Attorney's Run (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) Read Online Free
Author: R.J. Jagger, Jack Rain
Ditto.”
7
Day Two—June 12
Tuesday Morning
LOWER DOWNTOWN—LODO—WAS AN UPSCALE HOTSPOT at the northern edge of Denver given to trendy bars, restaurants and shops, all anchored by Coors Field. Jekker’s loft sat smack dab in the heart of the matter. He stepped onto his balcony with a cup of hot coffee in hand and looked down.
The city buzzed, vibrant and alive.
Jekker was too, but barely.
The fall off the face of the cliff last evening knocked him out—for a long time, actually. He remembered waking up to a pitch-black world, half frozen, not having a clue where he was, before finally making his way back to the Audi and discovering that it was almost midnight.
His entire body ached, even now, every single part of it, but nothing was broken.
One thing he knew for sure.
He’d go back there a third time and get it right.
No stupid-ass mountain was going to beat him, period, end of sentence.
TESSA BLAKE—THE TARGET—TURNED OUT to be a 22-year-old single female with a string of low-paying jobs in her wake, currently employed as a Molly Maid.
Why she had been chosen as a target was beyond Jekker’s comprehension. The best he could figure, she must have seen something she shouldn’t have. Maybe she snooped around a little too much while cleaning someone’s house.
He didn’t know.
He didn’t care.
To him, she was nothing more than a pile of money.
HE FOLLOWED HER FOR A COUPLE OF HOURS in the morning to get a feel for her and then pointed the front end of the Audi west. He gassed up in downtown Morrison at the base of the foothills, then wound up Highway 74 into the mountains through a river canyon that wasn’t quite as spectacular as Clear Creek but was still pretty damn nice.
He passed Idledale, kept going under a clear Colorado sky, then turned onto a gravel road, kicking up a dust trail as he disappeared into thick Ponderosa pines.
A hundred yards down the road he stopped the vehicle in front of a chain-link gate with a warning sign: Private Property. No Trespassing. A second sign said No Hunting and a third said Keep Out. All of the signs were marked with shotgun blast, just to make a point.
He got out, unlocked the gate, drove the Audi through and relocked it.
Then he continued down the road for a half mile into the heart of his 1,000-acre property where he parked in front of three old boxcars, coupled together, sitting on a short stretch of track that dead-ended at either end of the cars.
They had been there when he purchased the property.
He had always been curious how they got there but never curious enough to research it.
Pine scent perfumed the air.
He inhaled deeply and marveled, once again, at how deathly quiet the place was. Not a sound came from anywhere; no traffic, no music, no nothing, except the occasional flap of a bird’s wing or a marmot’s rustle in the brush.
THE BOXCARS HAD BEEN EMPTY when he purchased the property. He linked them together with a wooden deck, converted the middle one into a kitchen and sitting area, and modified the right one into a bedroom and bathroom.
The left car was empty.
A quick inspection of the cars showed that no one had tried to intrude since he had last been there two weeks ago.
Good.
He jogged.
Then shot the 45-pound compound bow as he came up with the perfect plan to take Tessa Blake.
8
Day Two—June 12
Tuesday Morning
LONDON DIDN’T EXACTLY KNOW what ugly story Venta was about to lay on her, but did know that Starbucks wasn’t the place for it, so they stepped outside and walked down Alameda next to heavy traffic.
Venta turned her face to the sky and let the sun fall on it.
“This is better,” she said. “Anyway, I arrived in Bangkok in the afternoon and studied maps, got my bearings, checked my equipment, that kind of thing. Bob Copeland landed just before nightfall, spent an hour in his hotel room, and then headed over to a place called Soi Cowboy, located in a sleazy sex district filled with
7
Day Two—June 12
Tuesday Morning
LOWER DOWNTOWN—LODO—WAS AN UPSCALE HOTSPOT at the northern edge of Denver given to trendy bars, restaurants and shops, all anchored by Coors Field. Jekker’s loft sat smack dab in the heart of the matter. He stepped onto his balcony with a cup of hot coffee in hand and looked down.
The city buzzed, vibrant and alive.
Jekker was too, but barely.
The fall off the face of the cliff last evening knocked him out—for a long time, actually. He remembered waking up to a pitch-black world, half frozen, not having a clue where he was, before finally making his way back to the Audi and discovering that it was almost midnight.
His entire body ached, even now, every single part of it, but nothing was broken.
One thing he knew for sure.
He’d go back there a third time and get it right.
No stupid-ass mountain was going to beat him, period, end of sentence.
TESSA BLAKE—THE TARGET—TURNED OUT to be a 22-year-old single female with a string of low-paying jobs in her wake, currently employed as a Molly Maid.
Why she had been chosen as a target was beyond Jekker’s comprehension. The best he could figure, she must have seen something she shouldn’t have. Maybe she snooped around a little too much while cleaning someone’s house.
He didn’t know.
He didn’t care.
To him, she was nothing more than a pile of money.
HE FOLLOWED HER FOR A COUPLE OF HOURS in the morning to get a feel for her and then pointed the front end of the Audi west. He gassed up in downtown Morrison at the base of the foothills, then wound up Highway 74 into the mountains through a river canyon that wasn’t quite as spectacular as Clear Creek but was still pretty damn nice.
He passed Idledale, kept going under a clear Colorado sky, then turned onto a gravel road, kicking up a dust trail as he disappeared into thick Ponderosa pines.
A hundred yards down the road he stopped the vehicle in front of a chain-link gate with a warning sign: Private Property. No Trespassing. A second sign said No Hunting and a third said Keep Out. All of the signs were marked with shotgun blast, just to make a point.
He got out, unlocked the gate, drove the Audi through and relocked it.
Then he continued down the road for a half mile into the heart of his 1,000-acre property where he parked in front of three old boxcars, coupled together, sitting on a short stretch of track that dead-ended at either end of the cars.
They had been there when he purchased the property.
He had always been curious how they got there but never curious enough to research it.
Pine scent perfumed the air.
He inhaled deeply and marveled, once again, at how deathly quiet the place was. Not a sound came from anywhere; no traffic, no music, no nothing, except the occasional flap of a bird’s wing or a marmot’s rustle in the brush.
THE BOXCARS HAD BEEN EMPTY when he purchased the property. He linked them together with a wooden deck, converted the middle one into a kitchen and sitting area, and modified the right one into a bedroom and bathroom.
The left car was empty.
A quick inspection of the cars showed that no one had tried to intrude since he had last been there two weeks ago.
Good.
He jogged.
Then shot the 45-pound compound bow as he came up with the perfect plan to take Tessa Blake.
8
Day Two—June 12
Tuesday Morning
LONDON DIDN’T EXACTLY KNOW what ugly story Venta was about to lay on her, but did know that Starbucks wasn’t the place for it, so they stepped outside and walked down Alameda next to heavy traffic.
Venta turned her face to the sky and let the sun fall on it.
“This is better,” she said. “Anyway, I arrived in Bangkok in the afternoon and studied maps, got my bearings, checked my equipment, that kind of thing. Bob Copeland landed just before nightfall, spent an hour in his hotel room, and then headed over to a place called Soi Cowboy, located in a sleazy sex district filled with
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