Deadly Election (Gunsmith, Book 374)
J. R. Roberts
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RUNNING FOR HIS LIFE
Someone's been using a gun to cast his vote, killing eleven candidates for the United States congress over eight years. Exhausted in their search for the culprit, the Secret Service has decided to use someone on the inside to end the bloodshed--the Gunsmith, Clint Adams.
Clint soon finds himself in Austin, living in a fancy house with a butler and a cook who makes the best peach pie he's ever tasted. His gorgeous secretary Carla styles him into a distinguished candidate, dressing him in the finest clothes and taking him to parties to meet campaign donors. But the Gunsmith better not get too comfortable. Even though he's been asked to run as a democrat, the streets will soon be running red...
“You wouldn’t thank me for takin’ you there.” “Okay,” Clint said, “take me to the nearest decent hotel.” “Yessir.” The driver took him to a small hotel called The Red Rooster Inn. There was a crude drawing of a red rooster over the door. “Okay,” the driver said, “we’re here.” Clint paid the fare, stepped down with his carpetbag. He didn’t have a rifle with him. His gun and holster were in the bag and his little Colt New Line was tucked into his belt, where nobody could see it, in the small
these people later,” she told Clint. “After.” He kept himself from asking, “After what?” SIXTEEN Three men standing together in a corner watched as Laura Linquist led Clint across the room. “She’s got him,” one of them said. “Well, why not?” another asked. “She’s going to be donating a lot of her husband’s money.” The third man said, “And he won’t even be aware of it. Poor Arnold.” “Hey,” the first man said, “he had years of that woman servicing him. Now he’s a vegetable in a
TWENTY-ONE Clint spent the rest of the evening making small talk with potential contributors to his campaign. By the end of the night his feet were throbbing, his head was aching, and he knew why he hated politicians. Most of the men he spoke to were obvious phonies and blowhards. None of them would have lasted an hour on the trail, or in a poker game. Late in the evening Clint was standing off to the side, holding a glass of whiskey rather than another glass of champagne. He was hoping to be
out front to take her.” She waggled her fingers at them and walked out. They heard the door open and close, and then the sound of a horse pulling away. Mrs. Bigelow came out of the kitchen. “I have to clean up.” “Can you do that later, Mrs. Bigelow?” Gryder asked. “I cannot,” she said. “Later I’ll have to make breakfast. I won’t have time to clean up.” “Let’s go in the other room, Will,” Clint said, “and let the lady clean up.” “Yeah, okay.” They stood up and walked into the living room.
Heck asked. “Shh,” Clint said, “Julius might still be around. Yeah, it’s a sham.” “And you’re just waitin’ for somebody to try to kill you?” “Right.” “You like having a target on your back?” “No, I don’t like it,” Clint said. “But the plan seems sound to me.” “The government’s plan,” Heck said. “They don’t care if they lose you in the process.” “Well, I hope they care.” Heck blew some air out his mouth. “You didn’t hear this from anybody you trust, did you?” “Well…Jeremy Pike. I kind of