Free Lethal Force by Trevor Scott

some of the lower elevation trails. There were other areas in the county to snowmobile, though. And, considering the fresh snow, Jake guessed many were taking advantage of that this weekend.
    He drove them to a family restaurant in downtown Whitefish, where they sucked down eggs, hash browns and burnt coffee. They were in a back corner booth, Jake hoping nobody would recognize the congresswoman. So far nobody had.
    â€œWhere do we go from here?” she asked him and then took a sip of her coffee.
    â€œI don’t know.” That was honest. “They could be anywhere.” Jake stared at his phone and wondered if he knew someone who could help them. But it wasn’t like he could have the NSA redirect satellites like they do in the movies, and pinpoint their location. Well, he might know someone.
    â€œMaybe we should drive down to Missoula,” she suggested.
    That was one possibility. He would be able to stop by his storage unit and pick up a few things there. Like a gun. Or two. He checked the internet on his cell phone and quickly found what he was looking for before shoving the phone back in his pocket. He threw cash for breakfast onto the table and got up.
    â€œLet’s go, Lori,” he said. “I gotta see a man about a horse.”
    She got up and said, “This better be a euphemism. Because it’s too cold to ride horses.”
    Jake drove to the edge of town to a gun shop and bought a Glock semi-auto handgun in 9mm Luger with two extra magazines, along with a conceal holster for his right hip and three boxes of jacketed hollow points. In and out in an hour, including the background check.
    Back in the Ford Explorer now, Lori said, “You’ve got to love America. A quick breakfast and buy a handgun all before noon.”
    â€œThat’s right, Lori. And don’t let those assholes in Washington try to change that.”
    â€œOh, I won’t. You gonna let me shoot that?”
    â€œI was hoping you’d ask,” he said and started up the rental. Then he drove out of town to find a place to shoot. With wilderness all around, it wouldn’t be a long search.

11
    The killer had brought Professor James Tramil from the police station directly to an isolated home a few miles north of Whitefish, Montana. Tramil had feared for his life the entire time, his whole precarious future streaking through his mind, wondering if this was how it would end for him. Who would care if he died? Would his obituary simply state the facts of his brief life? And what about a legacy? He had no wife, no children. He made a pact with himself, then and there, that if he somehow got out of this mess, he would try to work on a relationship. What were humans without the lineage of DNA, he wondered.
    Now he sat on a small mattress on the cement floor of a dark, damp basement, his right leg shackled with a chain to a metal support post. He thought if he had a tool he could release the top part of the post from the wooden cross beam. No, the chain was attached to an immovable welded section. It wouldn’t rise up or down.
    The room wasn’t entirely dark. A couple small windows were mostly covered with snow, but a sliver of light came through giving him a view of his surroundings. Someone liked to hoard. The room was stuffed with everything from lumber to old furniture, topped off with newspapers that probably dated back to the Nixon administration. Every now and then he would hear rustling in the junk, followed by a flash of movement. He guessed mice. Maybe rats. He wasn’t fond of either. One of his female colleagues at Oregon State would be trying now to determine the species. She was single, Tramil thought. And highly intelligent. Also, considering she wore no make-up, she was not unpleasant to look at. Her only detractor was the fact that she would probably never consider reproducing. The planet, after all, ‘had far too many people for continued sustainability.’ Her exact