Excerpt from Across The Broken Line

Fifteen minutes ago . . .

Shoving a loaded gun in somebody’s face is never going to make you friends but it certainly works for influencing people. The uniformed guy on the business end of my SIG Sauer P229 looked both unfriendly and influenced, that was for sure.

He froze halfway through bringing his own weapon clear of the holster on his hip. From what I could see of the hammer and the top of the slide it looked like a big Colt. A useful piece. I was glad he didn’t get chance to finish the draw.

I couldn’t blame the guy for trying, though. I’d just crashed a reinforced Lincoln Navigator through the security barrier he was supposed to be manning. That kind of thing tends to have that kind of effect.

Behind us was a huge warehouse, looming. Even by American standards it was enormous―practically big enough to have its own motto and design of flag. It stood in rather sterile landscaped grounds, made bleaker by the unmarked covering of snow. The place was apparently deserted apart from the security post―and the slightly dented Navigator I’d just skid-parked by the main entrance.

“Where are they?” I demanded.

The security guard didn’t answer, nor did he take his eyes off the gun in my hands, watching for his opportunity. Now I got a good look at him I saw he was at least six-four and probably two hundred and thirty pounds, most of it muscle. He also had the narrowed calm of previous armed contact―an ex-military man.

Just my luck.