Free Silent Hunt by John Lescroart Page B

finally caught up just as the guy was arriving in front of the exit gate.
    Hunt came up behind him and with a lunge grabbed at the duffel, getting a hold on it. “Hey! Hold up! What do you think you’re doing?” Hunt pulled at the strap.
    The guy held on, whirled, and threw an elbow that Hunt barely ducked away from. But in that one fluid movement, Hunt realized he was dealing with a strong, lightning-fast, and trained fighter. Hunt himself had a black belt in karate and this guy, even hampered by the heavy duffel, was coming on as at least his equal, in any case a force to be reckoned with. Now he had Hunt backing away, and like any experienced fighter he kept coming, dropping the duffel and coming around with a right chop that Hunt knocked away with his forearm. It felt like he’d stopped a tire iron.
    Squaring up now, ready to press an attack of his own, Hunt got his first good look at the man’s face, and it stopped him cold. Nearly half of it bore the scars of a serious burn injury, almost as though the skin had been melted away.
    It immediately took the fight out of Hunt, though his breath was still coming hard. “What the hell are you trying to do?” he rasped out.
    The other man spoke with an unnerving calm. “What am I trying to do? You just attacked me. I was defending myself.”
    â€œYou were walking out with my duffel.”
    â€œThat’s not your duffel. It’s mine. And I wasn’t walking out anywhere. I was going to buy a newspaper”—he pointed—“at this shop right here.”
    Meanwhile, three TSA officers had broken through the ranks of onlookers and one of them—Hillyer by his name tag—advanced on them, arms spread out, asserting control. “All right, everybody. Easy. Easy now. What’s going on here?”
    â€œThis guy,” Hunt said, “was making off with my duffel bag.”
    â€œIt’s mine, sir,” the scarred man replied, dead calm.
    With his own first look at the man’s face, Hillyer, too, took an extra beat, then came back to Hunt, who said, “That’s my duffel. You can check it out. It’s filled with fishing gear. I’m on my way down to Baja.”
    â€œSo am I,” the scarred man said. He reached into his shirt pocket and held out a boarding pass. “With your permission, sir,” he said to Hillyer. Going to one knee, he pulled around the identification tag attached to the strap and held it out first to the TSA officer, then to Hunt.
    â€œJoe Trona,” he said. “That’s me.” He stood and reached behind him and took out his wallet, which also revealed a badge. Hillyer inspected the badge and seemed to read every word on it, twice looking from badge to man. “I’m a police officer and I promise you I did not steal this man’s duffel bag.”
    Hillyer unzipped the duffel for a quick look. Hunt saw the neatly arranged reels and spools of fishing line, similar to his own. Hillyer looked at Trona, then to Hunt. “When did you last see your own duffel bag, sir?”
    â€œI left it at the bar when I went to the bathroom. The man sitting next to me was watching it. But then when I came out, I saw . . .” He stopped because there was nothing more he could say. “I’m a horse’s ass, Mr. Trona,” he said. “I owe you an apology.”
    Trona looked at Hunt but said nothing.
    â€œLet’s go see if your duffel’s still at the bar,” Hillyer said to Hunt. “As our announcement says, many items of luggage look the same. If it’s still there, let’s not leave it unattended anymore. How’s that sound?”

    JOE TRONA STOOD IN THE shade outside the La Paz terminal, his back to the wall in the infernal Baja heat. His duct-taped quiver of rod cases lay safely along the wall, along with his duffel and a cooler. The van would be there any minute. “The horse’s ass.”
    â€œHunt