Free Bluetick Revenge by Mark Cohen Page A

his neck.
     His hair was sandy and cut short. He was chewing gum.
    The female had fair skin. She was slender, perhaps five-six and 125 pounds. Closer to my age. She wore black gabardine slacks
     and a very plain powder blue blouse with a scoop neck. Her gun was on her hip, and her hips were a bit wider than you’d expect
     to see on a slender woman. Her nails were not painted, but she had applied some type of high-gloss coating to them. She wore
     her mahogany hair in what might be called a modified bob; she’d allowed it to grow a little longer and fuller in back. Not
     bad-looking for a federal agent.
    “Hi, Karylnn,” she said. “How are you doing?”
    “Fine,” Karlynn said without enthusiasm as she stood up.
    “You remember Special Agent Livingston?” the female asked.
    “Yeah,” Karlynn said. They acknowledged each other with a look that told me there had been tension between them.
    “Who’s he?” Livingston asked, now looking at me. I stood up.
    “Pepper Keane,” I said. “I’m her ride.”
    “Pepper?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You a bodyguard or something?” he asked.
    “Jack of all trades,” I said.
    “Well, Jack, you’ll have to wait out here.”
    “Figured I would,” I said. “Brought a book to entertain me.” I held it up so they could see it. It was the original hardcover
     edition.
    “Never heard of it,” Livingston said. I nodded and refrained from suggesting that he consider reading something other than
Guns & Ammo.
    Karlynn followed them into the inner sanctum of the operation, and I resumed my seat on the couch. I had the room to myself,
     though I could see a Hispanic female receptionist answering the phone in a work area separated from the reception area by
     a counter and a sheet of bulletproof glass. Aside from that, the lobby was comparable to what you might find in any upscale
     office building. Thick crimson carpeting covered the floor, and dark paneling adorned the walls.
    After ten minutes I felt thirsty and asked the receptionist for directions to the nearest pop machine. She told me, so I walked
     out past the elevators into a lounge area and bought a diet Coke, then returned to the lobby and resumed reading. Every so
     often I would see an agent enter or leave. There had been a time when I knew every agent in the Denver office, but transfers
     and retirements had taken their toll, and I didn’t recognize any of the agents passing through the lobby. Maybe that was a
     good thing. I had once prosecuted an FBI agent for beating a confession out of someone, and for quite a while thereafter I
     hadn’t exactly been a popular figure in the Bureau’s Denver office.
    Perhaps another twenty minutes had passed when the door opened and Karlynn came out saying, “I don’t have to put up with this
     shit.” Both agents were behind her.
    “Karlynn,” the female said, “he didn’t mean it that way. But we have to ask these questions.”
    I stood up and looked at Karlynn as she came toward me. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
    “What’s wrong is that this guy’s an asshole,” she replied. Livingston looked at the female agent and rolled his eyes. Karlynn
     found a cigarette in her purse and lit up, notwithstanding the brass NO SMOKING sign affixed to the wall.
    “Karlynn,” the female said, “let’s just start over, okay?”
    “I want him in there with me,” Karlynn said, referring to me.
    “We can’t do that,” Livingston said. “It’s against the rules.”
    “Then you change the fucking rules,” she shot back. “C’mon,” she said to me, “let’s get out of here.” I put my hand on her
     shoulder. A gentle human touch can go a long way toward calming an irate person.
    “Why don’t we call Matt?” I suggested. Karlynn sighed; the agents said nothing. “Is there a phone I can use?”
    “You can use the one on the wall,” the female said. “Dial nine to get out.” I walked to a tan phone mounted on the wall and
     punched in Mart’s number. He came on