Taken

Part 3
28

Danny Trehorn

Danny stepped out of the shower at 6:21 A›M. that morning, rubbing the towel over his head and across his back and butt like a shoe-shine cloth; moving fast for a seven A.M. tee time, these four lawyers from L.A. who couldn’t play for shit, but enjoyed themselves and didn’t throw tantrums when they blew a gimme. Drama queens were lousy tippers, but these guys were solid.

Danny tossed the towel over the curtain rail, slammed on the anti-stink juice, and glanced at the time. If he was out the door by 6:30, he could make the clubhouse by 6:45, punch in, pick up the cart, stock his cooler with water and soft drinks, and be ready and waiting for his foursome by seven.

Perfect.

Shorts, club polo, socks. Good to go, and looking sharp.

Danny was tying his shoes when something pounded on his door so effin’ loud he damn near crapped his pants BOOM BOOM BOOM.

— at exactly the same time his cell phone rang.

BOOM BOOM BOOM.

Danny glanced at the Caller ID, and saw BATF, as a man’s voice outside his door shouted.

“Daniel Trehorn! Police! Please open the door.”

What the fuck? It sounded like a joke.

One shoe on, holding the other, Danny gimped to the door and peered out the peephole. A scowling man with short red hair was staring directly at him, and holding a badge.

Danny opened the door, and found five people waiting. Two uniformed policemen, and two men and a woman in suits.

The red-haired man lowered his badge.

“Daniel Trehorn?”

Danny was scared.

“Ah, yeah. What did I do?”

The woman said, “My name is Nancie Stendahl, with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Let’s step inside.”

She didn’t ask. She ordered.

Danny never thought to let the club know he would be late until well past his tee time when the government agents left, but by then it didn’t matter and Danny didn’t care. They were looking for Jack. Danny wanted to help.

Elvis Cole: forty-two minutes before he is taken