Page 56 of Tate
Wow.
He pulled off his tie as he headed back to the bunkhouse. Slammed the door open. It banged on the wall, and from his twin bed, Rags looked up. He was tall, lean, and built like a wide receiver. In fact, he’d been an All-American, Division III, a star, but not NFL material. Rumor had it that he’d played Arena ball before joining the military and going to sniper school for the Army. He had blondish-brown hair, a white smile and a country-boy aura that probably worked well for him down at the Wildhorse Saloon on his days off.
He popped out his earbuds, put down his phone, and leaned up. “’Sup?”
“Nothing.” Tate shrugged out of his jacket and hung it in the closet near his bed. He’d taken the one by the far wall which also allowed him space to empty Knox’s briefcase of evidence, tape it to the wall, and start his own obsession. Now he sat on his bunk as he toed off his dress shoes, then unbuttoned his cuffs and shirt.
Rags came over, the earbuds hanging around his neck. “Why don’t you quit, dude? We all know you have it bad for Glo. It’s written all over your face—you sort of turn shades of purple every time you see Glo and Sloan together, which lately has been, um, always.”
Well, not always. Today she’d spent at least three hours reading a magazine in her bikini near the pool. Yeah, that had been fun—him, trying not to stare at her legs, those curves as he patrolled the pool area, sweating in his suit pants and white oxford.
He missed his days guarding the Belles.
“I can’t quit,” he said as he stripped off his shirt. Sly made him wear an undershirt, too, and now he untucked it from his pants. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
“What about your ranch? Sounds like a sweet gig—Montana, right?”
“It’s not my ranch. It belongs to my brothers Reuben and Knox. I’m not a cowboy—I hate horses. Got bucked off when I was six and never took to them after that.” He slid his belt from his loops. “No, I left the cowboying to my brothers and enlisted when I was eighteen. Went to Ranger school right after boot camp. It’s who I was.” Until he wasn’t.
“How did you get into the security field?”
A fight. Words with his father after he’d returned from Afghanistan. Anger. The story could undo him, so, “Sort of fell into it after I left the military. I met Glo and the band while I was working security for the San Antonio arena.”
“You were on the bus with them?” Rags wore a smile.
“So was their drummer, Elijah Blue. Don’t get any ideas.”
“But that’s how she got under your skin, right?”
And into his brain flashed the memory of Glo sitting on one of the couches, leaning over her guitar, picking out a new tune. Scribbling in her journal, her bottom lip caught in her teeth.
Where was that girl?
“Listen. We got this, bro. Sly filled us in—told us about the shooting and some sort of fight in Vegas Glo was involved in. We understand your commitment, but really…it’s like watchingRocky IV, and Apollo is going down against Ivan Drago. It’s not pretty.”
That eked a smile from him. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m Rocky. I’ll win in the end.”
“Still not sure it’s worth it.”
Rags walked over to the wall. “This must be your art wall from the bombing?”
“Yeah. Everything my brother collected.” Tate stood up and pointed to two hand-drawn pictures of the suspects. “The local officials identified the bomber as a rodeo clown, but my brother saw a picture of him with these two guys. One has a tattoo of bright orange flames circling his neck, the other had gauged ears and a port-wine stain. Apparently the one with the port-wine stain is the mayor’s son, so I don’t think they leaned too hard on him. His name is Alan Kobie, but he didn’t give up his friend’s name. My sister works for the CIA, and she’s trying to dig up the identity, but the Senator thinks the bombing is the work of a rogue leftist group trying to thwart her campaign.”
“Was one of these guys responsible for the attack at your ranch?”
Wow, Sly really had opened up his file. “We think so. Kelsey, Glo’s bandmate who was with her that night, identified a guy with gauged ears, so…maybe…” He tapped the drawings. “Could be Kobie, but he’s gone to ground.” He turned to Rags. “Did you find anything at the Anderson place?”
“Sly turned a team loose there, but so far, they only found a couple spent shells.”
This perked Tate up. “What kind of shells?”
“Brass, 7.62x51mm NATO.”
“For a M40A5 sniper rifle.”
“That’s what I was thinking too.”
“You ever shoot one of those?”
