Rider on Fire. Sharon Sala
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got wind of an agent in “therapy,” that agent would wind up doing desk duty until pronounced fit for duty again. Sonora didn’t want that on her record, so she was relying on instinct to get her through this. She couldn’t help but feel as if she was seeing this man for a reason. Maybe if he was real, and maybe if she found him, she’d discover for herself what this all meant.
Then the waitress came, delivered the pizza, refilled Sonora’s drink and left her to dine alone. By the time she had finished eating and paid for her meal, the rain had stopped. Reflections from the street lights were mirrored in the puddles as she crossed the street to get to her room.
She was wide-awake and itching to be on the move. Despite an old fear of the dark, she handled it better outside. When she thought about it, which was rarely, it always made sense. She’d gotten her fear of the dark from being locked in a closet, so if she wasn’t bound by four walls, the fear never quite manifested into a full-blown panic attack. Glad to be on the move again, she packed her bag quickly, dropped her room key off at the office, and mounted up. Within the hour, she was gone.
Miguel Garcia had been in Phoenix less than six hours when he’d gotten his first good lead on Sonora Jordan’s whereabouts. He had a name and an address, only it wasn’t Sonora’s address. It belonged to her ex-boyfriend, Buddy Allen.
It was just after 10:00 p.m. when Buddy pulled into the driveway of his apartment building. It was the first time he’d been home since this morning when he’d left for work. With his mind on a shower and bed, he got off the elevator, carrying a six-pack of beer and a bag of groceries. He set down the six-pack, then toed it into his apartment after he opened the door. The door locked as it swung shut. Buddy was halfway across the living room when it dawned on him that all the lights were on, but he distinctly remembered turning them off when he’d left.
The hair rose on the back of his arms. He set down the sack and the six-pack and stepped backward, intent on leaving the apartment to call the police.
Then a man walked out of the bedroom holding a gun. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, and motioned for Buddy to sit down on the sofa.
Buddy measured the distance to the door against the gun and cursed silently. The man didn’t look like the kind to be making idle threats.
“Who the hell are you?” Buddy asked.
“My name is of no importance,” he said.
“Then what are you doing here?” Buddy countered.
“Looking for a friend of yours.”
“Who?” Buddy asked.
“Sonora Jordan.”
Buddy’s stomach rolled. Suddenly, it hit him how much danger he was in. Sonora didn’t deal with lightweights and she’d been spooked enough to leave Phoenix. There was every possibility that he might not live to see another day.
“I don’t know where she is,” Buddy said.
The man frowned. “Wrong answer,” he said, and swung the butt of his gun up under Buddy’s chin.
Buddy dropped, then didn’t move.
DEA agent Gerald Mynton was pouring his second cup of coffee of the day when the phone rang. He set down his cup and reached across the desk to answer it. “Mynton.”
“Agent Mynton, I’m Detective Broyles with Phoenix Homicide.”
“Detective, what can I do for you?” Mynton asked.
“I’m not sure, but we’re working a murder and the name of one of your agents came up.”
Mynton frowned. “Who?”
“Sonora Jordan.”
Mynton sat down in his chair with a thump. “What about her?”
“Do you know a man by the name of Robert Allen…goes by the name of Buddy?”
“Not that I—wait! Did you say Buddy Allen?”
“Yes.”
“Oh hell,” Mynton said.
“Then you do know him?” Broyles asked.
“Not personally, but I do know that Agent Jordan used to date a Buddy Allen. Is he the one who’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“And you say it was murder?”
“Beat all to hell and back,” Broyles said. “Died in E.R. about two hours ago.”
“And you’re looking for Agent Jordan because?”
“Mr. Allen had a message for her. It was the last thing he said before he died. He said to tell her that, ‘he didn’t tell.’ Do you know what that means?”
Mynton felt sick. “Maybe. Do you have any leads?”
Broyles shuffled his notes.
“Uh…here’s what we know so far. Around two in the morning, a neighbor was coming home when she saw a stranger get out of the elevator and leave the building. She said he had blood on the front of his clothes. She got into her apartment and went to bed. But she said she couldn’t sleep because she kept hearing an intermittent thump from the apartment above her. She knew it belonged to Buddy Allen, and said it wasn’t like him to make noise of any kind, so she called the super. He went up and checked…found Mr. Allen in a pool of blood and called an ambulance. When he died, we were called in. After questioning the other occupants of the building, we’re leaning toward the theory that the man the neighbor saw might be our man.”
“Got a name?” Mynton asked.
“No, just a description.”
“Was he Latino?”
There was a long moment of silence, then Broyles spoke, “Yes, and I want to know how you know that.”
“We got word a few days ago that there was a hit out on Agent Jordan.” Mynton sighed. “God…we never thought about warning any of her friends. She’s going to be sick about this.”
“That’s all fine, but I want to know about the Latino.”
“Of course,” Mynton said. “I can’t guarantee that the man who killed Allen is the one who’s after Sonora Jordan, but just in case…you might be looking for a man named Miguel Garcia, or one of his hired goons.”
“We would like to talk to Ms. Jordan.”
“Yeah, so would I, but she’s gone,” Mynton said.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“We knew Garcia was after her. I told her to get lost for a while, but I haven’t heard anything from her since she left.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Uh…three, maybe four days, I’m not sure.”
“Do you have a cell phone number?”
“Yes, but would you allow me to get in contact with her first? She’s going to take the news about Allen hard. She’ll blame herself for his death and she’s already under a load.”
“Yes, all right,” Broyles said. “But as soon as you contact her, please have her call us.”
“Will do,” Mynton said.
He hung up the phone, then flipped through his Rolodex for Sonora’s cell phone number.
By noon, Mynton had left three messages on Sonora’s cell without receiving a call back. He was worried and frustrated by his inability to reach her, but he knew that, if she was okay, she would eventually return his call. It was fifteen minutes to one when he left the office for a lunch meeting.
After riding all night and stopping for a few hours at a motel, it was close