Read Online Wounded Animals (Whistleblower Series Book 1) by Jim Heskett - Free Book Online
Authors: Jim Heskett
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spoke again. Crested switchback after switchback, as the skyscrapers of Denver slowly came into view, their tops slicing above the mist across the city. Grace and I used to hike here and up in Boulder most weekends before our main hobby became preparing our house for the arrival of Little Candle.
I looked at the water bottle they’d given me, unsure if I wanted to drink. If they had poisoned it, that would make it easy for them to roll me off the side of the cliff once I was unconscious. Just another hiker standing too close to the edge who fell. Despite the dryness in my mouth, I wouldn’t drink it.
The trail turned, and at the turn, a bench sat on a lookout at the edge of a cliff. The driver and the passenger both walked toward the lookout, sipping their water bottles.
“Are you going to tell me why the hell we’re up here?” I said.
“I like the view,” said the passenger. “I don’t get to come to Denver too often. Bit foggy today, but still, this is lovely.”
I heard a little bit of a southern twang in the last sentence.
“Do you have answers for me or not?” I said, feeling ire bubbling up through my legs and into my chest. The full Nalgene in my hand was heavy enough, maybe I could crack it over his head. Or I might fall on the slippery ground and split my head open.
“Maybe. First, I’m going to have to get you to tell me the truth about some things.” As the passenger spoke, the driver slowly circled around behind me. I didn’t like being in between them. Maybe I didn’t have any control to begin with, but not being able to see both of them at once unnerved me. This close to the cliff edge, the driver could easily rush me and knock me over. But he could have done that at any number of points along the trail so far, though. Poison me, throw me from me a cliff… guessing their endgame was wrapping my head all in knots.
“What do you want to know?”
The passenger slipped a granola bar from his pocket and tore off a mouthful. He chewed with his mouth wide open, smacking his lips. One of my biggest pet peeves.
“You called to report your wife missing,” he said, pointing the granola bar at me like a knife.
Okay, so they had my phone tapped, or bugged, or hacked, or whatever it was they did now to access phones. That didn’t surprise me. “Yes. Do you know where she is?”
The passenger lifted his palms to the sky. “I have no idea. Keeping track of your wife isn’t my business. What is my business is that you stop calling the cops about anything, because involving them is going to cause problems for everybody on down the line.”
“Who are you people?”
“It’s not your turn to ask the questions yet. As I was saying, you called to report your wife missing. As of this moment, right now, your interaction with the police is over. That little mess that happened at your house last night? That could be the end of it if you start doing the right thing.”
“Why don’t you tell me what the right thing is,” I said through clenched teeth.
“I can hear you getting a little upset. That’s no good. Maybe it would help if we were a bit more on personal terms. You can call me Mr. Thomason. We haven’t been introduced, but I’ve been watching you for a long time.”
The driver moved closer to me, from behind. My fight or flight response triggered, and I had an urge to grab him and flip him over my shoulder. But I resisted. If these guys knew something, I was going to get the damn information.
The passenger, AKA Thomason, finished his granola bar and tossed the wrapper in front of the bench. Littering, another one of my pet peeves. “Does the name Muhammed Qureshi mean anything to you? Sometimes, he goes by Kareem Haddadi. That’s the name he usually uses in this country, so I’d guess you’d know that one. Ring any bells?”
My eyes shot wide open. Kareem, my mythical water-into-wine friend, the one who had begged me not to take the trip to Dallas. He’d barely entered my
I looked at the water bottle they’d given me, unsure if I wanted to drink. If they had poisoned it, that would make it easy for them to roll me off the side of the cliff once I was unconscious. Just another hiker standing too close to the edge who fell. Despite the dryness in my mouth, I wouldn’t drink it.
The trail turned, and at the turn, a bench sat on a lookout at the edge of a cliff. The driver and the passenger both walked toward the lookout, sipping their water bottles.
“Are you going to tell me why the hell we’re up here?” I said.
“I like the view,” said the passenger. “I don’t get to come to Denver too often. Bit foggy today, but still, this is lovely.”
I heard a little bit of a southern twang in the last sentence.
“Do you have answers for me or not?” I said, feeling ire bubbling up through my legs and into my chest. The full Nalgene in my hand was heavy enough, maybe I could crack it over his head. Or I might fall on the slippery ground and split my head open.
“Maybe. First, I’m going to have to get you to tell me the truth about some things.” As the passenger spoke, the driver slowly circled around behind me. I didn’t like being in between them. Maybe I didn’t have any control to begin with, but not being able to see both of them at once unnerved me. This close to the cliff edge, the driver could easily rush me and knock me over. But he could have done that at any number of points along the trail so far, though. Poison me, throw me from me a cliff… guessing their endgame was wrapping my head all in knots.
“What do you want to know?”
The passenger slipped a granola bar from his pocket and tore off a mouthful. He chewed with his mouth wide open, smacking his lips. One of my biggest pet peeves.
“You called to report your wife missing,” he said, pointing the granola bar at me like a knife.
Okay, so they had my phone tapped, or bugged, or hacked, or whatever it was they did now to access phones. That didn’t surprise me. “Yes. Do you know where she is?”
The passenger lifted his palms to the sky. “I have no idea. Keeping track of your wife isn’t my business. What is my business is that you stop calling the cops about anything, because involving them is going to cause problems for everybody on down the line.”
“Who are you people?”
“It’s not your turn to ask the questions yet. As I was saying, you called to report your wife missing. As of this moment, right now, your interaction with the police is over. That little mess that happened at your house last night? That could be the end of it if you start doing the right thing.”
“Why don’t you tell me what the right thing is,” I said through clenched teeth.
“I can hear you getting a little upset. That’s no good. Maybe it would help if we were a bit more on personal terms. You can call me Mr. Thomason. We haven’t been introduced, but I’ve been watching you for a long time.”
The driver moved closer to me, from behind. My fight or flight response triggered, and I had an urge to grab him and flip him over my shoulder. But I resisted. If these guys knew something, I was going to get the damn information.
The passenger, AKA Thomason, finished his granola bar and tossed the wrapper in front of the bench. Littering, another one of my pet peeves. “Does the name Muhammed Qureshi mean anything to you? Sometimes, he goes by Kareem Haddadi. That’s the name he usually uses in this country, so I’d guess you’d know that one. Ring any bells?”
My eyes shot wide open. Kareem, my mythical water-into-wine friend, the one who had begged me not to take the trip to Dallas. He’d barely entered my
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