Read Scarcity (Jack Randall #3) for Free Online

a higher price range. Once the clothes and shoes were swapped out, he returned to the driver’s seat and dug into the glove box. Here he found another wallet that he transferred what cash he had on him into. Pocketing it, he then pulled a newer Rolex out and secured it on his wrist. The last item was hidden in a secret panel in the door, and after triggering the hidden switch, he pulled the black Sig Sauer automatic free. He had just verified that it was loaded and stuck it back in its hiding spot when a black Porsche pulled in next to him. He thumbed the door locks open and waited.
    Manuel leaped from the Porsche, wearing a high end casual suit and deck shoes. His hair contained enough gel to hold his curls in place and Jimmy’s sharp eyes could see a lipstick smear on his collar. He was fifteen years junior to Jimmy, young, fit, good looking, and thus far the only partner Jimmy had ever worked with that he liked. While still a little cocky and too sure of himself, Manuel was wise enough to see that Jimmy was the only man over forty in their line of work who was still alive. Jimmy also had the respect of the bosses, which was a rare thing. In the last two years that they had worked together, Manuel had learned a great deal, while also developing a healthy respect for Jimmy and his abilities.
    He jumped into the passenger seat and tossed a bag into the back seat as Jimmy put the car in gear.
    “Got your ID?”
    “Yeah, my newest one. Let me adjust this before we go.”
    Jimmy waited while Manuel tightened the strap on his ankle holster. Only when he was through and they both had their seatbelts on did he pull the car out of the garage.
    “Where we headed?”
    “North, up the east coast, Baltimore or DC. I’m not sure yet.”
    Jimmy turned the car in the desired direction and headed for the highway.
    “What’s the job?”
    Manuel tilted his head forward to look at Jimmy over his expensive sunglasses.
    “You’re not going to like it.”
    Jimmy said nothing and gripped the wheel tightly with both hands, the blood leaving them made the multiple scars stand out.
    •      •      •
    Lenny Hill had been a cop since he was five years old. At least that’s when he remembered getting his first badge and gun. A gift from his father, he had worn it for weeks, roaming the neighborhood, arresting his friends and the occasional dog, writing tickets on a notepad and issuing them to neighbors as they drove down their suburban street, and chasing down his friends and having shoot-outs till they were all dead. Born into a family of policemen, he had sat quietly and listened to them talk of investigations and captures, stakeouts and chases, even the occasional shooting. It was no surprise to anyone when he graduated college with a criminal justice degree and applied for the Detroit City Police. A year with the SWAT team and a few more of hard experience followed. Somehow he found the time to complete a master’s degree and with his father’s encouragement applied for the FBI. Excelling in languages, he soon found himself stationed in the Miami office and working with other government agencies in all types of investigations. A natural diplomat, Lenny was often called upon to negotiate with foreign police forces when their help was needed on a particular case. His linguistic skills expanded to include Spanish, French and German, and he soon caught the interest of Interpol. With some pressure from above, he accepted the position of liaison with the international organization, which ironically involved a move of only a few blocks. That was several years ago and he had worn out four passports since. But the job was never boring for long, just sometimes inconvenient.
    “Why does this crap always have to happen at night?” Lenny asked himself.
    Even as he grumbled, he knew it wasn’t true. The late night calls just seemed to stick in his memory more. He could also argue that the later the call came, the bigger the