Free Color Of Blood by Keith Yocum Page A

suggesting it’s a new assault weapon, perhaps South African. Lynchy said it might be a . . .” and here Judy looked down at her notes, “a Klaxon personal assault weapon. Oversize round. Manufacturer brags that it’s the most powerful assault weapon in the world. That’s all we have at this point,” she said, looking up.
    “Motive?” Miller asked.
    “Some kind of turf battle going on between two of the Triads,” Judy said.
    “That’s some kind of bloody turf battle,” Miller said, “if they’re using assault weapons like that. Please write that up, Judy, and let’s send it back east. Let’s see if anyone else has seen anything like that.”
    Judy and Daniel nodded, glad to be done with their part of Grand Rounds.
    “Oh,” Miller said as an afterthought, “how’s that Yank thing going?”
    There were several muffled giggles again around the big table as other agents pretended to adjust notebooks or reach for their coffee mugs. Judy was painfully aware that babysitting the Yank was an absurdly low-level assignment given to her because of her perpetual not-quite-equal status in the group. The fact that an attractive Aussie woman would make the Yank more docile and happy was not lost on anyone.
    “It’s fine, sir, but I’m not entirely sure why it’s necessary that we have anything to do with his investigation. It seems a complete waste of time and resources.”
    “Now, now, Judy,” he said in his most patronizing manner, “it’s an agreement we’ve signed with the Americans. I did one of these about nine years ago. It demonstrates to the Yanks that they just can’t traipse around Australia willy-nilly and do whatever they want, whenever they want. No, this is a good thing, and important for Australia’s dignity.”
    Leave it to our posturing director to turn this bloody babysitting job into a matter of utmost patriotic importance, Judy thought.
    “Right,” she said, closing her file folder.
    ***
    The evening was pleasantly cool, and Dennis found himself walking the streets of Perth, staring into the store windows and following the flow of pedestrians as they made their way home after work.
    He did not know where he was going, or really why he was leaving the hotel. He felt compelled to do something other than sit in the steak bar.
    He kept walking, noticing the unusual odors of a foreign city—even the auto exhaust had a stronger diesel odor about it. He kept a steady, almost heady pace with the few commuters he encountered.
    Crossing the street turned out to be dangerous for Dennis; twice he forced cars to swerve around him as he looked left instead of right as he crossed.
    After a while, he found himself across the street from an ornate brick building; it was lit up spectacularly like a night launch at Cape Canaveral. At the top of the three-story, corner building was a Victorian cupola with the word Hotel lit up. He could see people inside a pub on the ground floor, and he made his way toward it.
    He found an open spot at the bar, ordered one of the beers he saw on tap, and glanced down the bar. Some men were alone, savoring every sip of their ice-cold beers before they headed home for dinner with the family. A few old-timers hunkered expertly over their beers, elbows planted firmly on the mahogany, looking like they were just starting a long evening of imbibing.
    Groups of young men and women did what they did in bars everywhere: laugh, flirt, and drink very fast.
    Dennis moved quickly through his first drink, taking in the surroundings and feeling vague amusement at the energy level of the pub. Most traditional businessmen’s bars he haunted around Northern Virginia and DC were glum, quiet places for settling in for a night of CNN or meaningless sporting events on the TV above the bar.
    This pub had some serious drinkers, he could see, but also a smattering of young people giving it a celebratory feel.
    “You a Yank?” the man to his right asked.
    Dennis turned to see a tall, smiling,