They were in Nolan Rader’s black Explorer parked on a shadowed street two blocks from Cowboy’s apartment. It was just after dark and there was a vaporous rain drifting through the casts from the streetlights. “Where and when was this?” “On a private ranch in Venezuela, the night before last about nine o’clock their time. These are the coordinates.” He handed over a slip of paper. “I watched it happen and I didn’t do a damned thing to stop it. I don’t know why I didn’t. I couldn’t.” “You were right there with him when this went down?” “Not exactly. He had told me to wait in the plane. The ranch house was a mile away up a hillside, through thick jungle. Strake and Davis were driven up to the house. After about an hour and ten minutes I got out of the plane to look over the runway for debris. I heard shots. I ran to check it out and from a distance of maybe three hundred feet I saw the killing. Davis tied the man spread-eagled to porch posts. Strake questioned the man—he was middle-aged, thinning white hair, thirty pounds overweight, five ten or eleven.
![Guns [John Hardin 01]](/i/cover.jpg)
