Free Warrior (Freelancer Book 2) by Terry Irving Page B

they didn't flash their badges or show off their guns. These fellows just came up to the door and asked if we'd seen anyone pass by on foot. Strange folks, now that I think of it."
    "Clothes all brand new?” asked Rick.
    Larissa's head came up. "Yes! How did you know?"
    "Sounds like the same people who've been following us. I think they flew in and just bought jeans and shirts to blend in." Rick took another sip of coffee. It was so strong that he swore he could feel it in his fingers and toes.
    Larissa snapped her fingers as she remembered something. She said to Eve, "You got a message yesterday. It was bounced around from your parents and then people down here just spread the word on the party lines. Hell, everyone always listens anyway."
    She pulled a slip of paper out of her jeans and handed it to Eve. "It's from someone named Kristee. Said she's in DC and in trouble. The number is right there."
    Rick unzipped his jacket and began to bring out his pack of Winstons. He stopped cold when his fingers brushed the small leather bag. The warmth from the coffee seemed to drain out of his body.
    "One more thing." Rick brought out the bag and handed it to Larissa. "Do you know who this belongs to? A little girl who may have been reported missing in the past days or weeks?"
    Larissa stared at the medicine bag, turning to see all sides. "Yeah, this is Beth Pine's. Her parents put the word out to look for her three days ago. Where did you find it?"
    Rick looked at the girl, already showing her fear, and said, "Eve, can you do this?”
    She nodded solemnly.
    Rick stood and said to Larissa, "I need to speak to your father. In private."
    Larissa waved a hand. "He's out in the garage. It's just past the barn." There was a pause, and then she said softly, "Damn."
    She looked at Eve and shook her head, begging for a denial. Eve nodded slowly, stood up, and took Larissa in her arms.
    Rick shut the door on the silence.
    The weathered and split boards of the two-car garage matched the old barn and looked like they both would blow away with the first winter blizzard. Rick knocked, and a deep voice said, "Come in."
    Rick swung open the right-hand door and found himself inches from the muzzle of a shotgun. Behind the trigger was an old man with intense brown eyes in a deeply lined face so tanned it looked like burnished leather. He was wearing denim coveralls that showed a lot more grease and oil than denim.
    Rick slowly raised his hands. "Hello. We didn't meet when we stopped on our way into Wounded Knee, but my name is Rick Putnam. I've got a message from Pete Talltrees."
    "OK."
    "Do you mind if I come in?” Rick gestured to his shirt pocket; "I'd really like a smoke, especially if you're going to keep that thing pointed at me." Rick lowered his hands and dug for a cigarette. "So, if you're going to shoot me, just hang on for a minute." The Zippo flared on his thigh, and he lit the Winston.
    The brown eyes behind the shotgun glanced at the lighter, and then returned to Rick's face. "Seventh Cavalry? Tell me, who were you up against at Ia Drang?"
    "I was told later that it was the 1st and 66th Regiments of the Army of North Vietnam, but at the time, I only saw a shitload of gooks with real uniforms and way too much ammunition." Rick took another drag, "I do remember a fast mover with an eagle feather who passed by. I believe that was your plane, Sarge."
    The gun muzzle dropped. "It's good to meet you…”
    "Rick Putnam."
    "Rick. Right. Elvis Iron Crow." They shook—Rick felt a strong hand weathered and callused from years of hard work—and the older man placed the shotgun in a rack custom-mounted on the left-hand door.
    The inside of the garage was very different from the weathered and dilapidated exterior. Clean and well lit, with a long tool bench down the length of the right wall and a rack of power tools down the left, it would have fit right in at Pit Road in Daytona or Gasoline Alley in Indianapolis. Rick noticed that, on the inside,