Page 37 of Fire on the Moon

Chapter Twelve

Zane went rigid, except for his right hand which slipped down to the gun under his jacket. For a heart-stopping moment Tuckerman stayed where he was, and Zane got ready to defend them.

Finally the man turned away and started walking toward the bar.

Now Francesca could see the haircut, the broad shoulders.

“That was him, right?” she whispered in a choked voice.

“Yeah.”

“He didn’t recognize us?” she asked,

“Not unless he’s playing it awfully cool.”

“He could call for help.”

“I think he’s just going in there to have a few drinks and maybe chat with his friends,”

“You think he has friends?”

“Acquaintances.”

They watched Tuckerman’s big feet crunch across gravel. Moments later, he disappeared inside the bar.

“Now what?” Francesca asked.

“We can’t go in after him. That’s his home turf. We have to wait until he comes out—hopefully sloshed.”

He kept his gun out of the holster and slipped it into the side pocket of the car door.

Francesca gave him a nervous look.

“Just a precaution,” he answered as he scanned the bar entrance. Would the guy notice that the same car had been sitting in the same spot when he left?

When Zane started the engine, Francesca’s head snapped toward him.

“What?”

“I’m moving to another spot, in case he’s curious about what we’re still doing here.”

He pulled out and found a new space about five cars over. Hopefully the guy wouldn’t notice that the unobtrusive Chevy had simply shifted locations. Once they were settled again, he said, “I’m going to use some poetic justice on him.”

She gave him a questioning look.

“We’ll put a tracker on his vehicle, so he won’t spot us following.”

He went to the case of equipment in the trunk, got out the small device and the controller before coming around to the passenger window.

When she rolled it down, he said, “Keep an eye on the bar. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

He saw her tense up as she fixed her gaze on the door.

He went back to the scumbag’s car, walked to the back, and dropped his keys. As he scooped them up, he bent down to stick the small device under the bumper. He was quickly back to their rental, where he got out the controller and activated the screen. He could see a green dot indicating where Tuckerman’s car was.

“When he moves, we can see where he goes.” I hope, he added silently.

They waited, the minutes ticking by, as the thug enjoyed himself at his favorite watering hole.

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