Read Bodyguard of Lies for Free Online

participate in her physical training but she still learned through his voice. He had tried to teach her everything he knew and had almost succeeded.
    Last week she had finally filled the hole. He had died in her arms, his last words full of sorrow that he was leaving her alone and in some unnamed danger that she would have to work her own way out of. She had sat by the grave a day and a night; her voice a keening cry that echoed through the snow covered mountains and stopped only by vocal cords too swollen to move. Then she had gone to the South Bronx and set up surveillance on the alley to do the first of her tasks.
    Looking at the suitcase helped her forget the cold somewhat. Everything had gone as expected, which surprised Neeley. She could hear Gant's voice: No matter how well you prepared and planned, there was always "Murphy" waiting to screw things up. Expect the unexpected and a whole slew of other sayings that Gant had harped on. The rules that he had given her one by one over the years; like other men gave the women they loved jewelry.
    She checked the small pile of wood next to the fireplace. Enough to get it going. Then she'd have to break some out of the frozen stack outside and let it thaw in the fire. She looked around for paper to start the fire with.
    After a moment, she quietly laughed. For all the preparation, she hadn't laid in any paper to start a fire when she got back.
    She tramped outside the cabin to the pick-up, opened the door and grabbed the newspapers she'd bought in town on the way through. She also retrieved the overcoat with the rifle attached inside.
    On the way back to the cabin, she paused to appreciate the view. Gant may have hated the cold but he had loved the scenery. The cabin stood on the west slope of Mount Ellen. The glow of the rising sun glanced through the trees one hundred meters above, at the crest of the mountain. Laid out below, like a toy town, down over a thousand meters of altitude and about four kilometers to the northwest, she could discern a few twinkling lights in the tiny village of South Lincoln.
    The town was where the paved road ended. To get here from there, Neeley had to put the truck into four-wheel drive and negotiate an old, overgrown logging trail that switched back and forth up the mountain. Gant had enjoyed the isolation.
    The cabin didn't have much in the way of conveniences. Water came from a mountain stream, not more than ten feet outside the door; the quick flowing water didn't freeze, even in the coldest winter. Heat came from the fireplace.
    Neeley stomped inside and laid the papers on the table. The light from the kerosene lamp highlighted her chilled breath as she quickly scanned the news. She had the late edition New York Times and the Burlington Free Press. The Times had a brief mention about the incident in the Bronx that must have made it in just before press time.
    Neeley scanned the article and was satisfied that the official police statement was the usual double-speak, which basically meant the cops didn't have the slightest idea who had done it. Which they shouldn't, Neeley reminded herself.
    Curiously, the article didn't mention the destroyed drugs. Neeley had thought the police might have said something about that, but, on reflection, she realized that tidbit might be something they'd keep to themselves for a couple of reasons. It was their little secret to play against any suspects they might come up with; another might be because it would generate some sympathy for whoever had walked away with money. Cops were always afraid of self-styled vigilante killers: bad publicity and a bad example.
    The local Vermont paper held nothing on the story. Killings in New York City were common and not especially newsworthy up here in God's country. Neeley crumpled the local, sheet by sheet and lined the bottom of the fireplace. She threw in some kindling and then laid a pair of logs on top. She squirted lighter fluid over the whole mess. Maybe not what