by Adam Bender
Taking a deep breath through his nostrils, he said calmly, “I am pleased you didn’t comment on the Red Stripe Gang allegations. I am not pleased that you told her that O’Brien was in my helicopter. Or that he, I quote, ‘had to jump off early.’”
“She spotted him. Lying would have created more suspicion.”
“Hmm,” he said, considering. “Perhaps.”
She looked him directly in the eyes. “You will need to deal with Miss Veras.”
Gerard drank in Elza’s beguiling gaze. She had the eyes of Medusa.
“Yes,” he said finally. He gulped down the rest of his whiskey and pointed to his glass. “Fetch me another bourbon, and then leave me. I need to think.”
When Elza was gone, Gerard leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. There were two problems he needed to figure out: the Wanderer and Rosa Veras. He already had a good idea of who the Wanderer was; Gerard would be ready for him if he came. The more immediate problem was Veras and her blog. She needed to be dealt with quickly, before she could cause any more damage.
He wondered what the reporter’s angle was. Why was she trying to take it all away from him? A conspiracy? He tried to remember her. Besides Elza, she’d been the only woman at the media conference. Brown hair, or maybe black. A suspicious stare in a herd of smiles.
Gerard watched the share prices for Breck Ammunition tumble through the glass of his tablet. In the smudged reflection, he saw his father’s disapproving eyes. They’d all wanted Errol to be the next CEO. His father, the damned board. But Errol had left. He’d never cared about the business anyway. They’d wanted him, but he hadn’t wanted them. The board should’ve been happy when Errol left the picture. They should’ve been happy that Gerard was so ready, so eager to take over.
He took another gulp of the bourbon. What was the board going to say about this? The chairman, Corny Boone, didn’t like him. Corny wanted him out.
No. He would fix this.
*
Rosa stared dumbfounded at the line chart displayed on her computer screen. That couldn’t be right, could it? There was no way. No one had read the mission statement for The New West the day it was published. No one. Her first story on the Wanderer arriving in Liberty had gotten a couple hundred hits, which was nothing, then readers ignored her gun-show preview. But now this story about Breck Ammunition … millions? Really?
The spike in traffic for the article had boosted visits to the other story about the Wanderer as well. And now her inbox was flooded with messages about possible Wanderer sightings around the country.
She looked worriedly at the black phone lying silently in wait on her desk. That PR flack — Elza or whatever her name was — she was going to call. She would have to, right?
Rosa reread her story. And then she reread it again. It made Breck Ammunition look bad. She had known it would make them look bad, but holy hell, it made them look really, really bad!
Maybe they wouldn’t know she wrote it? She hadn’t put her real name on the website and she was careful to set up an anonymous account for contacts.
“Yeah, but you quoted Elza, you idiot!” she berated herself aloud, realizing instantly how crazy she sounded.
Not only that, but she had written that she was part of the media junket. Rosa was the only one who could have written the story. The PR flack would have to be stupid not to make the connection. What had she been thinking? Not enough sleep? Too much confidence?
The phone rang. She peered at it through her fingers, let it ring for five seconds, ten …
“Hello?” she blurted into the mic.
“Rosa.”
She felt a chill run through her entire body. It wasn’t Elza. Much worse. “Hi, Rebecca.”
“Did you write this filth?”
She could barely breathe. “Write what?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “This … blog…” She said the word like it was a curse.
She honestly wasn’t sure whether she should continue to lie. Maybe Rebecca was bluffing and maybe it didn’t matter. She was so toast.
The editor didn’t wait for a response. “I just had a call with Breck Ammunition. They say you wrote this after promising not to publish it.”
“I …” she managed. It was a struggle to speak. “Yes, that’s true, but …” Maybe if she just apologized and promised to take down the article … ? No. She wasn’t sorry. She had known from the start that The New West would ruffle some feathers. That was the whole point. She was a journalist. “I stand by the story.”
