Blood Trade: A Sean Coleman Thriller by John A. Daly Read Free Book Online Page A

demanding
an explanation.
    “Why are you cry—?” he asked calmly.
    “Don’t worry about it!” she snapped. “Why are you in here?”
    “I needed to tell you something.”
    “What?”
    “I didn’t know that man was a reverend, or a pastor . . . or whatever he is.”
    Her thin eyebrows narrowed and her head shook erratically. “Mr. Coleman, I have no
idea what you’re talking about. I just know that you need to leave. Now!”
    “The man lying in the bed across from me. The one I thought was a casino dealer.
I wasn’t trying to make some joke. I just couldn’t see his collar. His book was in
the way.”
    Her face went blank for a few seconds before her eyes began blinking with recollection.
“ That’s why you came in here?” She placed her hands on her hips and suddenly looked
a bit more composed, though still angered. Her breath steadied. “Mr. Coleman, if
I had a dollar for every time a donor made some nonsensical remark to me, I could
have retired by now. Don’t worry about it.”
    She wiped one of the long, flowing tears from her face and shook her head as her
gaze dropped to the floor. When her attention returned to him, she reiterated that
it was time for him to leave.
    “Are you going to tell me why you’re crying?” he asked.
    She shook her head. “No, because it’s none of your business.”
    He let a grunt escape, nodding ever so slightly. He turned around and opened the
door.
    He closed it softly behind him and made a beeline to the hallway that he had entered
through earlier. After sliding a brown farmer-style jacket on, he stood impatiently
at the front desk as the receptionist counted out the money he was due in ten-dollar
bills.
    Seconds after he nestled the money away in his front pocket, he was out in the parking
lot where light snow fell from the sky. He saw his breath in the chilling temperature.
Few cars were left in the lot. Most had a small American flag dangling from their
antennas in a show of national solidarity in the 9/11 aftermath that still hung over
the country.
    A light dusting of white covered his ’78 Chevy Nova, concealing its ancient pale-blue
paint job. He walked over to it and cleared the windshield with a broad sweep of
his arm. The glass hadn’t yet begun to ice up, so he was spared scraping.
    The car’s spent shocks groaned under his weight as he plopped down in the driver’s
seat. When he slammed his door shut, the snow that had been covering his side window
fell to the ground. He twisted his key in the ignition. The engine reluctantly fired
up and the screeching of worn wiper blades drowned out whatever dull noise was coming
from the radio.
    Sean glared up at the wide, bland GSL Plasma sign that hung above the building’s
entrance. His headlights illuminated it like a small billboard. After delivering
a sharp scowl at the sign, he popped the Nova into gear and sped off onto a side
street, skidding on the wet snow.
    The clamor of the car’s shot muffler echoed off of neighboring dim buildings as he
fled into the night.

Chapter 3
    B y the time Sean reached the Winston town limits, the snow had gotten much heavier.
Between each swipe of a wiper blade, clumps of powder packed onto his windshield.
    He felt his rear tires lose some traction as he crested a steep hill at the edge
of the town square. A few pumps of the gas pedal kept him aligned on the road.
    The whitened limbs of the large pine trees prevalent throughout the area bowed from
the added weight of the elements. The tops of small buildings, closely clumped together,
displayed a good four inches of buildup along their triangular arches.
    The small business district of downtown Winston wasn’t on Sean’s way home, but a
nagging question he’d held in his mind from the moment he’d left GSL urged him to
take a detour.
    There wasn’t much going on in town that late on a weeknight. Bernard’s Pawn had been
closed for over an hour. So had French’s Pharmacy and Benson’s Hardware. The