Warning Shot. Jenna Kernan

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СКАЧАТЬ tell you they wouldn’t go on Mohawk land?” he asked.

      She didn’t answer his question, for he seemed to already know their reply. “So, anyone who wants to avoid apprehension from federal authorities just has to make it onto Mohawk land as if they had reached some home-free base, like in tag.”

      “No, they have to reach Mohawk’s sovereign land and the Mohawk have to be willing to allow them to stay. The Kowa people have rights granted to them under treaties signed by our government.”

      They had reached another impasse. Silence stretched, and she noticed that his eyes were really a stunning blue-gray.

      “You want me to hang around?” he asked, his body language signaling his wish to leave.

      “Escort me to a place that can get this paint off,” she said.

      He touched the paint and then rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. He wiped his finger and thumb on the hood, then tapped his finger up and down to add his fingerprints to the others.

      “Stop that!”

      He did, holding up his paint-stained hand in surrender. “Oil based. Can’t use the car wash. Body shop, I suppose.”

      “You have one?”

      “Not personally, but there is one in town.”

      “I’ll follow.” She used her fob to open the door and nothing happened.

      He lowered his chin and lifted his brows. The corners of his mouth lifted before he twisted his lips in a poorly veiled attempt to hide his smile.

      Had the vandals disconnected her battery or helped themselves to the entire thing?

      “Tow truck,” he said.

      She faced the reservation sign, lifted a stone from the road and threw it. The rock made a satisfying thwack against the metal surface.

      He placed the call and she checked in with her office. No messages.

      “Tow truck will be here in twenty minutes. Want to wait or grab a ride with me?”

      “What do I do with the keys?”

      “Tow truck doesn’t need those,” he said.

      She nodded. “I knew that.”

      Did she sound as green as she felt? How much more experience in the field did Trace have? He’d been an army MP and now was a sheriff.

      “How did you decide to run for sheriff?” she asked.

      His mouth tipped downward. He didn’t seem fond of speaking about his past. She decided to find out why that was. She’d missed something in her hasty check.

      “My friend and mentor, Kurt Rogers, was retiring. He held on until I got out of the service and threw his support behind me. Been reelected once since then.”

      Rylee managed to retrieve her briefcase and suitcase from the trunk, half surprised to see them there and not covered with paint. They walked back to his sheriff’s unit side by side.

      “Must be hard to be popular in this sort of work.”

      He cocked his head. “I don’t find it so.”

      He helped her place her luggage in the rear seat and then held the passenger door for her. She had her belt clipped as they pulled back on the highway.

      They did not speak on the ride into town. The air in the cruiser seemed to hold an invisible charge. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and he rubbed his neck.

      “Motel or the body shop?” he asked as they hit the limits of the town of Kinsley, which was the county seat.

      “Motel.”

      It bothered her that, of the three possible choices, he took her directly to the place where she was staying. She didn’t ask how he knew.

      The sheriff pulled to a stop and she retrieved her bags.

      He stood on his side of the vehicle, staring across the roof at her. “You feel like telling me where you’ll be next, or should I just follow the sound of gunfire?”

      She refused to take the bait and only thanked him for the lift.

      “Don’t mention it,” he said and then added, as he slipped back into his unit, “I surely wouldn’t.”

      She stooped to glare at him through the open passenger door. “Why not?”

      “You won’t need to. Soon everyone in the county will know you are here and what happened on Mohawk land, because a good story spreads faster than wildfire and because you used exactly the sort of strong-arm tactics I’d expect from a rookie agent. What I can’t figure is why your supervisor sent you up here without a babysitter. You that unpopular he couldn’t even find you a partner? Or is he just that stupid?”

      “She is not stupid and it’s an honor to be given a solo assignment,” she said, feeling her face heat. “A show of respect.”

      “Is that what she told you?”

      She slammed the door and he laughed. Rylee stood, fuming, as he cruised out of the lot.

      What did she care what he thought? She had work to do. Important work. And she didn’t need the approval of the sheriff of one of the most sparsely populated counties in the state.

      Kowa Mohawk people were on her watch list along with a motorcycle gang calling themselves the North Country Riders. This gang was known to smuggle marijuana across the Canadian border. Additionally, she needed to investigate a family of moonshiners. The Mondellos had for years avoided federal tax on their product by making and distributing liquor. Finally, and most troubling of all, was a survivalist compound headed by Stanley Coopersmith. Their doomsday predictions and arsenal of unknown weapons made them dangerous.

      This was Rylee’s first real field assignment and they had sent her solo, which was an honor, no matter what the sheriff said. She was unhappy to be given such an out-of-the-way placement because all the analysis indicated this as the least likely spot for Siming’s Army to use for smuggling. Most of department had moved to the Buffalo and Niagara Falls regions where the analysis believed Siming’s Army would attempt infiltration.

      She let herself into her room and went to work on her laptop. She took a break at midafternoon to head out to the mini-mart across the street to buy some drinks and snacks.

      Her car arrived from the body shop just after six o’clock, the telltale outline of the red paint still visible along with the outline of three handprints.

      “Couldn’t get those out without buffing. Best we could do,” said the gaunt tow truck driver in navy blue coveralls. “Also replaced the battery.”

      “Dead?” she asked.

      “Gone,” he said.

      He clutched a smoldering half-finished cigarette at his side and her invoice in the other. The edges of the brown clipboard СКАЧАТЬ