Rebecca sighed. “Then I guess you’re fired.”
Before the line went dead, the editor issued one final remark. “God help you.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Wanderer and Kid Hunter!
Charlie was glad to see the Independence Day decorations cleaned up and thrown away at the Happy Gunfighter. All that remained was dust, grime, and bullet holes. The saloon’s dim lighting and fermented odors suited him just fine, too. He’d spent the day cooped up in an overly clean motel room beating himself up for what he hadn’t done and for not knowing what he was going to do next.
The problems hounded him still. He hadn’t killed the Wanderer. He hadn’t wanted to kill the Wanderer. It was the first time he’d ever taken a job and not completed it. Instead, Charlie had actually helped the Wanderer. And the worst part was now he wanted to keep helping the gunslinger.
He needed a drink.
“A beer,” Charlie clarified for the man at the taps. “I don’t care which one, so long as it’s full strength and comes in a big fucking cup.”
The barman pulled a pint glass from the ceiling and chose the IPA without hesitation.
Someone laughed gruffly behind him. “And here I reckoned the would-be bounty hunter would be long gone by now.”
Charlie didn’t turn. He knew who it was. “Don’t you have a train to catch?”
“Heh,” the Wanderer replied.
The bartender wiped the suds off the side of the glass and placed it carefully on the counter. “Seven bucks.”
Charlie stuck a thumb back to point at the Wanderer. “And a porter for my sidekick here.” He cracked a smile at the Wanderer, a quick peek to see if he’d succeeded in getting a rise out of him. He hadn’t.
They took the beers to the Wanderer’s usual booth but it was occupied by a twenty-something geek on a white Apple laptop. The kid’s glass was empty and looked as though it had been for some time.
Noticing the two gunmen, the geek jumped to his feet and yelped, “Wanderer!”
Very nicely, he volunteered his seat.
“Take your empty, too,” the Wanderer commanded, pointing to the glass.
As they sat down, Charlie laughed. “He knew exactly who you were. Word spreads fast, don’t it?”
“It’s those damn articles.”
Charlie cooed, “Guess you’re famous now.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Hey, I know what you could do to avoid attention!” He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point. “Stop shooting up towns!”
The Wanderer took a long sip of his beer and wiped the foam from his lips. “Whoever’s writing these stories is going to find himself in some fine trouble. Gerard Breck is dangerous. If Breck reads that last story — when he reads it — he’ll make The New West and its author disappear.”
Charlie knew he was right. One of his more recent jobs from El Tiburón had been for Breck Ammunition. One of the higher-ups, displeased with the company’s direction, had threatened to leave and start his own rival gun company. Apparently he wasn’t going to listen to reason.
Charlie hadn’t minded that kill. The target was just another upper-class giant who’d spent his life pushing Charlie’s friends and family down into the sewer.
“Why do you care about this writer?” he asked the Wanderer. “That’d be good news for you, wouldn’t it? No more attention?”
The Wanderer looked at the table. “I’ve got to find this journa
list before Breck does.”
Charlie couldn’t believe his ears! “Find the—?”
The Wanderer began to answer but his voice was smothered by a chanting sing-along to Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline.”
The chorus cut off, and the other patrons resumed drinking.
“Kitty must have talked to the reporter,” said the Wanderer, picking up from where he left off. “Maybe she’ll know how to get in touch.”
“Kitty? That’s your plan? Man, that girl and her daddy are long gone!”
“I’ll find them.”
“For real?” Charlie cackled. “Man, don’t waste your time! I’ll get you what you want to know. Just give me a few minutes hacking time and I’ll tell you the exact coordinates where The New West gets written. Provided, that is …”
The Wanderer looked intrigued. “Provided what?”
“Provided you let me come with you.” Charlie couldn’t quite believe he said it and had to chase the request with a gulp of beer.
The other man raised his eyebrows. “Let you come with me? Just the other day you were trying to collect a damned bounty on me!”
