Endangered Species: PART 1 Read Online Free PDF Page A

we kill them all. Slowly.” He nodded at the man holding the
PP-19 Bizon. The man took a few steps backward to avoid being
spattered by Whelan’s blood.

 
     
    Chapter 4—Albuquerque,
NM
    It was just after six
o’clock in the afternoon when Mitch Christie left the Bernalillo
County Sheriff’s Office. The large, T-shaped building on the
southwest corner of Roma Avenue and
4 th Street NW, occupied the entire block. The five-story portion
fronted on Roma. The base of the tee was a three-story structure
that stretched south toward Marquette Avenue. Like every building
in New Mexico—residential or commercial, or so it seemed to
Christie, it was a boring buff color. Must
be a local fetish , he thought. Blends in with the sepia, russet, and sandstone
hues of the high desert .
    Average temperatures in
Albuquerque, New Mexico in April range between the mid-forties and
high sixties Fahrenheit. Christie paused
and buttoned the jacket of his lightweight suit. The sun was
dropping quickly toward the western horizon. Albuquerque was in the
grasslands transition area between the northern reaches of the
Chihuahuan Desert and the beginning of the pine forests and high
plains that stretched north to Santa Fe and into the mountains
beyond. The barren countryside didn’t retain heat at night, and a
brisk breeze added to the chill factor. He shivered briefly and
thought about the warmer clothes in the closet of his small
apartment twenty miles away.
    Christie glanced at his
image reflected in a side window of a car parked at the curb. What
he saw disturbed him. The face staring back at him was gaunt, skin
stretched tight over cheekbones and brow. Bloodshot eyes held a
haunted look, framed by dark semi-circles like the black smudges
football players use to reduce glare. The clothes he wore were
badly rumpled and hung loosely on his thinning frame. His five
o’clock shadow had lost several additional hours in its battle with
the clock. He stared at the reflection for several seconds. I used to a decent looking man , he thought. Athletic and trim, but
far from gaunt . I’m starting to look like a man who’s running out of time on
this planet .
    He was startled by a hand clapping him on
the shoulder and a voice that said, “This is not the kind of
weather a man stands around in, not when he’s dressed the way you
are.” He turned to see Tom Burkhardt, the sheriff’s captain who
co-chaired the OCDETF with him.
    “ You look like a guy who
lost has last friend, Mitch. You okay?”
    Christie hesitated for a couple of beats,
searching for the right thing to say. Finally, he said, “Yeah, Tom,
I’m fine.”
    Burkhardt looked him up and down and said,
“You don’t look like a man who’s doing fine. You wanna grab a drink
and talk?”
    Again, Christie was slow to respond. “I
appreciate the offer, but I’m not much of a conversationalist these
days.”
    “ I noticed. Your body was
in the meeting this afternoon, but the rest of you was someplace
else.” He paused for a moment then took a firm grip on Christie’s
arm and said “C’mon. There’s a nice watering hole in the next
block.”
    Christie offered little resistance and the
two men walked down the street to a small bar. It was a narrow
space between a bail bondsman’s office and a pawnshop. The windows
looked as if they hadn’t been washed in a long time, if ever. A
fading neon sign identified it as Black Jack’s Tavern. Christie
assumed it was named in honor of General John Joseph “Black Jack”
Pershing. He had led the 1916 expedition into Mexico to find and
punish the Mexican revolutionary and thug, Pancho Villa. The bandit
and his ragtag followers had crossed the border and raided
Columbus, New Mexico in March of that year. Ultimately, Pershing
had been unsuccessful, but he was still a beloved hero in the area
a full century later.
    Burkhardt pushed the door open and held it
for Christie to enter first. The place smelled musty and stank of
stale beer and accumulated