Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ricky had a bad feeling in his gut. This is what happened last time. Al and Boo waited for him to go dancing and then killed that DEA agent. He knew someone else was in on that ugly chore, but still didn't know who.

As he sped through the rain toward the camp where he had been living for the past six months, he looked at the speedometer and slowed the speed of his pickup truck. The last thing he needed right now was to spin out on the slick pavement.

Talking with that chick at the dance hall hardly held his interest. Until she started talking about the deputy sheriff she danced with last night. Then she chattered on about how the deputy knew Mitzi, and asked questions about him. Hell, how did a deputy know about him?

That had captured his attention, but not in a good way.

He was surprised to find a strange vehicle at the place. His stomach knotted with that bad feeling. A real bad feeling. Wary, he slipped his revolver into the waistband of his jeans and pulled his vest over it. He patted the knife inside his boot to reassure himself.

Concealing the alarm he felt, he sauntered casually into the mobile home.

Boo and Al stood at the Formica table in the eating area. A man sat relaxed in the one large chair in the room, an overstuffed rocking chair. Damn. It was the man known as The Ghost.

Ricky had no idea what this man's real name was. The Ghost had slipped through his fingers once before in an operation very similar to this one. He only hoped the bastard didn't recognize him. Guys like him thought all Hispanics looked alike, so maybe he could make this work.

The Ghost's mouth clamped in a cruel twist. Eyes staring back at Ricky were black--so black it was as if they contained no soul. And they didn’t. Or if there was a soul there, it was as black and evil as the man’s eyes suggested.

If The Ghost was involved, he was in serious shit here. The man was heavy into trading arms to South American rebels for drugs to sell in the U.S.

In the middle of the floor between the dining and living areas, Link Dixon lay bound and motionless.

Was he too late again?

Boo gave a hard kick to Link's ribs and a low groan issued from the man's bruised lips. A sigh escaped Ricky.

Thank God, he's still alive.

In the rocking chair, The Ghost growled at Boo, "What's this spic doing back here? You told me he was out until at least midnight." He spat out the words as if Ricky were not able to hear.

All eyes were on Ricky. He tried to ignore Link as he said, "All the women were pigs tonight. I came back early." He nodded toward Link. "Who's he?"

The expression on The Ghost's face never changed.

Boo sneered at the form on the floor. "We had us a little unexpected company tonight. We were just havin' a little talk."

Al's glassy eyes darted from one man to another. Ricky had thought Al crazy the first time he saw him, and living with him for these past months only reinforced this opinion. If he didn't know otherwise, Ricky would think Al was on the stuff. Since that wasn’t true, the only explanation for Al was that he was certifiable.

Al's nervous laugh came as a shrill, grating sound. "Yeah, entertainin' our company. Boo caught him snoopin' around."

From his perch in the rocking chair, The Ghost glared at Ricky and continued railing at Boo and Al. "I told you I don't trust greasers. Can't you two get anything right?"

"Honest, we thought he was gone for the evenin'. He loves to dance, don't you, Ricky?" Al's eyes conveyed the excitement he felt at the prospect of battering a prowler.

Ignoring the unknown man's ethnic slurs, Ricky addressed Boo. He considered Boo to be quite sane, but meaner than hell. "You got any idea who this guy is or what he wants."

Boo spit at Link and prodded him with his boot. "This here's Link Dixon, formerly of the Dallas Police Department, champion crime solver now working for the local sheriff. Thinks he's a goddamn hotshot lawman, he does. Guess we see who's smarter now."

"If you're so smart, tell me how'd he know to come here?" Ricky asked.

"Perhaps you're not as dumb as I thought." The Ghost eyed Ricky with speculation. "We invited him to tell us, but he's not talking. You want to try your luck with him?"

"Sure, but you won't get anything out of him if he's unconscious." Ricky turned and walked to the sink. He took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with tap water, then threw the water in Link's face.

Addressing Al, he said, "Help me get him up in this chair."

The two dragged Link to the eating area and pulled him into a slumped sitting position in a chair.

When Ricky's mouth was very close to Link's ear, he whispered, "Get ready to run."