Deadly Election (9781101619223), page 1
Greeting the Constituency…
The three men who had been standing together the whole night watched as Clint approached Laura Linquist and said good-bye.
“When are we supposed to try for him?” one of them asked.
“I haven’t got word yet,” the leader said. “Don’t worry, it’ll be soon.”
“Maybe they want him to get deep into the campaign first,” the third man said.
“That’s a possibility,” the leader said.
“Who’s gonna pull the trigger?” the second man asked.
“We’ll see,” the leader said. “It’ll all be in the orders.”
“He’s leavin’,” the second man said.
“Let him go,” the leader said. “The time will come, don’t worry.”
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THE
GUNSMITH
374
DEADLY ELECTION
J. R. ROBERTS
JOVE BOOKS, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
DEADLY ELECTION
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove edition / February 2013
Copyright © 2013 by Robert J. Randisi.
Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.
All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-61922-3
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ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
ONE
Clint had been to Washington, D.C., recently, after a long absence. It was enough for him. That was the reason he refused to return again so soon even when he received the telegram asking for a meeting with a man named Jeremy Pike.
Pike was a Secret Service agent, a sometime partner to Clint’s friend Jim West. This was the only reason Clint agreed to meet the man—not in Washington, D.C., itself, but in the West Virginia town of Meadowbrook.
Clint would have ridden Eclipse all the way, but Pike stressed the importance of their meeting, so he took the railroad. He got off the train at the station and took a horse-drawn cab to a hotel.
“Which one?” the driver asked.
“The nearest one,” Clint said. “It doesn’t really matter.”
“Nearest one ain’t so good, mister,” the driver said. “You wouldn’t thank me for takin’ you there.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “take me to the nearest decent hotel.”
“Yessir.”
The driver took him to a small hotel called The Red Rooster Inn. There was a crude drawing of a red rooster over the door.
“Okay,” the driver said, “we’re here.”
Clint paid the fare, stepped down with his carpetbag. He didn’t have a rifle with him. His gun and holster were in the bag and his little Colt New Line was tucked into his belt, where nobody could see it, in the small of his back and covered by a jacket.
“You gonna need a driver to maybe look around town?” the young man asked.
“I don’t think so,” Clint said. “I think I’ll only be here for one day.”
“You’re gonna wanna go someplace, though, right?”
“I’m supposed to go to a restaurant called O’Day’s tonight.”
“I know where that is,” the man said. “Too far to walk. I’ll pick ya up. What time?”
“Um, how far is it?”
“Twenty-minute ride.”
“Four thirty would do, then.” He was supposed to meet Pike at five.
“I’ll be here,” the young man said cheerfully, and drove off.
Clint checked in, took a look at his room, freshened up, and was in front of the hotel at four twenty-five when the young man pulled up.
“Told you I’d be here.”
“And five minutes early,” Clint said, climbing into the back of the cab. “I’m impressed.”
The young man snapped the reins at his horse.
“How about I take the long route, give you a look at our town?” he asked.
“That’s not necessary,” Clint said. “I’m not going to be here that long.”
“Okay, suit yourself.”
He drove directly to the restaurant, pulled to a stop in front.
“Here ya go,” he said.
It was four fifty, ten minutes early for his meet with Pike. But knowing Jeremy Pike—and he did, though not as well as he knew Jim West—he knew the man would be waiting inside.
He paid the kid and said, “Thanks.”
“Want me to pick you up and take you back to your hotel?”
“Yes,” Clint said. “Come back at seven.”
“Sure you’ll be done by then?”
“If I’m not,” Clint said, “you can wait for me. I’ll pay you.”
“Okay,” the driver said. “I’ll see you then.”
Clint turned and entered the restaurant. It was busy, most of the tables occupied. A man came up to him and asked, “Can I help you, sir?”
Just then Clint spotted Pike toward the back. The man saw him at the s ame time, and waved.
“I see my friend,” Clint said.
The man turned, saw Pike waving, and said to Clint, “Very well. Enjoy your dinner, sir.”
“Thank you.”
He crossed the room, ducking between tables as he went. By the time he got there, Pike was on his feet with a big smile on his face. It had been a few years, and while Pike had a few more lines around his eyes and mouth, and a gray hair or two, he was still a natty dresser, with a quick, infectious smile.
“Clint,” he said with his hand out, “great to see you.”
“Jeremy.” They shook hands.
“Jim sends his best.”
Clint sat across from Pike, who reclaimed his seat.
“Where is he? Washington?”
“When is Jim ever in Washington?” Pike asked.
“You’ve got a point.”
“He’s actually out of the country now, on assignment. Thanks for coming so quickly.”
“Your telegram said it was urgent.”
“I would have met you halfway,” Pike said, “but I’m on assignment myself, and have to stay close to Washington.”
“This is fine.”
Pike waved, and as if by magic, a waiter appeared with two steaming plates.
“I took the liberty of ordering steak dinners. They’re very good here.”
“Fine. I’m starving.”
The waiter set the plates down in front of them.
“Coffee or beer?” Pike asked.
“Let’s start with beer.”
Pike nodded to the waiter.
“Can we talk while we eat?” Clint asked, picking up his knife and fork. “I’d like to find out what’s on your mind.”
“That’s easy,” Pike said. “I want you to run for Congress, Clint.”
