Rocky And The Senator's Daughter

Evidently his suspicions had been justified. The lady was about to find herself in the crosshairs again. “Yo! You with the camera!”

The guy glanced over his shoulder, but instead of stopping, he picked up speed. It occurred to Rocky that he could be an innocent nature photographer—maybe a stringer for some hunting-fishing rag. He didn’t think so, though. There was something a little too furtive about the way he kept checking his six.

One thing he’d learned during a career that spanned more than two decades was that while photos could easily lie—and people often did, intentionally or not—the subconscious mind was the closest thing to a truth detector any man possessed. If he knew how to use it.

The other fellow had the advantage of youth and a head start. Halfway down the lane, Rocky planted his feet and used his fingers to issue a shrill whistle. Occasionally the unexpected trumped any advantage.

At the sound, the photographer came to a dead halt. Roland “Rocky” Waters stood in the middle of a country lane and wondered, Okay, what now, Rambo?

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