PRECIPICE Read Online Free

in surprise and fired the Benelli, the pellets flying high of their mark as the two doves weaved out of sight over the tree line.
    Moore set the shotgun back across his knees and fished in his breast pocket for the phone with his left hand. He eyed the caller ID, seeing that it was his chief of staff on the line.
    “Dammit, Ortiz! I told you not to bug me while I’m huntin’,” he drawled, his voice as deep as the Alabama mud his forefathers had farmed. “You made me miss my shot.”
    “I thought you would be finished by now,” came the reply with only the faintest hint of a Hispanic accent discernable. “It’s ten-thirty already.”
    “It might be ten-thirty in Washington, but it’s nine-thirty in Alabama and the birds are still flyin’. Shouldn’t’chew be cookin’ huevos rancheros or sump-n?”
    An American born to Mexican parents in Houston thirty-seven years ago before spending several years of his childhood back in Mexico, Juan Ortiz was accustomed to these not-so-subtle barbs about his ethnicity—it had become a standard, if tiresome, joke between him and his boss. He played along, affecting a much thicker Hispanic accent, “I was cooking tacos and working on lowering my Monte Carlo when my cousin called. I didn’t want to interrupt you while you were making love to a pig in your pickup truck, but it’s very important news.” Turnabout to redneck jokes was fair play and part of the usual banter. And Sheldon did drive a pickup, while Ortiz had an Audi.
    Moore grew more serious. “What’d he say?”
    “He’s pretty sure that the international trucking bill will come up next month. He really hopes it will pass.”
    “How much does he hope?”
    “He hopes a lot ,” Ortiz replied, emphasizing the amount. “He knows it won’t be popular with your party or your constituents, but he’s very intent on having you push it through your committee and then vote for it. With the balance this close in the Senate, your vote should decide the whole issue.” Moore was chairman of the Senate Transportation Committee.
    “I’ll be back in Washington tomorrow afternoon. Let’s talk about it more on Tuesday.” Moore could see the way out clearly now.
    “You need me to pick you up from the airport?”
    “Naw. It was only three days, so I left my car there.”
    “See you Tuesday.”
    After twenty-three years of public service, Sheldon Moore had little to show for it other than the house he had built here on the rim of the Little River Canyon. His father had bought the land decades ago with his military pension, hoping to someday build a mountain vacation home up here. He’d had no idea that one of the deepest canyons in the eastern US would one day be made into a National Park, turning his piece of property into a unique inholding sandwiched between the park and the Little River Wildlife Management Area. It was a national park view with prime hunting right out the back door. Sheldon could hear the booming echo of the hurricane-swollen river thundering through the bottom of the canyon even from where he sat a half-mile away. Aside from his slice of Alabama paradise, though, Moore had little to show other than the mortgage, an even more expensive mortgage on the spacious house that he thought of as his wife’s place in D.C., and his daughter’s fifty-two thousand dollar-a-year tuition bill from Stanford—which didn’t include books, travel, or spending money.
    Unlike most senators, he hadn’t come from money and had no law degree or qualification for any other kind of work. His resume before senator listed only Army grunt and farmer. He’d fallen into politics and felt as though there was no graceful way out. It wasn’t that he was stupid; it was just that growing up on a string of army bases with a Colonel father had not encouraged him to think outside the box. He had lived his life doing exactly what was expected of him with minimal complaint, and he’d gone about being a senator in much the same