“Yes.” I stared at him for signs of blood other than his face and shirt.

Isaac leaned on his right leg. Blood seeped from his right knee. “Who you working for?” He pulled on the masked man’s arm.

“Forget it, old man.”

“This old man knows how to make you talk.” He yanked harder.

“You’re breaking my arm!”

“Answer my question or I’ll break both of them.” Isaac inched the arm upward. “Who hired you?”

“I have my rights.”

“So do the people you try to kill.” Isaac slammed his face into the wall, leaving an impression of the man’s head. He swung the man around. “Give me a name, or would you like me to break your jaw? I know how to make sure you spend the rest of your life drinking through a straw.” Isaac drew back his fist.

“All right! Eli Chandler.”

42

DENTON

Old friends are like gold nuggets—they increase their value with time. Mike had driven me home from the hospital yesterday. Hadn’t seen him in six years, since he’d been transferred to Dallas, and the few hours in his car gave us time to talk. He’d lost his hair. Also added a couple inches to his belt. I tried to get him to stay with me at the cabin, but he claimed he wasn’t a nurse and had work to do, preferably in a hotel room in Valleysburg. As it was, I crawled into bed at four thirty in the afternoon and slept until my alarm went off the next morning.

Hobbling around the cabin on crutches had a learning curve . . . a big one. The face looking back at me in the mirror reminded me of a horror movie. Isaac’s comment about looking like roadkill hit spot-on. If the FBI refused to keep me on, I might find a job in Hollywood. No makeup required. Maybe I could scare Clay Pearce into giving Mike and me something we could use. I maneuvered to the stable to feed Big Red. I was sure from the time it took to fill the feed bucket and pump water, he thought we were gearing up for a long ride.

After seeing my condition, Mike had revised the pickup time to seven thirty. Figured we would grab some breakfast on our way to Sharp’s Creek. But Mike’s internal clock meant he’d be here at seven. I’d learned that mannerism after working as his partner for two weeks. I’d been a slow learner.

Seeing I had fifteen minutes to spare, I checked in with the FIG for info on Eli Chandler and whatever they’d dug up between him, Clay Pearce, and Travis Stover.

Additional information showed Chandler had a reputation as a hired assassin. Besides what I’d read about him yesterday, he’d led an organized-crime group associated with human trafficking, drugs, illegal arms, money laundering, and whatever it took to keep those businesses afloat. While organized crime moved money around the world through various means to clean it up, I questioned if Chandler ran or worked for a syndicate. If he ran an operation, he wouldn’t have been on a hit job. The only documented link with Pearce came from the six-month employment years ago. Chandler definitely grew his moneymaking horizons after serving donuts.