The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set Ernest Dempsey (top 10 books of all time txt) 📖

"I assume he has an alias."

"Now, you and I both know what happens when we assume." Will let the statement linger for a few seconds before going on. "But yes, he goes by the name of Tyler Mumford."

"He looks like a Mumford."

Dak turned away from the window and walked over to the kitchen counter, where he perpetually kept a pen and paper waiting just for this call. He took the pen and pinched it between his fingers and thumb, then jotted down the information.

"I don't know what that means, but whatever. He bought an abandoned ski resort just outside the town of Cuchara."

Dak froze for a second, wondering if he'd heard correctly. "Did you just say he bought an abandoned ski resort?"

"Yeah, I did a double-take on that one too. Apparently, that area has a few of them. Not sure why. I guess it wasn't the destination that some of the more popular resorts are. Whatever the reason, there was one available and your boy scooped it up. Has a sweet chalet at the top of one of the peaks, too. I bet the view up there is one in a million."

"I'm sure it is," Dak said begrudgingly. A view like that would make it easy for Billy to see someone coming. He also knew Billy couldn't be on watch 24/7, which meant he likely had a couple of security personnel watching for him, or at the very least cameras and sensors.

"I sent the address to your secure email. You need anything else?"

"No," Dak said, shaking his head. "This is good. Thanks again, Will."

"Not a problem. Two more after this one, right?"

"Right. Talk to you soon."

"I hope you do."

The call ended and Dak stared at the name and location he'd scribbled on the piece of paper.

"Okay, Tyler," Dak whispered. "You're up."

Two

Cuchara, Colorado

Tyler raised the rifle and then lowered it down onto the wooden fence rail. He felt the familiar nudge of the stock in his armpit, cradled against his shoulder. The target lined up in the crosshairs as he centered the scope in his line of sight. A gentle breeze rolled across the field. He compensated, easing the weapon just a fraction of an inch to the right to compensate.

"Well? Go on then?" a voice behind him prodded. "What are you waiting for?"

Tyler didn't answer immediately. He kept his breath steady, a monotonous rhythm he always employed when taking down a target.

"Being an expert sniper takes patience, Tripp," Tyler said without so much as a sideways glance at the pest.

"Uh huh," Tripp mocked. Standing a few feet behind Tyler, he watched with his arms crossed, a skeptical smirk on his face, and a bottle of beer in one hand.

"Leave him alone," Steve said. "He's trying to focus." He took a swig of beer and tilted his head up. "Don't pay any attention to him, Tyler."

"Thanks for the tip," Tyler responded unappreciatively.

Steve was the shortest of the group, but built like a rock. He'd played Division II college football at one point in his life, but knee injuries and a lack of height caused coaches to pass on him going any further. He still worked out hard, though, and bore the look of a starting collegiate fullback.

To his right, John Collinsworth was the polar opposite. The giant towered over the other men at six feet five inches. He played college basketball, and like Steve, had suffered injuries that kept him from pursuing a career in it, though he admitted on more than one occasion that professional basketball was probably never in the cards for him. He sipped his beer while the others were happy to chug theirs.

"You just want to win our money," John commented to Steve's intrusion.

"Yeah," Tripp agreed. "Besides, if you're a good shooter, you have to be able to do it under pressure."

Tyler didn't say anything, instead letting the statement blow away on the cool, late fall breeze.

He kept his eye on the target—a beer bottle sitting on a fence post at the other end of the field, nearly five hundred yards away. Tyler—Billy Trask in his former life—had picked off moving targets from farther away when he was in the military. These buffoon friends of his had no idea how good he was or the things he'd done. That, he knew, would always have to remain the case. He couldn't take the chance of them catching on to his true identity. If they caught wind of that, he doubted they would cause any trouble, but he couldn't risk it. Dak Harper was still out there, as far as he knew, and all it would take would be a single slip up. Then there would be trouble.

Billy had been careful, keeping his backstory in line as a former ROTC guy who attended Virginia Tech in Blacksburg. His new crew accepted the explanation without dispute. The fact that he was a deadeye with a rifle attested to at least some kind of military training. Since none of the guys had ever spent as much as a second in the military, they had no foundation to question anything he said.

As far as Billy's money was concerned, he told "the boys" he ran an e-commerce website that he claimed took off—even went as far as buying the domain and throwing up some merchandise to make it look like the real thing. That story kept his new friends off his back, as well as any newcomers that found their way across his path.

It didn't hurt that he was almost always happy to pay for everything when the group went out to the bars or even up to one of the larger cities, such as Colorado Springs or Denver. Coincidental bribes were always an easy way to throw people off the trail.

He felt himself ease into a familiar groove. Even with the alcohol pumping through his veins, Billy was cooler than the other side of the pillow when it came to shooting.

He squeezed the trigger, and the