The Export by J.K. Kelly (read along books txt) 📕

clip release, verified it was loaded, and then slid it back into the handle of the gun.

“We thought it might be best for you to have this with you for the rest of your stay with us.” He handed it to Matt.

Matt took it and repeated the clip move, but before reloading the gun, he dropped the full clip onto the bed and moved the slide back, locking it open. He checked to make sure there wasn’t a round already in place. Cleared, he released the slide and loaded the clip in one quick motion.

“I figured you’d know what to do with it,” Hadden said with confidence.

Matt laughed and walked to his bag, pulling a much smaller 9mm compact semi-automatic from inside a pair of hiking boots.

“How’d you get th–?” Hadden asked.

Matt interrupted with a smile. “Diplomatic pouch, untouchable by anyone but Embassy staff,” he explained. “You’ve never seen this done before? It flew over with me from D.C., and I left it in the room last night since I knew I’d be drinking.”

That had been a very smart move. Had the Moscow Police, regardless of who had sent them to rough up the new arrival, found a loaded gun on Matt, especially if he was intoxicated, they would have put him in jail for a year, at least. There would have been nothing the American diplomatic corps could have done to save him.

“Fixers, you guys know how to do it all, don’t you!” Hadden laughed, reaching for the gun and box he had just delivered. Matt waved an arm to stop him.

“Oh no, leave that with me, please. It might come in handy at some point.”

Another knock at the door announced the domestic who had shown Matt to his room. It was six o’clock, and the Wilkersons disapproved of tardiness. Matt replaced the compact and slid the gift box and its contents under his mattress, on the far side of the bed. He then thanked Hadden, and the two left his room, the Marine headed for chow in the kitchen, the export headed for dinner with the trio from Texas.

Right after large portions of fried chicken, biscuits, coleslaw, baked beans, and grilled yellow corn on the cob were served, Wilkerson dismissed the kitchen staff so the four could speak freely. Matt hadn’t smelled southern cooking like this for years, but as he reached for a biscuit, Sarah quickly waved him off.

“Not till we thank God, young man!” she admonished him.

Wilkerson smiled and bowed his head, joining hands with Ray to his left and Sarah to his right. Matt bowed his head as well and reached for their other hands, Sarah grasping his firmly while Ray barely made contact.

“Thank you, Lord, for this food, this house, these men,” she said in a very strong tone but as the prayer progressed her voice fell to almost a whisper, “and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

“Amen,” all four said, each voice sounding its own tone. Matt took in every bit of it. Her mama didn’t raise no fool, he thought to himself. She knows. Quick to change the tone at the table, Wilkerson went straight to it.

“What have you learned?” he asked, sounding serious but then almost laughed when he saw how quickly Matt was inhaling his food.

“Slow down,” Sarah cautioned him, “nobody’s going to steal that plate.”

Matt had bypassed breakfast and had inhaled the late lunch. Now he was downing the food in front of him like a pup afraid the rest of the litter would gobble up his share.

“Nothing like southern food when you’re 5,000 miles from home,” he managed to say as he reached for more chicken.

“Sarah Sinclair Wilkerson cooks the best fried chicken I’ve ever had,” the ambassador said proudly. Sinclair? Matt thought for a moment. Should he let it pass, or was there much more to his being here tonight than helping another bad boy get out of a political mess? Was someone toying with him?

“Sinclair?” Matt asked. “Are you from the Texas Sinclairs – the oil Sinclairs?”

“Matt, my dear, aren’t those synonymous?” she replied. “Yes, somewhere up the line of great-great-grandparents, one of them founded that oil company. They were based in Texas, of course, but reached as far west as Teapot Dome, Wyoming. You know about Teapot Dome, I am sure?” He did, of course.

Way back during the Harding presidency, his Interior Secretary had leased oil reserves meant for the U.S. Navy in Wyoming and other locations in California to private oil companies in a private deal with very low rates and without running it all through a competitive bidding process. The secretary was later convicted of accepting bribes from those companies.

Imagine that, Matt thought as he remembered his history lessons. Her family and a government official were involved in breaking the law even way back then.

“Yes, I do,” Matt replied. “Wyoming’s beautiful, especially out around Jackson Hole.” Now he needed to think fast on his feet – or seat, in actuality.

“My cousin, about five times removed, killed himself in London a week or so ago. They say he shot his nephew, a poor Royal Marine suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder who had gone about town killing women, and then turned the gun on himself.” The four at the table sat quietly. Matt wasn’t sure what would come next. He was watching Sarah closely, very closely. Was this an incredible coincidence or had someone, an enemy in Washington, sent him into a trap far from home? To his relief, Russell Wilkerson didn’t care much for her cousin Sinclair and brought the table back to what mattered most to him.

“Back to our dilemma, Matt, what have you found out so far?”

“Well, Mr. Ambassador, I did make contact with Misha about an hour ago by text, and I used your private email account to communicate with the person calling themselves the “Old Goat.” Wilkerson was stunned, but Matt beat him