“What, then?” Bolan asked.
“Looks like I’ll be a fugitive.”
“I hate to mention this,” said Bolan, “but you dropped one of those guys back there.”
“He was escaping. Sue me.”
“I was thinking of ballistics.”
Granger thought about that for a moment, then replied, “No problem. Texas doesn’t have a database of cartridges or slugs from law enforcement weapons. Maryland tried that, a few years back, and ditched it. Said the deal was too expensive and had never solved a crime.”
“So, what’s your next move?”
After more thought, then she said, “How ’bout I stick with you?”
Now it was Bolan’s turn to think. He hadn’t come to Texas looking for a sidekick, only information that would clarify the situation and, if need be, point him toward potential targets. Granted, local expertise might come in handy, but he didn’t want to take responsibility for Adlene Granger’s safety.
Or was it too late to make that call?
“You’ve seen the way I work,” he said. “It just gets worse from here.”
“You’re not a normal Fed, I take it,” almost smiling as she spoke.
“Not even close.”
“Some kind of spook then.”
“More or less.”
“I shouldn’t push it, right?”
“Good call.”
“You’re not collecting evidence to build a case.”
“Correct.”
“A little Texas frontier justice, maybe?”
Bolan let that pass. They were a mile out from the Alamo.
“Look,” she continued. “All I’m saying is, I know what fighting’s all about. Tonight wasn’t first blood for me.”
“I’ve seen your file,” Bolan informed her.
“Oh? Well then.” A brief hesitation followed. “So I have a file? In Washington, I mean?”
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