Breaking the Line

I followed, climbing into the taxi beside him, though with a nagging reluctance; something bothered me.

I tugged free my wallet as we rode, automatically counting out my share of the cab fare.  'What now?” I asked.

“We get our bags, check out, and get the first plane out of Dodge,” he replied.

“Should we go to the police,” I asked.

He just looked at me and shook his head, too exhausted to even work up a decent disgusted expression.

Something still ate at the back of my mind.  What was the gunman looking for in the Marlin III?

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