Free King of the Dead (Jeremiah Hunt Chronicle) by Joseph Nassise Page B

to collect us, knowing that they could handle any problems that might arise in the process, perhaps even to intimidate a bit if necessary.
    Trouble was, I didn’t intimidate easily.
    As this so-called Marshal was about to find out.
    “When we get inside, just let me handle it,” Denise said.
    Sure , I thought. Right up until the moment they piss me off again.
    A few minutes later Denise got fed up with waiting. I felt her stir beside me and then the door opened. “Come on, I’m done sitting on my ass. Let’s go find the Marshal ourselves.”
    See why I like her?
    Denise took my arm and led me across what I took to be a parking lot and inside a building where it was only a few degrees cooler inside than out; it seemed the Marshal didn’t believe in air conditioning. Dmitri followed close behind.
    We hadn’t gone five steps across the lobby before a voice spoke from a doorway to our right.
    “Where the hell do you three think you’re going?”
    I recognized the voice as Goatee’s, and from the sound of it, he was more than a bit pissed that we hadn’t done what he’d told us to do.
    “To see the Marshal. Isn’t that why you brought us here?”
    Denise’s tone was equally clear: we’ll do what we damn well please.
    Goatee wasn’t done trying to impose order on the situation, however.
    “The Marshal is tied up at the moment. You’re going to have to wait.”
    “Oh, no we’re not!” she snapped, her anger finally spilling free. In response, Dmitri moved closer, ready to intervene if it became necessary.
    “The Marshal asked to see us and we’ve honored that request. But my patience has limits, and I’m not waiting around all day until he deigns to entertain us. I’ve got better things to do. So he can either see us while we’re standing here or come find us later when it’s more ‘convenient.’ Either way, I don’t really give a shit.”
    Goatee laughed.
    And not just a little chuckle either. From the sound of it, he threw back his head and guffawed at the ceiling like a crazy man.
    I thought Denise was going to blow a gasket. She wasn’t someone who enjoyed being the butt of anyone’s humor, intentionally or otherwise. I waited for the explosion, but she must have pulled an extra helping of patience today because it never came.
    Finally, Goatee got himself back under control.
    “Aren’t you the little spitfire?” he said to Denise.
    That did it.
    Denise’s voice got very soft, something that was never a good sign.
    “What did you call me?” she asked, and I felt the air around us stir with her anger.
    Goatee began to look a bit nervous, but his ringing cell phone saved the day.
    “Yes?” he said into it, then, “We’re on our way.”
    Hanging up, he said, “The Marshal will see you now.”
    Saved by the bell.

 
    11
    ROBERTSON
    He’s out there.
    Somewhere.
    Special Agent Dale Robertson stared out the window at the rain-swept Washington streets, his thoughts on Jeremiah Hunt, the man he’d been pursuing for the last several months. Wanted for the murder of a Massachusetts police detective, as well as at least a dozen civilians in just as many states, Hunt was considered a cold-blooded killer, and Robertson had every intention of bringing him to justice.
    But he had to find him in order to do that and it was turning out to be more difficult than he’d anticipated.
    From his many years in law enforcement, Robertson knew that most fugitives made the same simple mistakes. They’d call home to speak with their spouses or families, never thinking that the lines would be tapped or the calls recorded. They’d buy things with their credit or ATM cards, never realizing that each time they did so they were revealing their general whereabouts to the authorities who were searching for them. They’d dye their hair a different color, maybe even grow a beard or a mustache, and then spoil the disguise by wearing clothes that revealed their tattoos or other body art.
    People were creatures of