Read Online The Blood of Patriots by William W. Johnstone - Free Book Online

think he could live with being beaten.
    What if he had no choice? What if the system was just too strong, stacked too heavily against him? The NYPD brass wasn’t a gunrunning operation he could simply wait out, watching for a slip-up or encouraging them to take this bait or that. It was, like any government agency, a self-preserving monolith that didn’t take risks. It was a hive that protected itself from bears even if it cost a few stinging drones.
    Ward was turning over yet again when he heard the sirens. It took a moment for him to remember that it wasn’t just New York background noise and to realize they were heading into the mountains. That could mean absolutely nothing. Or it could mean the ATV riders he’d scared away had gone back to the field to bust Randolph’s hump. Randolph, the man with a shotgun. The riders, who might have their own drones to sacrifice for a cause.
    The detective pulled on his clothes, ran out the door, and peered out the inn’s side entrance. He saw the patrol car’s flashing lights as they made their way into the foothills. He jumped into the Prius and followed them.
    The red-and-blue light bar was just below the ridge, the glow visible from the road that ended at the field. The patrol car was definitely in the vicinity of Randolph’s farm. Ward gave himself a mental kick for leaving the man alone; it was a good fit with the rest of his down-on-John mood.
    Ward listened carefully over the silent motor. He did not hear an ambulance and hoped Randolph was all right. It also meant he probably hadn’t shot anyone. When he arrived Ward parked beside the police car. He strode over, rolling his shoulders like a fighter to generate some warmth in the cold night air. He watched the play of a flashlight beam across the inside of the barn. As Ward neared, he saw—and smelled—the carnage. It was like arriving at a homicide crime scene where voices were muted as investigators sought to preserve their own quiet dignity, a veneer of humanity as they sought purpose and clues in the face of bloodshed. Only a police officer and Randolph were inside.
    â€œ... back to the car to get the camera, take pictures for our files,” the cop was saying. “You ought to take some for insurance, too. And you need to get that bump looked at.”
    â€œI will,” Randolph promised.
    â€œNeed a ride to the hospital?” Ward asked.
    The men turned as Ward spoke.
    â€œJohn,” Randolph said. There was relief as well as pain in that one word.
    Ward only gave the dead animals a passing look. “They came back,” he said.
    â€œWho are you?” the officer asked. He stood about six-foot-five, a beanpole of a man who made up in height what he lacked in breadth.
    â€œJohn Ward. I’m here from New York to visit my daughter.” He added, “Joanne McCrea is my former wife.”
    The officer relaxed slightly at the mention of her name. He tucked his flashlight under his arm, jotted the name in a notepad he carried, and marked the time with his watch.
    â€œWho was it?” Ward asked Randolph.
    â€œWe don’t know, Mr. Ward,” the officer said.
    â€œ I know, Harry,” Randolph said.
    â€œYou don’t,” the officer replied.
    Ward stopped beside Randolph. “Where were you attacked?”
    â€œBy the bedroom door,” Randolph said, pointing.
    Ward studied the large wound in the dull lamplight. “We know this much, officer. The assailant was about five-foot nine or ten, left handed, and used a metal object, probably a tire iron or a crow bar.”
    â€œAnd you know that how, Sherlock?” the officer asked.
    â€œBecause he’s a New York City detective ,” Randolph said.
    Hawks—by his nametag—was in his late twenties, Ward guessed, now that he had a close look at him. He was more full of training than experience.
    â€œThe upward angle of the swing is marked by a gash in the center of