Page 16 of Rescued By the Operative
“Coffee!”
“Agent. Someone’s gonna recognize you,” Carl says.
“Not in this outfit. I’ll just be a second.”
Where in the hell is the driver of that beat-up old truck? My eyes scan the road, the storefronts. In the quaint town square with the picturesque creek running through it, I finally see who I suspect to be the person who abandoned the truck in front of us. A lean, rugged man with cowboy boots, dirty jeans, and a bulky plaid shirt is there.
My heart gallops.
Oh god. It’s him.
I have to get out of here before he sees me.
Stupidly, I sit and stare for a minute through the passenger window.
And then I notice Carl is staring, too. “What are these idiots doing?” Carl asks no one in particular. It’s not said in a road-rage sort of way. More like “I know these idiots” kind of way. Almost paternal, if I didn’t know any better.
If Carl knew I had that man’s number in my phone…
He simply typed in “Jake,” without a last name.
Of course, I’d get my panties twisted over a cowboy named Jake. He’s reading something at the kiosk. Another man is with him. That one glances around, his hands stuffed into his pockets.
“Listen,” I say to Carl, “it’s time for morning chapel at the compound. Nobody’s in town to spot me. Second of all, it’s just coffee. The polygamists don’t drink coffee. That chaperone is still waiting in the hospital parking lot. I know because I put a tracker on his car.”
“Make it fast,” Carl grumbles.
With a wink, I put on my oversized sunglasses for extra security, and with the added hope that Jake won’t recognize me.
The annoyed Carl shakes his head and lays on the horn impatiently.
“I open the door just in time to hear the first cowboy shout something at Carl. Yikes.
I scoot into Nate’s and ask for four shots of espresso in my ginormous drink.
I have a feeling I’m gonna need the extra pep in my step today.
Chapter Six
Jake
“I can’t please everybody all the time.”
This is Sheriff Lucas’s response to my complaint about the wanted posters, which I’ve now seen in three different places around town in the short drive over to the station.
I’m too stunned for words.
To make matters worse, one of the town’s most notorious gossips wanders in and shouts, “Hey Sheriff, what’s the county going to pay me if I bring the Wylie Gang in alive?”
I’m pissed. Is this a joke to him?
“Randy, just because somebody posted it on the kiosk doesn’t make it real,” Lucas says.
Randy scratches his head. “What are you saying? You’re saying Zeke’s dog isn’t really missing?”
I shake my head. “Use critical thinking,” I say.
The old man laughs and elbows me in the ribs. “I’m just joshing ya, kid. I thought it was a joke when I first saw it.”