether they had bikes with them or picnic baskets. Ward drove slowly onto the field, his heart racing with a familiar rush.
    First one, then all four of the men stopped and looked at the Prius. He drove closer, saw that they were swarthy. He put them all at between sixteen and nineteen, ranging in height from five-six to the leader who was about six-one. The four had what appeared to be Asiatic features. They stood proudly, not as interlopers but as though they belonged here. Just now he noticed a bead necklace around one of the men.
    Of course . Ward stopped the car some twenty yards from the group. He got out. “Good morning,” he said. These guys were Native Americans. Probably not the ones he was looking for, but you never could tell without checking.
    The others stood in silence. Then, at a signal from the man with the beads, they resumed their activities. These consisted of pulling blankets from the van and carrying them to the other side. Ward approached cautiously, not from fear but from respect. They worked in silence. The men had just finished spreading the blankets on the ground when the leader turned on him.
    â€œWhat do you want?” the youth demanded.
    â€œI was curious,” Ward said.
    â€œAbout what? Us? Life? Why the universe has turned against you?”
    Ward was not expecting attitude. “Slow down,” he said calmly, as if he were addressing a crackhead in an all-night bodega.
    â€œYou are the one who is rushing,” the young man replied.
    â€œAm I? Okay, we can do this your way. Why is the universe against me?”
    The youth scowled. “This is a joke to you.”
    â€œTrust me, friend, there is nothing funny in my world right now. Buddy