“If I was still doing that, we wouldn’t be talking. Actually, you wouldn’t be doing much talking at all.”
The Wanderer shook his head. “I don’t work with bounty hunters.”
“C’mon man. The Wanderer and Kid Hunter! Even you have got to admit that sounds dope as shit!”
“No.”
He pulled up The New West on his wristband and ran an analysis on the blog. The Wanderer didn’t say anything, just observed him working.
Charlie chuckled.
The gunman took the bait. “What?”
“The reporter is not a ‘him.’”
The Wanderer put down his beer. “How’d you figured that out so quickly?”
“It’s called skills, son!” Charlie exclaimed. Continuing to play with the device on his arm, he added, “Her name is Rosa Veras. And I know where to find her. But like I said, you have to let me come with you.”
The Wanderer looked almost convinced, but Charlie could see he still had reservations. The bounty hunter took a deep breath and said, “Look, man, I’ve made some choices. I know I have. But there’s things you don’t know about me. I come from Vegas, man, and not the glamorous parts. I had to survive — help my family survive — somehow, you know? The money I get, it’s for my sister.”
The Wanderer grunted in resignation. “Show me your gun.”
He blinked. “My gun?”
“It’s not a Breck model. I want to see it.”
Charlie took the gun from his jacket and laid it on the table. The Wanderer carefully inspected each side. “This is a Canadian.”
“I prefer Separatist, but yeah. How’d you know?”
The Wanderer didn’t answer. “How close does it have to be to your wrist computer to fire?”
Charlie laughed. “I have to be holding it.”
“Ain’t you worried it might fail when you need it?”
“I guess I’m more worried about someone taking my gun and trying to use it.”
The Wanderer smiled knowingly. “A few gun inventors have tried pitching smart guns to Breck Ammo. But the polling showed the American market wouldn’t have it.”
He placed the gun gently on the table and looked Charlie squarely in the eyes. “You’ve got a talent for tracking, I will admit. And you’re not bad with a gun, either. But I meant what I said — I don’t work with bounty hunters. If you’re coming with me, you’re going to have to give that all up. You so much as take interest in a hit job? Well, let’s just say that’ll be the end of Kid Hunter.”
Frowning, Charlie looked down at his hands. “I’d like to walk away from it, man. I really would. But I’ve got a sister in Vegas to think of.”
“What if I help you out with the money?”
“What?” He looked up in surprise. The Wanderer seemed to be serious. “Who are you?”
“That don’t matter. All you need to know is I can help.”
It wasn’t too bad a deal. Truth was he didn’t expect to get any more jobs from El Tiburón anyway, now that he’d let the Wanderer walk. What’d he have to lose?
Kid Hunter raised his ale. “To Kid Hunter and the Wanderer!”
“The Wanderer and Kid Hunter,” corrected the gunman, clinking the glass with his porter.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ain’t Safe for You Here.
Steve the station manager looked up from a crossword puzzle as the silver locomotive burst through a red storm of dust. The first train of the morning screeched to a halt next to the trailer that served as Liberty Station. Two men strode down the metal stairs with bags on their backs. The first — an urban-looking fellow with a large shiny bracelet on his arm — well, he didn’t recognize that kid. But the taller man in the Stetson? Now he looked familiar.
But why? Steve scratched his head. Who was he again? Not a resident of Liberty, that’s for sure.
Whoever he was, the cowboy saw him looking and tipped his hat.
“Good morning!” Steve shouted to him. “Hey, I know you from somewhere, don’t I? You been through here before?”
The two men approached the window of the trailer. The younger one whom Steve didn’t know pointed to the more familiar one. “This here’s the man they call the Wanderer.”
Steve laughed. “Well, ain’t that a peculiar name! And what do they call you, mister?”
“As a matter of fact, they call me Kid Hunter.”
