No easy task, considering his FBI “protection,” but with the right plan and a little diversion from Stan the man’s repertoire, he’d slid out like smoke through a steam vent. Ahanatou, of course, would be very upset. Such was life. If Ahanatou thought Skip wasn’t going to be involved in this investigation, he was sadly mistaken. Skip was not overly partial to getting impaled by flying spurs, or whatever the hell they were calling it, even less partial to being bumped out of things that concerned him directly. His railroad of stitches across his cracked chest could attest to that. Or just protest. Skip closed his eyes as Stan hit a pothole full speed. “We’re going to be arrested,” Stan chattered nervously as they sped southbound down U.S. Route 2. “Ahanatou’s the type.” Stan’s Jeep Wrangler hurtled toward Rolling Creek at a pace that threatened the sound barrier.
