Homefront Defenders. Lisa PhillipsЧитать онлайн книгу.
face. Though years ago Brian hadn’t had facial hair—or looked like a beach bum.
“And this guy—” she found the man’s personal information “—Brian Wells? He lives here?”
“Yes. And if I take a wrong turn, I’ll tell you. I’m not one of those guys you women complain about who can’t ask for directions. There’s no point driving around in the middle of nowhere and getting lost.”
Alana shifted in the seat. What had that been about? It was bad enough being alone in the car with him for hours. Especially now that she knew he only cared about work. Okay, so she’d kind of known that already, but sometimes when he looked at her there was this...flash. That was all, just this spark on his face, or in his eyes, that said there was more than just work under that staid business demeanor.
She really hoped there was something else. Otherwise the man had a very boring existence. Not that Alana’s life was better, but it was a whole lot more interesting. And when she proved to everyone that becoming a Secret Service agent was what she was born to do, they would know it had been the right choice.
The foliage on both sides crept back, away from the car, over the next few feet as the road widened. Heavy leaves stretched toward them, great palms that bowed low when the rain she’d been caught in so many times hiking poured from the sky. Those camping trips years ago that had been rained out were some of her best childhood memories. Alana had gone all over the world in the last year on protection detail as a Secret Service agent, and before that she’d been assigned to several different US cities. But she’d missed her home state.
They emerged into a clearing, someone’s front yard. The house was an old Airstream with bricks instead of tires that had probably been there for fifty years and weathered every storm Alana had ever been caught in. And then some. The US Marines’ flag flew high with an American flag beside a satellite dish.
“This is it?” She glanced around. “Is he allowed to live here?”
Locke actually smiled. “Technically, no. But what do you think will happen if Uncle Sam shows up with a police badge to throw a veteran out on his ear and the press gets wind of it?”
“So live and let live, is that it?”
“It’s a theory. Brian keeps to himself. He doesn’t disturb anyone and asks for the same in return.” Locke motioned to a ramshackle shed to the right of the trailer. “He carves animals out of wood and then sells them at a souvenir store at the base of the mountain. And then—” He paused. “What? Wakes up this morning and drives a yakuza soldier to the beach so he can try to kill you?”
He opened his door, but Alana didn’t move. “This makes no sense,” he said.
She could barely muster up the will to lift her hand. But she couldn’t let him know that. “So...why are we interested in this guy, other than that he was the getaway driver from this morning?”
“Maybe he and our knife-man are friends now?” Locke motioned to the file, one leg out of the vehicle. “Brian Wells got out of prison five years ago, moved here. A ten-year stint. Good for us he only dislikes what he calls ‘political pawns.’ So long as he’s taking his medication, we’ll be fine.”
She grimaced. “Is it bad that I don’t want to go in there?”
What if they found another body? She didn’t want Locke to see her lose it all over again. It was bad enough he’d seen the aftermath the last time. And why had Brian shown up in her life that morning, if not for a reason that had everything to do with the fact she was a Secret Service agent and he was on their watch list?
His smile softened. “Want to stay here?”
Was he serious? If there was a plot in place, she was going to figure out what it was. Alana stiffened. “No.” She shoved the car door open and strode over the soft mossy earth to the front door.
Locke caught up and stretched his arm out in front of her. “Let me.”
Who was she to argue? If he wanted to catch the bullet first, that was fine with her. “Be my guest.”
He knocked, but no one answered. Locke twisted the door handle and called out as he opened it slowly. This time there was no one inside.
The TV was still on, and a meal in front of the recliner was half-eaten. She’d read in Wells’s file he had a blue Chevy truck circa Bill Clinton registered to him. Alana looked around. “This doesn’t make sense. Did he just leave in the middle of eating and drive off in his truck?”
Locke wandered to the rear and a sliding door. “You’re right. It doesn’t make any sense at all.”
When Locke ducked into the bedroom—not going in there, thank you—she decided to look at the kitchen instead. The sink was full of dishes, and the range top was crusted with charred food. The man needed to crack a window and let in some of that humid hibiscus breeze.
Piled up on the end of the counter was a stack of mail. Magazines. Junk inserts advertising local sales.
A business card.
“Oh, no.”
“What is it?” Locke came close enough to look over her shoulder. Didn’t he trust her? It was only one text to someone she’d gone to high school with. “Kaylee Preston, Hilo Explorer online. Is that—”
“My sister.”
“Why does a missing sniper involved in an attempt on your life have your sister’s business card?”
He watched her blow out a breath. “That is a very good question.” Alana unclipped her phone and made a call. After listening for a while, she glanced at the floor. “It’s me. Listen, I need to talk to you about something. Can you call me back...please?”
It almost hurt hearing so much longing in the soft alto of her voice. Did he even know what that felt like? Sure, he called his mom on Sundays, but he didn’t think he’d ever had that much feeling about someone. Even those closest to him. His sisters were so much older, it wasn’t like they’d played together.
Locke walked through the trailer again to give her a minute to gather herself. He stared at the half-eaten meal. Turned off the TV.
No pets. He trailed back to the bedroom. The gun safe in the closet was open, half the racks missing items. Brian had taken at least six weapons—handguns, rifles and a shotgun—assuming no one had looted it since he’d left. Plenty of boxes of shells remained. Clothes spilled out of the drawers, and a green duffel lay crumpled in the corner. With some people, it was hard to tell if they’d been burglarized or if that was just how messy they lived.
Alana said, “Anything?”
Locke glanced around. “He’s armed, but he didn’t use any of the weapons this morning when I saw him. He just drove.”
A loner ex-sniper takes his guns to act as the getaway driver for a yakuza killer? It hardly made sense.
“I called Joe Morton,” Alana said. “Get this. He knows this guy, said all the cops do. Apparently he disappears all the time, shows up all over the island drunk and usually raving about political pawns and corruption. All that antigovernment, ‘we should live free and not under their thumb’ stuff. Joe said they usually take him in for the night and then drive him home the next day.” She paused. “I told him you’re sure that he’s the getaway driver. He’s going to update the BOLO to include that information. He said not to worry, they’ll find Brian Wells.”
Locke motioned to the room around them. “Brian is a drunk, but he’s never broken protocol before. Not when he knows the president is coming. He’s supposed to be here for this visit, and he’s supposed to stay home while the president is in town. That’s the arrangement.” He shook his head. “Can’t put a detail on a man we can’t find.”