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Stepping inside brought back the memory of Pilar Trujillo. Sitting in one of the empty booths, waiting for his food and coffee, Bolan ran through that scenario once again: the chatter as she ate; her brief repose shattered by the bullets that had hammered into her, reducing her from a vibrant young woman to a shattered and disfigured corpse on the floor of the diner.
“You okay?”
Bolan glanced up at the concerned face of the waitress. She slid his plate in front of him and stood with a mug of steaming coffee in her hand.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just working on a problem I have to solve.”
She put the mug on the table. “Don’t let it kill you, honey.”
“That’s what I’m working on.”
Bolan ate his meal. He was on his second mug of coffee when his phone rang. It was Price this time.
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