Free Whiskey Sunrise - a Christian Suspense Novel: A chilling tale of a desert that buries its secrets. by John Turney Page A

tapped two fingers twice on the picture.
    The prisoner lifted a casual could-care-less glance at the photo. His eyes twitched open, and he jerked back violently in his chair as if to escape from the print. He paled for a brief second, and his hands shook. The prisoner began tugging at his chains in a wild-eyed attempt at escape
.
    A chill seeped down Rye’s spine. Supporting himself with one hand, Rye leaned on the table and shoved the photo into the guy’s face. “Who are they?”
    The prisoner opened his mouth then clamped it shut. He stared into Rye’s eyes and shook his head.
    A tough nut, but that photo’s got him spooked. And he’s starting to freak me out.
    Raising his voice some, Rye continued, “Here’s the deal. I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories how US lawmen beat the snot out of their Mexican prisoners.” Not true, but Rye let the man’s mind fill in the blanks. “Soon, another officer will enter this room and join me.” Rye hoped Noah had returned from his database search.
    “Amigo,” Rye said, “you are in some serious trouble.
Serio lodo
. We have you,” Rye used one hand to count the crimes on his fingers, “for attempted armed robbery, public menacing, eluding capture, and injury to an officer of the law. And I think I can get the judge to agree that ugly truck of yours breaks some city ordinance. More charges are pending further investigation. However, we have a little hitch.We don’t know your name. You carry no ID. No driver’s license. No vehicle registration. Nada. Nothing. And you refuse to speak to me. I can’t help you if you don’t cooperate. Got that?” Rye paused, and the man refused to acknowledge him. “I. Said. DID YOU GET THAT?”
    The man jumped in his chair and scowled at Rye.
    “Okay,” Rye said, releasing a sigh. “Let’s start with the basics. Tell me your name.”
    The prisoner glowered at Rye. “Americano, you can go to hell and burn your soul there forever.” His Spanish accent was heavy and hard to understand.
    “Gee, now that is what I call an intelligent response.” Rye put his fists on the table and leaned forward. “Let’s try this again. What’s your name?”
    “You can’t scare me—”
    “If that’s how you want to play this, then I’ll choose a name for you. I bet when your madre first saw you she said, ‘I have given birth to an idiota.’” The prisoner started to come out of the chair, but the chains around his waist and feet restrained him.
    Rye remained outwardly calm at the man’s outburst. Inside, he knew he got to him.
Finally.
“So I’ll call you …” Rye paused glancing at the ceiling as if the answer waited in the yellowing acoustic tiles. Rye snapped his fingers. “Got it! Idiota. I dub you Idiota. Whenever you care to tell me your real name, then I will discontinue using the nickname. Besides, we’re running a trace on your fingerprints. If something turns up, like an earlier deportation to Mexico or a prior arrest—I will know your given name.”
    With his lips curling in a snarl, the detainee spat out, “You’re a dead man, cop. When he finds out—”
    Rye smacked the table. “WHO IS ‘HE’? Care to elaborate, Idiota? I don’t know this individual. Give me his name. I can pay him a little visit. Work things out. You know, drink a little beer. Chat a little bit. Tell him you’re singing like a scalded canary.”
    The prisoner shrugged his shoulders again, but not before dread flashed through his eyes. “No. I’m just an—”
    The door swung, and Whitewolf stood in the entrance. His western hat hung low, and his mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes. It never ceased to amaze Rye how imposing the Apache could be when he wanted. Whitewolf stepped into the room and closed the door behind him with a resounding click. Scowling, Whitewolf ambled over to the open chair, turned the chair backwards—metal screeching against tile—and eased his frame into it. He leaned forward to invade the Mexican’s