This name got an even bigger laugh. “Well, isn’t that something? The Wanderer and Kid Hunter! Welcome to Liberty, boys. Hope you enjoy your stay.”
“Won’t be here long,” said the Wanderer. “Mind telling me the time for the next train?”
“Sure thing! Where you headed?”
“It don’t matter, particularly. We’ll pay for the end of the line, either direction, and decide where to get off when we get there.”
Steve couldn’t believe his ears. “You know, you’re the second man this month to ask me for that ticket.”
The Wanderer cracked a smile.
“Well, looks like there’s a train northwest in an hour and a half. Next train southeast is another hour after that.”
“Then we’ll take three tickets on the earlier one.”
“You mean two?” asked Steve, looking over the pair’s shoulders. He didn’t see anyone else with them.
“Three,” said Kid Hunter. “We’re meeting someone.”
The men paid in cash and went on their way.
*
Rosa reached up to turn off the lamp and discovered the sun had come up. She remembered slumping back into her sofa. She remembered the slouch becoming too low, and lifting her legs onto the cushion to stretch. She remembered thinking the lamp was too damn bright …
Obviously, the coffee had finally given up on keeping her awake. After the firing from Our Times, she had stayed up late thinking about what to do. Her first thought had been to delete the article, but she realized that would be too little, too late. Even if she completely took down The New West, it wouldn’t get her job back. Anyway, what about journalistic integrity? There was nothing wrong in seeking the truth and reporting on it.
Rosa moaned. She sure as hell didn’t feel like she had slept.
She phoned her brother.
“Rosie …? What time is it?”
“The sun’s out, Jack.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s time to wake up.”
“I got fired last night.”
She could hear the rusted springs of his bed squeak as he sat up. “What?”
“I wrote some … bad things about Breck Ammunition on my blog.”
“They fired you for that?”
“Breck Ammo owns Our Times, Jack. Of course they did.”
“Yeah, okay, but still, I’m not sure if they can fire you for maintaining a personal blog.”
“Why not? It’s not like I told them about it.”
; “Yeah, I don’t know. I’d really have to look at the case history, see if anything like this has happened before. If you want, I can come over in a bit, look things over with you. Maybe there’s something we can do. It might not get your job back but at the very least, we might be able to give those guys some heartburn. That’d be fun, right?”
It always caught her off guard when Jack, her lazy brother, transformed into Jackson Veras, defense attorney. “That would be fun! You want me to make breakfast? I’ve got eggs, I think. How long does it take eggs to go bad? Well, there’s at least cereal.”
Jack yawned. “No, don’t wait up. I might … I might just catch a couple more zees … and then I’ll be right there, promise.”
Ah, there was the little brother she knew and loved. “Okay, well, I’ll be here. See you in a bit.”
She put on another pot in her Mr. Coffee machine and darted over to her computer to again reread the story that had gotten her in so much trouble. She wasn’t sure if it was the sleep or talking to Jack, but she suddenly felt proud of it again. It was good that she upset Breck Ammunition. Wasn’t that the whole point? Wasn’t that the test of success? If they hadn’t noticed, if no one had read the article at all, wouldn’t that have been the true disaster? The reality was that she was being punished for writing a good story in the so-called land of the free.
Gritting her teeth, Rosa closed the article and opened a fresh page.
*
With the town of Liberty sparkling on the horizon, the Wanderer and Kid Hunter took a sharp right into suburban sprawl. Soon they were surrounded by red-roofed ranchers and cute streets with names like Dandelion Lane and Snapdragon Terrace. The front yard of each home featured an attractive patch of prickly pear cactus.
The outward friendliness of the homes was misleading, but the only hint of the lie came from the red signs for security vendors sticking out of the grass in the front yards. At very least, this meant the family inside was doing twenty-four-hour surveillance of its property. But it could also indicate the presence of automatic cannons tucked snugly inside the gutters of the roof. In general, it was wise not to approach a house like this unless invited.
