Page 28 of Cold Target

Joe woke to gray light filtering through thin curtains.

He'd slept maybe three hours, and badly. Every time he'd drifted off, his mind had conjured images from the briefing materials.

He sat up, rubbed his face. His watch said 7:42. Much later than he usually started the day.

The room had a two-cup coffee maker on the dresser. He filled it from the bathroom tap and got it brewing while he showered. The water pressure was weak but hot. He stood under it longer than necessary, trying to wash away the night's thoughts.

Armed revolt. Race war. The New World Order.

Men who believed the government was coming for them. Men who'd decided to shoot first.

He dried off and dressed. Jeans, boots, a flannel shirt over a T-shirt. The coffee was ready. He poured a cup and drank it black.

He needed to find Simmons. Get moving. Sitting around waiting for crime scene techs to give them their findings didn't sit right.

Joe grabbed his jacket and headed downstairs.

The lobby was empty. No one at the front desk. He walked past it toward the breakfast area—a small room off to the side with a few tables and a counter that probably held continental breakfast on better days.

Empty.

No guests. No staff. No coffee brewing or cereal boxes out.

Joe stopped. Looked around.

It was after eight on a weekday morning. There should be someone. A clerk. A housekeeper. Somebody checking out.

Nothing.

He walked back through the lobby to the front entrance. Pushed through the glass door into cold morning air.

The parking lot stretched out in front of him. Beyond it, pine trees and mountains. The truck was still there, parked near the far end.

And on the ground beside it, three men were kicking the shit out of Simmons.

Joe moved without thinking.

He covered the distance in seconds, boots pounding asphalt. The men were big—local boys, probably, in work jackets and jeans. They had Simmons on the ground, taking turns. One kicked him in the ribs. Another stomped toward his head.

Joe was almost to the first man when he turned to face him.

Joe threw a straight right that hit the man’s jaw. Full force. Six-foot-six and two hundred fifty pounds of momentum behind it.

The crack was audible. The man's head snapped sideways and he went down like a dropped sack, jaw shattered.

The second man turned, eyes wide. Started to raise his hands.

Joe drove his elbow into the man's kidney. Low and hard. The kind of shot that does serious internal damage. Joe followed up with a left hook straight into the man’s face. The nosecrunched under Joe’s fist, blood splattered and the man fell to the ground.

The third man backed up, hands out. "Hey, man?—"

Joe stepped toward him.

The man ran.

The one with the broken jaw got to his feet and ran, too, dragging the man with the ruined kidney.

Joe turned to Simmons.