Free Bluetick Revenge by Mark Cohen

get my hands on that sorry son of a bitch.” I told
     him that was a good lead, and promised to follow up on it. No mention was made of Anvil’s sighting of Karlynn, so I assumed
     Anvil hadn’t yet gotten around to telling Bugg.
    We continued eating and sipping coffee, both of us watching the snow accumulate. It was a wet snow, not typical for this time
     of year. When Bugg had finished his pancakes, he leaned back and said, “So how’d you get into this? Were you a cop?”
    “I was never a cop,” I said.
    “Military?”
    “Marines,” I said.
    “I was in the Corps,” he said as he sipped his coffee. “Infantry,” he added. “What did you do?”
    “Logistics,” I lied. Given that he’d ended his military career by spending six months in the brig, I felt it best not to mention
     I’d served three years as a JAG.
    After collecting five thousand in cash from Bugg, I drove to the post office to check my mail. There was the usual assortment
     of credit card offers as well as the seasonal barrage of catalogs. I put them all in the recycling bin, then headed home.
     Prince greeted me at the door, with Scott and Karlynn right behind him.
    “How’d it go?” Scott asked. He wore jeans, a T-shirt with Japanese characters on it, and some old running shoes. He’s a lean
     six-footer, weighing 170 pounds on a good day. But he doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him, and his build is impressive. That’s
     what happens when you begin each day with five hundred push-ups.
    “Piece of cake,” I said as I removed my jacket. “I think he likes me.” I stomped each foot into the welcome mat a few times
     to prevent myself from tracking snow into the house.
    “What did he want?” Karlynn asked.
    “He wants me to find you,” I said. I went into the living room and sat down in my recliner. They followed and sat on the couch.
    “Did he say why?” she asked.
    He said the two of you had some issues to settle. He mentioned that you took some cash, but didn’t say how much.” Her face
     showed something that wasn’t quite a smirk. I summarized my breakfast with Bugg and commented on his command of the English
     language.
    “Don’t let that fool you,” Karlynn said. “He’s smart. He’s a lot smarter than you think.”
    “Does he have a neck problem?” I asked. “He kept rolling his head around.”
    “He does that when he can’t show anger,” she said. “He’s going to kill me. He’s not even going to try to find the money. He’s
     just going to kill me.” She said it as if she was resigned to it.
    “First he has to find you,” I said. “Then he has to get past me.”

9
    M ONDAY. D AY SIX with Karlynn Slade. We were seated together on a mocha leather sofa in the lobby of the downtown Denver office of the FBI.
     She was about to give another interview to the feds, and I was about to spend the next two hours continuing to read
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
—one of the few philosophy books ever written that are actually enjoyable.
    It wasn’t my first time in the Federal Building. I had worked as a federal prosecutor in Denver after leaving the Marine Corps.
     Later, in private practice, I had occasionally taken on a case in federal court. But the caseload in federal courts consists
     mostly of drug cases, and I had tired of the war on drugs and eventually left the practice of law altogether.
    After my cousin’s death the feds had stepped in to assist the Denver police in investigating his death and the killing of
     the Nigerian immigrant. I had visited the Federal Building once or twice after Hal’s death. Though I had not been close to
     Hal since we were kids, I had followed the investigation into his death and had accumulated an extensive file.
    A door opened and two agents stepped out. The male stood six-two and had a good build. Not a day over thirty. He wore gray
     slacks, a white shirt, black wingtips, and a leather shoulder holster. A nondescript paisley tie hung loosely around