TWO
“You what?” Clint asked, his fork halfway to his mouth with a tantalizing hunk of steak on the end.
“Put that in your mouth before it falls off,” Pike suggested.
Clint did, and chewed.
“It’s very simple,” Pike said. “Next month some men are going to come and see you, and they’re going to ask you to run for Congress, to represent Texas in Washington, D.C.”
“Why would they do a fool thing like that?” Clint asked. “I don’t want to be a politician.”
“I know that,” Pike said, cutting up his own steak, “but we’ve been having some problems with our elections in this country.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Well,” Pike said, “to put it quite simply, somebody keeps killing the candidates.”
“What?”
“Over the past eight years, eleven politicians who were running for office—specifically for Congress—have been killed.”
“Why have I not heard about this before?”
“We kept it quiet,” Pike said, “while we investigated.”
“And what have you come up with?”
“Nothing.”
“When did this last happen?”
“Two years ago.”
“So let me get this straight,” Clint said. “After being unable to find these killers over the past eight years you—your bosses—have decided to put somebody on the inside.”
“That’s correct.”
“And you want it to be me?”
“After some discussion,” Pike said, “yes.”
“Even if I agree to this,” Clint said, “what makes you think the killers will try for me?”
“They appear to target men who they know would make a difference,” Pike said. “They’re not often well-known men, which is why we’ve been able to keep it pretty quiet. But you, you’re well known and you would make a difference. Clint, I think running for office would pretty much paint a target on your back.”
“From what you’ve told me, I agree,” Clint said.
“Then you agree to run?”
“That’s not what I said,” Clint replied. “I said I agree that would paint a target on me.”
“Well, okay,” Pike said, “we’re agreed on that. What about running?”
“How can you be sure I’ll be asked?” Clint asked. “Are you arranging that?”
“No,” Pike said, shaking his head. “The offer will be legit, from the Democrats. You’re not a Republican, are you?”
“I’m not affiliated with any political party,” Clint said.
“Okay, good.”
“Does the president know about this plan?” Clint asked.
“President Cleveland is behind the plan one hundred percent.”
Clint ate some more steak, washed it down with a swig of beer.
“You need time to think about it,” Pike said.
“Yes, I do.”
“That’s fine,” Pike said. “Take all night.”
“All night?” Clint asked. “You want an answer in the morning?”
“We’re kind of getting down to the wire, Clint,” Pike said. “Campaigns are about to start.”
Clint jabbed his fork into his last piece of steak.
“Well?” Pike asked.
“I’ll give it some thought overnight,” Clint said.
“And answer in the morning?”
“If I can.”
“I have to go back to Washington in the afternoon, Clint,” Pike warned him.
“Look,” Clint said, “how the hell can this work? I’m not a politician.”
“It worked for Sam Houston,” Pike said. “He was a senator and the governor of Texas. Go back even further than that. Davy Crockett was a congressman. Neither of them were politicians.”
“I’m not in that company,” Clint said.
“Don’t be modest, Clint,” Pike said. “You’re every bit as legendary as both those men.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Hey,” Pike said, “remember, this wasn’t my idea. We just caught wind of this and wanted to let you know.”
“And you want me to agree to run,” Clint said. “I don’t want to be a congressman, Jeremy.”
“Running doesn’t mean you’ll win,” Pike said.
“You have a point there,” Clint said, “but you do want somebody to try to kill me.”
“Uh, technically that’s correct.”
“Well, Jeremy,” Clint said, “I think you can see how that would cause me some concern.”
“I would think you’d be concerned that somebody has been killing politicians for the past eight years.”
Clint raised his eyebrows at his friend.
“Yeah okay,” Pike said, “that didn’t come out right. I know a lot of people feel that politicians deserve to die.”
“No argument from me.”
“But we can’t just let it go on, Clint.”
“Why doesn’t Jim West run for office?”
“Nobody knows who he is,” Pike said. “That’s sort of the point of being in the Secret Service—accent on ‘Secret.’”
“Yeah, yeah,” Clint said, “I get it.”
They both put down their utensils and the waiter took their plates away.
“Pie?” Jeremy asked.
“How often do I get the government to buy me dinner?” Clint asked. “You bet your ass, pie.”
THREE
Pike and Clint walked outside together. The young driver was there waiting, sitting in his seat, staring off into space. When he saw Clint, he hurriedly dropped down to the ground.
“Can we give you a ride?” Clint asked.
“No, that’s okay,” Pike said. “I’ll walk.”
“Are you staying near here?”
Pike didn’t answer, gave Clint an amused look.
“Okay, I get it,” Clint said, “Accent on ‘Secret.’”
Pike held his index finger to his lips and smiled.
“Where should I meet you tomorrow morning?” Clint asked.
“Let’s have breakfast right here at eight a.m.,” Pike suggested.
“Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “Breakfast. I’ll see you then.”
He got into the back of the cab. By the time he turned to look, Pike was gone.
“Where to, mister?”
“Back to the hotel. What’s your name?”
“Henry.”
“I’m Clint,” he said. “Back to my hotel, Henry.”
“Gotcha.”
In front of his hotel Clint paid the boy and said, “Pick me up tomorrow morning, seven thirty.”
“That it for tonight?” Henry asked. “It’s still early. Thought you might wanna find some excitement.”
“Is there excitement in this town?”
“If you know where to look, there is.”
