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

mounted of the two of them on the wall across from her desk. He walked behind it and pulled open the second drawer down on the left side. Under a blank yellow legal pad, a simple cover, he found her Colt 45 semi-automatic, the weapon her Marine father had carried during World War II in the South Pacific. He remembered how her security team had always teased her, encouraging her to retire what they joked was an antique and get something lighter that could carry more rounds. She had always quipped that the gun had been good enough to fight a world war and that the hollow point bullets she’d loaded, designed to spread and enlarge when they hit a target, would stop a bear or an evil bastard with the first shot, so she’d stick with it, thanks just the same. He checked the clip and the slide and then returned to the comfort of the brown sofa, placing the gun under the throw pillow his head would soon be on. Minutes later, exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep and didn’t move until his phone woke him. The house was dark, the sun had set, and it was Sam calling to confirm Matt was still coming into town for dinner.

“Damn, Sam,” Matt apologized. “I fell asleep. I’ll be there in thirty!” Before Sam had a chance to offer another word, Matt was in the guest room shower, the water kept cold, waking him very quickly.

“Coffee,” he called out as he shut it off and climbed out.

Suddenly he remembered that the staff was not there. In the past, whenever he was in town, the cook would always have a fresh pot of coffee brewing for the caffeine addict they all enjoyed taking care of since he was a teenager. Then it hit him harder. He remembered that Coleman would never again come into the room and yell at him about his tossed towels or the pile of laundry in the corner. As he dried off, he felt the tears run down his cheeks, and he buried his head in the towel until the moment passed.

“Old Goat?” he whispered to himself, snapping his mind back into investigator mode. Wearing fresh jeans, hiking boots, and a t-shirt, he was on his way to town.

The Silver Dollar bar was attached to the Wort Hotel in downtown Jackson. Come winter or summer, the Silver Dollar always attracted a crowd.

The Wort was built in the late 1800s, long before Harry Sinclair founded his oil company and before the Teapot Dome bribery scandal rocked the area and the White House. The Wort and its bar, named for the silver dollar coins that were molded into the serving bar surface, had been where Coleman took the boys for dinner every Saturday night. It had been their tradition, so it was fitting they returned here to celebrate her life and catch up. But Matt couldn’t get his mind off the turquoise ring and the old goat comment that had come from the White House earlier in the day. Clearly distracted, Sam tried his best to bring Matt’s attention back to the bar.

“Damn, since when did this place start using topless waitresses?” he asked.

With no reply, Sam tried again. “If you don’t start paying attention, I might have to stick my foot up your ass,” he said a little louder and with a smile.

“Bring friends,” Matt laughed, and then raised his beer bottle and turned toward his friend. “To the Ole Lavender Lady!” he toasted. And then commenced the drinking, almost in a race to see who could down theirs the quickest. They laughed when both bottles hit the bar at nearly the same moment.

“You picked up on her lavender today. I did too,” Sam acknowledged.

“Whenever I’ve smelled that anywhere else, it always made me think of her, the ranch, and how peaceful and loved she made us all feel there.” Matt smiled, but Sam could tell he was lost in thought once again.

“Okay, what time’s your plane?” Sam asked. He’d seen this happen dozens of times in recent years or heard Coleman complain about it to him.

Matt laughed once again. “I have to get the staff squared away in the morning, then I plan on picking up her ashes around 10 and bringing her back to the ranch before heading out.”

Matt took a long draw on the second beer, this time a Budweiser after complaining the IPA Sam had recommended tasted more like moose urine.

“She said she wanted to be spread near the Tetons, and that’s what I had intended to do. But walking around the house today, looking out all the windows, and admiring the view she enjoyed for so many years, I’m really thinking about leaving her on the grounds of the ranch. She’d have the same view, and she loved it there.” He took another draw and waited for Sam’s answer.

“Personally, I think it’s a much better idea. But if you’re wrong and you piss her off, you’ll have her and some bad karma in your head for the rest of your life.” They knocked bottles again and drank some more.

“I’m going to think on it. My flight’s at one, and that gets me home around 10. Then I have to drop off something special to Claire the next morning, if you know what I mean.”

Sam did. He was in law enforcement and understood the cloak-and-dagger business of the intelligence service and what had to happen when someone like Matt was suspicious about his boss’s death. He wanted to know more, himself – but also knew not to push.

“Promise me one thing, Matt, if you can, that is,” he said. “If it turns out there was something out of sync, you’ll share it with me. I want to help you go after anyone who was involved in it. Promise me that.” Matt extended his hand, and they shook on it.

“Promise you what?” a female voice asked from behind Matt. He saw Sam’s face light