Dead Shot (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 1)

Chapter 60

Chapter 60

Even the first rays of sunshine weren't enough to wake Cal the next morning. Or the diesel engine of a John Deere 70 sputtering on the highway nearby. Or the barking dogs across the road. But he stirred when his iPhone buzzed, alerting him that he had a text message.

My phone!

In his rush to escape the night before, Cal had almost forgotten Yukon neglected to take his phone. He clamored to an upright position, brushing stray pieces of hay off of him before stretching. Waking up quickly wasn't a problem when adrenaline began coursing through his body again the moment he remembered why he slept in a barn as opposed to his bed. That and the lovely farm aroma wafting into the barn from the pasture just outside. Cal was wide awake.

He glanced down at the text message on his phone.

where r u?

Cal pounded back his answer in text script. He was east of the road where they had escaped, staying in a barn at the edge of the cornfield.

Cal waited a moment and then his phone buzzed again.

I'll b right there

Wondering how she would "be right there," Cal responded with a quick "awesome" and then began formulating a few plans to help them survive the day. And if they were lucky, maybe he and Kelly could write an article on the FBI's dirty little secret - and the truth behind Cloverdale Industries and Mayor Gold. It was difficult to see this idea becoming a reality in a timely manner, one that could happen before a deadline somewhere in the next 24 hours. But that thought remained secondary to survival - and surviving meant figuring out a way to leverage their knowledge of Cloverdale Industries and turning it into asylum. But Cal kept hitting mental dead ends. Maybe it was because he had yet to have his morning cup of coffee, something else that seemed unlikely given his current situation. Or maybe it was because Gold's stranglehold on the entire city of Statenville made it impossible to conceive of a plausible way to remove the bounty on his head. Either way, Cal was frustrated.

As promised, Cal looked up after about five minutes and saw a white delivery box truck bouncing along the farm road ruts toward the barn. A simple logo adorned both sides of the truck: Infinger Farms. The "i" in the middle of Infinger was a milk bottle with an apple over the top. Kelly had a big smile on her face, but the young farmhand driving the truck didn't share in her excitement.

The truck came to a stop just outside the barn, the engine still running. Cal approached the passenger side door where Kelly was climbing out.

"What in the world is this?" Cal asked, stunned at Kelly's resourcefulness. He had figured getting to Salt Lake would be an all-day affair. Could they really be going in a delivery truck?

"This is Infinger Farms' delivery truck - and this is T.J., who just so happens to be making a delivery of milk to an organic market in Salt Lake this morning."

"How did you find this?"

"Pure luck. I ran through the cornfield until I came to a clearing, which happened to be the edge of Infinger Farms' dairy complex. Mr. Infinger was checking on a sick cow when I came racing out of the field. At first he was cautious when I started telling him my story, then he eventually warmed up to me and realized I needed help. He took me to his house and let me stay in their guest room. And then this morning, after Mrs. Infinger cooked me a hearty country breakfast, Mr. Infinger offered to let us ride down to Salt Lake with T.J. So, here we are."

"What luck!"

"I even brought you a cup of coffee."

"You're an angel. Let's get moving. We've still got a lot to figure out."

Cal and Kelly climbed into the truck before Cal and T.J. formally introduced themselves to one another. Then they were on their way.

For the first 30 minutes of the drive, Cal and Kelly discussed strategies. They finally agreed upon a way they could gain leverage on Gold. The remaining two hours were spent talking about other fun outdoor adventures. None rivaled running for their lives the night before, but it was a nice diversion from the intensity of trying to survive a man - and town - bent on shoveling dirt on your grave as soon as possible.

At 11 a.m., the delivery truck rolled to a stop outside the steps of The Tribune offices.

"I think this is your stop," T.J. announced, anxious to get the giddy pair out of his truck.

After wishing him well, Cal and Kelly strode through the front doors and asked to see an editor. But not just any editor, the editor. The secretary met their request with disdain, shooting a "you guys know nothing about newspapers" glance at them. She dialed an extension anyway, confident they would be shooed away like pesky flies at a picnic. But she was wrong.

"OK, I'll send them right up," she said.

She hung up and asked them to sign in on the visitor's log.

"I don't know who you guys know, but you're in. Someone will be down shortly to take you up to the newsroom."

Cal and Kelly both took seats in the waiting area. Nervous, Cal cracked his knuckles. This was it and he knew it. If he was going to get this story in print, he had to sell it right here - and he had yet to discover the full scope of the story, a fact of which he was certain.