"Scott Wolven - The Syndicate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wolven Scott)

Greg shrugged. "I'd say it could happen." He pointed at a deserted looking gas station that was coming up. "You still thirsty?" he said.

"Dry as a bone," I said. He pulled in and I got out. Inside the store, there was a cooler with beer across from the register and a rack with some dusty bags of potato chips. The guy behind the counter had tattoos all over one arm. Two lightning bolts were tattooed on his neck. He didn't say a word, just rang in the beer and tossed my change on the counter. I cracked one open on my out of the store, and was holding an empty when I reached the truck.

I opened another beer and we headed toward the reservation. The woods and the sky were all beautiful, but I didn't see any of it. I mean, I looked at it, but actually seeing it, that never happened. I did pay enough attention to nature to keep the empties inside the truck.. The beer tasted like fresh air, and I started to feel right after the third can. I was glad I'd bought a twelve pack. We passed a Bureau of Indian Affairs sign that told us it was five miles to The High Eagle Reservation.

* * *

We pulled up to the edge of the reservation. It had a fence around it and a gate we had to go through. There was an old man, a Native American, standing at the gate. He wore a big revolver on his right hip in plain sight. He walked over to Greg's window.

"Who are you here to see?" he asked.

"Bob Gunstock," Greg answered. "We're supposed to meet the tribal council."

"What's your name?" the man asked. He was wearing a flannel shirt and jeans.

"Greg Newell," Greg said.

The man looked over at me. "Can I have a beer?" he asked.

"Sure," I said. I handed him a beer.

"Thanks," he said. He waved us forward and lifted the gate.

* * *

The tribal council building was a post and beam structure, set off to the side of the compound. To the right of it, brand new, was a casino. It was a three-story stone and concrete building, nothing that belonged in these woods and hills. We went inside the tribal council building. A mural on the wall of the building showed black hooded braves bearing automatic weapons. It reminded me of pictures I'd seen showing portions of Northern Ireland. I was glad for the Berretta.
Three men stood in the hallway and one of them walked toward us as we entered. "Hi," he said. "I'm Bob Gunstock." He wore a dark green shirt, jeans, and work boots. He was about medium height, with his hair in a ponytail. I guessed his age to be mid-fifties.

"I'm Greg Newell," Greg said. He motioned at me. "This is my partner, John Thorn."

"Hi, John," Bob Gunstock said.

"Hi," I said.

"Thanks for coming," Bob Gunstock said. He motioned at Greg. "Some people in Moscow said you were the man for the job."

"That's nice to hear," Greg said. "What do you want us to do?"

Bob Gunstock cleared his throat. "We've got a shipment of chips coming for our casino, which is opening in two weeks. We need you to guard those chips and make sure they arrive here safely."

Greg nodded. "That's what you said on the phone. Where do we pick them up?"

Bob Gunstock started walking toward the door and we followed him. The three of us stood outside. "Well, we've got a police escort through the state of Washington. And they're traveling in an armored car, so that should be pretty safe. But we need you to bring them from the Washington border up here to the reservation."

"How come the Idaho State Police won't give you an escort?" Greg asked.

"We don't get along with the Idaho State Police," Bob Gunstock answered. "So they let us take care of our own problems."

Greg shrugged. "How much are the chips worth?" he asked.