Free The Old Gray Wolf by James D. Doss Page B

is!
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    You know what she did. But before we have time to applaud the spunky lady’s fortitude and pluck, another serious player is about to take center stage—one who has gotten a good look at the woman behind the wheel of the aged Bronco.
    A CRITICAL REVERSAL OF ROLES
    As the sleek, silver-gray Ford sedan with Oklahoma plates emerged from behind the deserted farmhouse and pulled onto the paved highway, the driver stared at the slowly receding Bronco and considered the possible downside: She has certainly gotten a look at my rental car and might have read a portion of the plate number despite the mud. Which was no big deal. Tracing the car back to Avis would produce a Visa number on a stolen card, which would lead the snoop nowhere fast. So I’ll ditch the rental at the St. Louis airport, use another bogus credit card to buy an airline ticket to Denver or Colorado Springs, where I’ll rent myself another set of wheels. After a good night’s sleep, I’ll motor over to Granite Creek, do the job, and be out of town before those hick cops know what’s happened.
    All well and good.
    But the seasoned pro could not dismiss that proverbial worst-case scenario. The nosy bitch might have gotten a good enough look at me to recognize my face next time she sees me. And (though this seemed like an awfully long shot) … She might be waiting for me in Granite Creek, ready to ID me for the police.
    A vexing situation, but challenges do serve to keep one’s edge razor-sharp. It also helps to have a sense of humor. “What is the world coming to—me being tailed by a woman !” Finding some comedic relief in the tense situation, the so-called Cowboy Assassin laughed out loud.
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    A typically sexist attitude? In more commonplace circumstances one might reasonably conclude so, but in a dicey situation where the presumed chauvinist lout pays the rent by offhandedly murdering fellow citizens—does it not seem somewhat nitpicking to dwell upon such relatively minor issues as political correctness? And who among us, whether deliberately or without intent to offend, has not committed a similar or equivalent transgression—including Miss Louella Smithson?
    But enough of these pesky semirhetorical questions. The urgent issue at hand is (in a manner of speaking not intended to cast canine aspersions on either party) that the fox is now following the hound.
    Or would have been—except for the interruption.
    A MINOR COMPLICATION
    The person referred to as “Cowboy” did not flinch when the cheap cellular telephone warbled like a robin choking on a knotty earthworm. I really must reprogram that piece of junk for something less grating on the nerves. With a wan smile, the assassin answered the presumably urgent summons: “So soon?”
    Francine Hooten’s unmistakable raspy voice responded, “My apologies. I have grave concerns about one of my employees, who has apparently been taking an unseemly interest in my personal business—and possibly, in yours . Even as we speak, she is headed north in a pale green Volkswagen Bug.” A pause. Or do they call them Beetles? “Will you be able to resolve this troublesome issue—per our agreed financial arrangement?”
    Cowboy smiled as the described automobile passed. “Consider it done.” I do lead a charmed life. “Goodbye.”

 
    CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    IN THE MEANTIME, WHAT’S HAPPENING AT THE COLUMBINE?
    Probably not a whole lot, but a Rocky Mountain westerner who stays away from his natural habitat for too long—even in the pleasant environs of rural southern Illinois—tends to get homesick for alpine peaks that keep their winter frosting on all summer long, lonesome cowboys who sing sad songs about love gone wrong—and stream water so crystal clear that Mr. Rainbow Trout stands out like a multicolored mitten dropped on a snowbank. Not