Page 22 of Shadows Reel

When Nate turned the corner, he was greeted by the unblinking maw of a three-eyed monster aimed squarely at his face.

“Close the door behind you,” Jones said softly. Nate did as he was told.

He’d heard of the particular weapon before but had never seen one in person: a Charles Daly Honcho triple-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun. It was slightly over twenty-five inches from the pistol grip to the three muzzles, and it had therefore been fairly easy to conceal beneath the baggy parka Jones wore. It was an overwhelming shotgun, and at close range Nate knew that a blast from it could cut him in half. The weapon was perfect for close-in urban combat or home defense.

“I need to know that you’re who you say you are,” Jones said.

“I’m your worst nightmare if you don’t take that shotgun out of my face.”

“Show me what I’m looking for,” Jones said. “You’re not the only white boy with a ponytail, you know.”

Nate slowly reached up and unzipped his vest and opened it. He peeled back the left side until Jones could clearly see the grip of his .454 Casull revolver.

A slow grin came over Jones’s face and he lowered the shotgun. He opened his coat and slipped it into an inside sleeve, muzzle-first.

“You’re Romanowski, all right,” Jones said. “A fellow big-bore enthusiast, just like I heard about.”

“And you go by Geronimo Jones. What’s your real name?”

“Geronimo Jones. It’s on my birth certificate.”

Nate accepted that. Then he looked around. The storeroom was cluttered and smelled of sour beer. Empty kegs were stacked to the ceiling, and dusty liquor bottles lined the shelves.

“How is it you have access to this room?” Nate asked. He noted that the man’s military-style coat hadjonesstenciled over one breast pocket andblmstenciled over the other.

Nate knew that in this instance, “BLM” didn’t stand for Bureau of Land Management.

“I keep the riffraff out,” Jones said. “You probably saw those crackers out on the street. Did you see all the graffiti and boarded-up windows downtown on your way here?”

“I did.”

“They know not to come in here,” he said. “I’ve had words with them.” When he said it, he patted his shotgun through his coat.

“The owner pays you for protection, then,” Nate said.

“That’s one way to look at it. The other way is that he wants to keep his customers safe. They’re a bunch of soft old mouth-breathers, but they’re harmless enough. I’ve gotten to like them.”

“Do they like you?”

“They love me,” Jones said. “This is a dangerous neighborhoodbecause we’re a few blocks from the capitol. Didn’t used to be, but it is now.”

“I don’t care about Denver’s problems. I’m here for Axel Soledad,” Nate said. “You said you’ve seen him around.”

Jones nodded slowly. He said, “You want a beer? It’s on me.”

—

They sat nextto each other at the end of the bar and spoke softly. They stopped when one of the customers got up to leave or a new one came in. When that happened, Jones watched the proceedings carefully. He was alert to any time the door opened, and Nate could sense him tense up. The only time Jones got off his stool was to escort the older couple outside to their car and to make sure they got out of the parking lot okay.

When he returned, Nate asked, “How long ago did you put eyes on him?”

“This afternoon. An hour before it got dark. I saw a big SUV with dark windows go down an alley a block from the capitol. Something about that car made me suspicious. It was just a feeling, but the car was moving real slow and cautious. Most folks know not to come to this neighborhood that time of day, especially when the word came out there was going to be street action tonight. So it didn’t fit.

“I was on foot,” Jones said. Then: “I have a place across the street. I stay there when I’m not out with my falcons west of town in the mountains. I got a place out there, too. Anyway, I saw this SUV creeping around. I climbed a ladder to get to the roof of this building so I could see it better.”

Jones drew his phone out and tapped in a password and punched up the photo app. He swiped through the photos until he found the one he wanted, then used his big fingers to zoom it out. He handed his phone to Nate.

The shot was out of focus because it had been taken at a great distance. The SUV was parked in the alley with the back hatch open. Two men wearing black clothing and motorcycle helmets were at the rear bumper, reaching inside the car. A third man stood to the side, directing them.

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