Big Sam sits back in a folding chair, arms crossed, marble eyes cold. I wonder if he keeps that chair in his trunk just to enjoy blood in comfort.
Keith’s nowhere to be seen. My pulse quickens when I picture him lurking close to Cole’s house, making sure he’s alone and helpless.
I opposed the Cole-as-bait idea to the very end, but he was determined. And of course the call was always his to make, not mine.
“You really came alone,” Sam chuckles. “Dumber than I thought.”
“The invite didn’t say plus one.”
JJ lunges and buries a fist in my gut. Pain explodes hot, but I stay standing. “I vouched for you,” he hisses. “You’re dead.”
“Aw,” I rasp. “Did I hurt your feelings?”
Ronnie steps forward, knife gleaming.Sam raises a hand. “Not yet. He’s got information.”
JJ snorts. “A hard-on for his blondie is what he has.”
Ronnie grins. He presses the blade just under my eye, then draws it down my cheek slow enough to savor the blood.
“I will take your fuckin’ face apart. Leave just enough for Hudson to recognize you.”
“You leave Cole the fuck alone,” I growl through the pain. “That was the deal.”
JJ smirks. “Between you and Sam, maybe. I ain’t made no deals. By the way, why did we have to hear from Willard that you and your blondie used to be a thing? I gotta admit, that stung a little.”
Ronnie tilts his head, eyes bright with cruelty. “I almost forgot. Keith’s got himself a loyalty bonus. He’s over there enjoyin’ it as we speak. Lucky for us, he knows how to share. He said we could all enjoy a piece of his pie later. Y’know the pie I mean? I bet it’s real fuckin’ yummy.”
“Blueberry?” I shoot back, reckless. JJ’s fist smashes my face before I finish the word. Blood fills my mouth. I stagger backwards as the punches keep coming. I could beat JJ, knock him out if I wanted to, but I don’t have time for that now. I’m waiting for the VIP of the evening to show up.
Right on cue, I hear his heavy footsteps.
Sheriff Willard strolls out of the dark like he’s crashing a barbecue. Jeans. Windbreaker. That smug face I want to break.Will break.
“Oh no,” he says with mock concern, “what happened to your pretty face?” He tilts his head. “You really are your father’s son,” he drawls. “Couldn’t mind his business either.”
My fists clench.
“You know the thing about your dad?” His voice goes almost pleasant. “He thought honesty would keep him safe. He poked where he shouldn’t. Even when I had my hand on the jack, he didn’t get it. I told him how he was going to die. Said I was sorry — sorry for the inconvenience. The look on his face? Priceless.”
They all chuckle.
Dad’s voice rings in my head:Right and wrong, son. Clear as day.
It’s showtime. Impossibly bright lights emerge from the tree line as agents fill the yard, weapons raised, shouting orders.
Willard blinks, caught between fight and flight.
I wink at him, savoring the pain and the blood on my face. I give myself a second to enjoy the disbelief in his eyes and then I smash my fist into his face. The face of the man who murdered my dad. The crack is sharp, perfect. His yelp’s even better.
Keller steps out, badge glinting.
“Hugh Willard, you’re under arrest for obstruction, trafficking in stolen military property, extortion, conspiracy to commit murder against Special Agent Xaden Bailey, and—” Keller pauses for effect: “For the murder of Eli Bailey.”
Willard spits blood. “That case was buried years ago.”
“It was,” I say, giving him a level look. “I dug it up.”
“You played me,” he rasps.
