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The Grim Reaper—out of costume—waited until the car rental office was empty—no tourists, no one in sight but the nebbish behind the counter who appeared to be playing Solitaire on his work computer. He was a lean man with a slight build, a brown skin tone that suggested he might be Hispanic.
The Reaper hated playing dress up. Traveling light was the assassin’s credo, so this scam required a stop at a department store and the purchase of their cheapest suit. It was one-time-use, right? And its cheapness might support the cliché that cops dressed badly. Dealing in cultural stereotypes went against the grain. Right-thinking police officers had always been critical to their movement. But when you were trying to mislead someone, it was best to show them exactly what they expected to see.
The Reaper flashed a fake badge. “New Mexico Bureau of Investigation.”
The nebbish tore his eyes from the screen. “Can I...help you?”
“I’m looking for two men.” The Reaper raised his phone and displayed two photos, one of Pike and the other of Kincaid. “Seen them?”
The kid glanced at the photos. The recognition was instantaneous. But he didn’t speak.
“They’re wanted in connection with a murder. They’re believed to be armed and dangerous.”
“Really? They didn’t seem dangerous.”
“They never do. So you saw them?”
“I think...” He swallowed. “I think they rented a car from me. Well, the younger one did.”
“What car?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Can you look it up? On that game-playing device on your desk?”
The clerk clenched his teeth. “I’m...not supposed to do that. Customer confidentiality. We can get in a lot of trouble if we release personal data.”
“Did I mention that I’m with the state Bureau of Investigation?”
“You did.”
“Would you prefer to be subpoenaed? Brought in for questioning? Because I can make that happen. All it takes is a phone call.”
The clerk gulped again. “Let me see what I can do.” He switched to another screen—without terminating his Solitaire game.
“They probably rented under the name of Pike. Maybe Kincaid. But probably Pike.”
“Yes, you’re right.” He scanned rows of text. “Looks like they took a Subaru compact.” The corner of his lips tugged upward. “I recall he griped that we didn’t have anything more upscale.”
“You couldn’t rent him a Maserati?”
“It’s a small office. We mostly deal with Korean compacts. Not much market for the fancy stuff.”
“Did you say it was blue?”
The clerk blinked. “I didn’t say that, but it is. How did you know?”
“Seems to be his favorite color. What’s the license plate?”
“Okay, I’m really not supposed to tell you that.”
“Kid, I could haul you and your computer downtown right now.”
“I—I’m not trying to be difficult.” His eyes were pleading. “But we could be sued if we give that out and something bad happens. My boss said that I can’t release license plate numbers under any circumstances.”
“Not even to law enforcement?”
His voice stammered. “No. I’m sorry. Not even to you.” Pause. “If it were up to me—”
“It is up to you.”
“No, I have to do what my boss says.”
“We all have free will. That’s what makes us human. It’s time we took back our rights. Stopped letting the government and...bosses tell us what to do.”
“Look, I don’t want any trouble.”
Should’ve worn the Reaper costume. There was no time for messing around with this twerp. “Neither do I.”
“Let me call my supervisor.”
“We are all free to make our own choices. And you have made a poor one. Despite my best efforts to help you. You should have stayed back in the homeland.”
In a space of time so brief it couldn’t be measured, the Reaper withdrew a gun, a long-barreled number with a noise suppressor.
The clerk raised his hands. “Hey! Wait a minute!”
“I don’t have a minute.” A small cry escaped the clerk’s lips, quickly snuffed out. The bullet hit him in the dead center of his forehead. Blood splattered against the back wall with a grisly splatter. The clerk fell to the floor in a slow but surprisingly solid crash.
The Reaper stepped around the counter and pulled the screen forward.
Make, model, and license plate number. Time to get crack-a-lackin’.
Roswell was the first stop. Find out what they know, then make sure they didn’t cause any more trouble. Then back to the list. Then collect the funds needed to take back America. A real plan, not a half-baked random assault. A blow that would strike at the heart of everything that was wrong with this nation.
Despite all the interruptions, the main job was getting done. The list was getting shorter. When your cause is just, the fates smile on you. Get the job done. Then advance to the next level. Whatever that required. In the large scheme of things, two traveling lawyers really didn’t make much difference, although...
This might require another visit to the confessional.