The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set by Ernest Dempsey (non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

the gravel, each killed with expert precision. Was it the work of Dak? Or was there someone else capable of such killing?

His thoughts wandered back to the equally sinister possibility that Collier could have found him. Was it Nate who did this?

If so, he would be calculating the best way to take Tyler out. He'd map the entire mountain, figure out the best approach, and strike at the opportune moment.

Tyler had placed enough sensors around the perimeter of the cabin to give him plenty of notice if someone was approaching on foot. He had to remind himself of that so he could get some sleep, but he already knew that was going to be tenuous at best.

He took another swig of the bourbon and eased back into the thick leather couch. A pistol sat on the cushion next to him. One of his AR-15s rested on the coffee table with two spare magazines beside it.

Whoever was behind the killings, Tyler convinced himself that they wouldn't attack him tonight. They would wait and plan their next move.

For now, he needed to get some rest. The local cops were doing all they could, which wasn't much, but the killer would lie low for a little while. It's what Tyler would do. When he put himself in the shoes of Dak or Nate, he figured that's what they would do, too.

Moderately satisfied with his rationale, Tyler finished the rest of his bourbon and lazily watched the fire flicker and crackle as his eyelids grew heavy and he surrendered to sleep.

Twelve

Cuchara

Sheriff Sanders burst through the front door of the building before the first rays of sunlight streamed over the horizon to the east. The smell of cheap, burnt coffee barely registered as he passed the front desk.

"Sheriff?" said the woman on duty.

For a second, her call to his attention passed him by in the haze of thoughts and emotions running chaotically through his head.

He paused and then turned to face her. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I know you have… a lot going on."

"Spit it out, Amy. I'm conducting an investigation of my son's murder. In case you hadn't noticed."

She blushed, her rotund cheeks burning the color of ripe plums. "I know, sir, and I'm sorry. It's just that—" She hesitated for fear of attracting more of his anger.

"Well?"

She gasped and let it out. "There's a man here to see you," she said. At the sight of his vague confusion, she continued. "He said it's about the investigation, sir. He claims to have information about the… um, killer."

The sheriff blinked. "Where is he?"

"He's in your office, sir."

"My office? You just let him walk into my office?"

"No, sir. Well, sort of. He was very insistent."

"Insistent?" Sanders looked as if his head might blow off and fly into orbit. "Amy, this is a police building. We don't just let strangers have access to any room they want, and especially not my private office." His voice built until it ended in a shout.

He spun and continued down the hall at a faster pace than he'd begun with until he reached the open door and looked inside.

A man, probably in his early or mid-thirties sat in one of the chairs across from the desk. He had one leg crossed over a knee and hands folded in his lap, the picture of someone trying to mind their own business.

Sanders' head bobbed in all directions as he threw his hands up in the air. "Can I help you?"

He marched into his office, leaving the door cracked open, and plopped down in the chair behind his desk.

"Well, are you just going to sit there or are you going to explain yourself? Amy said you claim to have information about who might have killed my son."

The words stung coming out of his mouth. Sanders hadn't slept the night before. His son had been brutally slain in a bar parking lot along with his two closest friends. A range of emotions constantly swept over him throughout the night, rousing him every brief moment it seemed slumber would finally take him.

The man across from him didn't respond at first. He stared back at Sanders with steel blue eyes that could have cut through stone.

"I do," the man said finally, seconds before the sheriff could ask again.

Sanders' temper eased and he slumped back into the chair. Here we go, he mused. The first of probably dozens of claims.

Anytime something like this happened, law enforcement had to pore over piles of claims from people swearing they had legitimate information regarding a crime. The worse the crime, the more people typically came forward with "information."

Most of the time, it was little more than rumor or guesswork.

Sanders hadn't seen much of it in his time in Cuchara, but he'd heard from his buddies with the State Troopers and in other cities. It was always the same and there was a high correlation between the higher rewards offered and the number of people claiming to have helpful information.

The sheriff had to admit this guy didn't look like the freeloader type, trying to get a few grand with a lucky guess about the suspect's location.

He was strong, with broad shoulders and a striking tan that belied years of outdoor work. His gray jacket over a casual dress, navy blue sweater and dark blue jeans also portrayed a guy who had experienced some moderate success in life. Sanders guessed he was an amateur real estate investor whose actual job was probably in one of the cities—Denver or Colorado Springs—by proximity. He might have been a financial advisor or perhaps one of those startup guys looking to be the next Elon Musk or Bill Gates.

"I'm listening," Sanders said nonchalantly.

"The way those young men died," the stranger began, "would have taken someone who knows what they're doing, wouldn't it?"

The sheriff choked back his grief and gave a single nod. "I suppose so."

"Your son, his friends, did they have any formal combat or martial arts training?"

Sanders' irritation burned on his skin. "You have a point