Search and Destroy by JT Sawyer (top non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📗

beer, tapping it on her shot glass as she went to drink. “Name’s Blake…and here’s to staying cool.”

“Annie…and amen to that.”

She put her empty glass down then hopped off her bar stool as the band returned to their miniscule stage in the corner. Annie glanced back at him, clapping her hands in the air above her head as she started to sway.

“Come on, Mr. Blake, and show me how y’all do things out West.”

He grinned, looking back at his two friends behind him, who were thrusting their chins out in her direction.

Blake nodded at her then heartily swigged down the last of the liquid courage in his glass.

After thirty minutes of some of the most intense dancing he’d ever done, Blake left the floor red-faced and sweaty. He returned to the table, where his friends patted him on the back, their gazes still transfixed on the five-foot-six whirlwind still gyrating to the last song like she’d just arrived at the bar.

When she was done, Annie waved to the musicians then exited the dance floor. She walked towards the three men, blowing a strand of her raven hair from her nose, then leaned against a pole.

Wade slid a chair back, tipping his hat at her. “Take a load off.”

“Thank you! I will.” She patted him on the arm, smiling.

“Blake tells us you’re a writer.”

She picked up Blake’s beer, taking a sip then sliding it back at him, winking.

“Yes, sir. You heard right. I’m doing a feature article for the New York Times on the Old West. Wanted to spend a few days in these parts, hoping to get in touch with some honest-to-God cowboys.” She rested her hand on Blake’s shoulder. “And it seems like I came to the right place.”

“You sure did, darlin’,” Blake said, tipping up his Stetson hat. “This is the last pocket of real men left in this country.”

“I’ve got two days to get my photos, then I gotta be back on the road. Maybe you can point me in the right direction.”

He nodded, grinning at the other men. “I can do better than that. You can get a glimpse of a day in the life of a working cattle ranch just down the road where I’m the foreman.”

The woman swigged down another shot of whiskey, smiling. “Yee-hah.”

After the second bottle of tequila was nearly depleted and the other ranchers had left, Blake escorted the young woman out to the parking lot just after midnight.

“That your ride?” he said, glancing at a white cargo van near the back corner of the dirt lot.

“Yep. My home on the road when I’m workin’. I was just gonna sleep in back for a few hours.” She started to walk towards it but swayed to the right, leaning against the bumper of his pickup and holding her hand up to her head.

She tried to stand up then fell back, sliding down and sitting on the bumper of his truck, giggling and waving her hand. “God, I think that last shot did me in.”

Blake looked around the parking lot, which had emptied of locals. There were only a few semi-trucks parked at the far end with their lights off, and the cook had just taken out the trash, so the place would be closing soon.

No one would know if some dumb, drunk tourist came back to his place. And if she wasn’t compliant, then he knew plenty of deep canyons that could hold a secret.

“You know, my place ain’t far from here if you want to crash on the couch downstairs. I sure don’t wanna see you drivin’ off in this condition. Lots of wildlife on the road this time of night.”

Though he usually despised city slickers, she was an exception. He rubbed his whiskered chin, staring at her hips again as she tried to stand then staggered back to her seat on the bumper.

Hell, she’s rarin’ to go.

Blake swaggered forward, a primeval look burning in his eyes. He slid his beefy arm around her waist, helping her walk over to the passenger’s side of his pickup then opening the door and hoisting her inside.

“Come on, girl, get in. I’ll take care of ya tonight.”

51

The lights inside the Mason County Sheriff’s Department turned off, and Cal watched Sheriff Tom Donnelly walking out the back door and locking up the small building that was the sole law-enforcement agency for the entire county.

By the looks of the shiny new police cruiser, the high-end satellite dish on the roof and the well-kept building amid the other dilapidated structures in the one traffic-light town, Cal was pretty sure that Roth was a frequent contributor to the sheriff’s slush fund. The officer was probably the eyes and ears outside of Roth’s ranch, seven miles to the south.

Cal had remained in the shadows of a thick grove of young elm trees near the back of the parking lot for the past three hours since Viper dropped him off, and now it was time to put his plan into action.

The sheriff headed towards his blue police cruiser, pausing in his tracks when the sound of a baby crying near the dumpster beside his vehicle pierced the air.

“What the hell?” Donnelly pivoted and walked to the rear of his vehicle.

Cal waited until the man was passing by the middle of his bumper before he yanked up the nearly invisible fishing line that was attached to the axle. The fifty-pound catfish line caught Donnelly at the ankles, sending him crashing into the gravel substrate. Cal rushed forward and slammed his heel down on the man’s spine.

The sheriff gasped, his face smashing into the ground. Cal snapped the retention clasp on the Taser on the man’s belt, yanking out the device and firing the two leads into Donnelly’s back.

The man thrashed and shrieked, his bloodied face soiling the parking lot. Cal gave him another jolt then flipped him over, removing his pistol, cuffs and OC spray, then he pointed the sheriff’s own service weapon at him while