Free The Assassin's Case by Craig Alexander

funeral ended, the cliché throwers, the propagators of the banal, so offended Grant with their insipid comments that he came very near to exploding. Steve Jenson, the only real source of support he had, must have sensed Grant’s growing anger, and began to ward off well-wishers. He couldn’t even share his pain with his sister. Charlotte blamed him.
    Even so, he would protect her.
    Grant opened his eyes. From his vantage point on a small rise he scanned the Rusty Spur through gaps in the clump of Creosote bush. Five more minutes and he would make his move. No one had left or entered the small saloon since he arrived two hours ago.
    The only vehicle in the gravel lot was an old Ford Bronco. The original SUV. The navy paint and alloy rims gleamed in the weak light. Large all terrain tires raised it three or four feet off the ground, and from beneath the chassis a pair of chrome pipes were visible, hinting at the power in its engine. Someone loved that machine and had cared for it well.
    Grant didn’t want to linger too long. At night the many venomous nocturnal predators emerged from their dens to hunt, and he had no desire to get in their way. Tarantulas, scorpions, Gila Monsters, coral and rattlesnakes called this region home. Not to mention mountain lions. Though the chance of encountering one of the big cats was slim.
    Grant stood and dusted off the seat of his pants with the palm of his hand. He gathered the case and the rest of his belongings and sprinted in a low crouch toward the back of the bar. He stopped behind another clump of desert scrub, scanning the rear. No movement in any of the windows. He hid the case and his plastic bag in the dense brush and straightened to his full height. Unbuttoning his coat he slipped the SIG P226 out of the holster at his belt, the pocket of his coat held the P229.
    He eased the slide back and made sure a round was chambered before sprinting toward the back door, gun in front of him in a two-handed grip. He slid to a stop and placed his back against the wood plank wall, listening. No voices. No music. Nothing but the distant and haunting wail of a coyote carried on the wind. Curtains covered the window in the door and he couldn’t see through them. Staying low to avoid windows, he moved to the front of the bar and leaned around the edge, gun covering the front entrance.
    Blood racing from the adrenaline coursing through his system, Grant stood still, breathing the frosty air, forcing the cold calm he needed. He tamped down the welling anger, hatred, and fear that threatened to steal his composure. Swallowing his roiling emotions he expelled a gust of air from his lungs, envisioning the negative energy blowing away in the cloud of frosty vapor.
    Easing along the plank façade of the front of the building, he carefully placed each step, doing his best to reduce the noise of his passing. The front entry consisted of two swinging doors, reminiscent of an old west saloon. He peered over the top to see a foyer and another set of glass doors. They were covered in black film and he couldn’t see through them. Could they see out?
     
     
    * * * * *
     
     
    Jimmy Boom Tedesco sat in the chair in the middle of the room, elbows on his knees, palms together, forehead resting on his fingertips, eyes closed. He sniffed the air, seeking comfort in the familiar smells of the bar. It was critical for him to keep his poise, so he prayed. Prayed like he had never prayed before. I beg You, give me the right words. Keep me alive just long enough—
                  Something slammed into the front doors. Though the noise startled Tedesco he forced himself to remain perfectly still. He snapped open his eyes and gazed past his steepled fingers. The doors exploded open as a foot kicked them apart. Grant Sawyer’s foot. A gun held in a two-handed grip preceded him into the bar. The hands holding the gun didn’t waiver, the weapon moved as he moved, the barrel centered between Tedesco’s