Read Online All the Wrong Moves by Merline Lovelace - Free Book Online

They also apprehend 2,400 folks and seize more than 7,000 pounds of narcotics. Daily!
    I was multiplying 7,000 by 365 in my head and not liking the result when Mitch appeared. He was also in uniform but his bristled with its usual twenty pounds of communications and weapons gear. Despite the assorted weaponry, he looked darned good.
    Warning sirens went off in my head and I launched into my mantra.
    Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!
    “Sorry you had to wait.”
    The chant wasn’t working so I gave it up and returned his smile. “No problem.”
    “I was going to give you the two-dollar tour. Maybe when we come back.”
    “Sounds good.”
    We walked out to my twelve-year-old Bronco, which earned a disbelieving grunt from Agent Mitchell. Brow cocked, he conducted a walk-around.
    “What did you do? Drive off the side of a cliff?”
    “Only about a third of those dents are mine,” I informed him loftily as we strapped in. “The rest come compliments of my ex. So does the Bronco, for that matter. I traded my semi-new Mazda for this pile of junk and a quickie divorce.”
    Despite my bad-mouthing, the Bronc turned over with barely a wheeze. Mitch waited until we cleared the gate to the parking lot to pick up on my last comment.
    “How long were you married?”
    “Six months, twelve days, four hours.” I turned onto the on ramp for I-10, thought about his ringless left hand and took a shot. “You?”
    “A little longer.” His boot slammed the floorboard. “Jesus! Watch the truck.”
    “I got it.”
    I wedged in behind a new-car transport rumbling over from the GM plant in Juárez with a good seven or eight inches to spare.
    “How much longer?” I asked, curious.
    “Thirteen years, give or take a few months.”
    He didn’t amplify and I didn’t press, although I suspected the demise of a thirteen-year marriage might have something to do with the rough patch Tess Garcia had mentioned.
    Interstate 10 curved north, and we cruised toward the high-rises of downtown El Paso. Framed against the backdrop of the Franklin Mountains, their glass walls shimmered gold and coppery in the sun.
    “We ran the boot print,” Mitch said, frowning as I whizzed past a string of slower moving vehicles. “It’s from a size nine-and-a-half medium Justin Rancher with a dual density EVA outsole.”
    I’d spent enough time in Texas to recognize the brand, if not the EVA stuff. As the name implied, it was the boot of choice of working ranchers in the area.
    “The tread was fairly new so the FBI is canvassing retail outlets in a tristate area.”
    “How do rancher boots fit with military sniper rounds?” I wanted to know.
    “Good question. I’m hoping your marine friend might suggest an answer.”
    We took the exit for Highway 54 and headed north. The high-rises quickly gave way to apartments and residential areas. A few miles on, the family neighborhoods yielded to the bars, strip joints and tattoo parlors found within close vicinity to military installations worldwide.
    The Smokehouse was considered safe in that no one had been knifed there in recent memory. Although it wasn’t much more than a hole-in-the-wall, the restaurant was at least three or four rungs up the couth ladder from Pancho’s. Its walls weren’t plastered with pictures of swim-suit models, and the only things that crunched under my boots as I wove a path through the jammed tables were peanut shells. I hope.
    What made the place so popular was that its menu consisted of barbeque, barbeque, and more barbeque. You could get it sliced, shredded, pulled or still on the rib, all served with heaping sides of slaw, fries and slow-simmered beans. But that’s all you could get.
    Since the owner had done a hitch in the Corps and proudly displayed the eagle, globe and anchor above the cash register, his place was usually crammed with marines from the detachment at Bliss. Those of us wearing the uniform of other branches of the service were lucky to get a foot in the door.
    Danny