“Preacher?” Frank leaned his elbow on the counter. “How you doin’?”
Preacher’s eyes slid to Frank. His longtime friend had killed men today with the same ruthless efficiency that he did everything else. He didn’t appear bothered in the least. In fact, he seemed almost… tranquil.
Preacher couldn’t even begin to comprehend that kind of calm. He was… hell, he didn’t know what he was feeling, exactly.
Killing Salvatore—it had felt horrible.
And yet, also exhilarating. Powerful.
Preacher ran a hand over his face and blew out a breath. “I’m good,” he lied.
Frank stared at him, his gaze full of speculation and doubt. Straightening, Preacher folded his arms across his chest. “I’m good,” he growled.
“Good. ‘Cause they aren’t.” Frank’s gaze shifted.
Preacher turned, facing the kitchen and the four men spread throughout. Still no one spoke or even looked at one another.
“Smokey and Jim come back yet?” Preacher quietly asked Frank.
“Not yet.”
Preacher nodded and pushed away from the counter. After grabbing two bottles of liquor from a nearby cabinet, he handed one to Hightower. “You okay?”
Hightower often bragged about his many kills in Vietnam. Still, Preacher couldn’t imagine that killing men in a firefight was anything like the carefully calculated, up close and personal hits they’d exacted tonight.
His expression unreadable, Hightower nodded slowly. “Right as rain, Prez,” he drawled.
Preacher clapped him on the arm and turned to Bullet. Unable to hold his gaze, Bullet stared down at his boots.
“I ain’t sweatin’ it, my brother,” Bullet muttered. “There ain’t nothin’ so bad in this world that a wet, warm pussy can’t fix.”
Suddenly laughing, Hightower wrapped an arm around Bullet’s neck and squeezed. “You know it!”
Across the room, Knuckles was seated at the dining table, pale-faced and staring at his hands splayed out in front of him. Joe sat beside him, staring vacantly across the room, an unlit cigarette quivering between his lips.
Setting the second bottle down on the table, Preacher gripped Knuckles’ shoulder and bent down beside him. “You did good today.”
Bloodshot eyes lifted and narrowed. “Yeah?” Knuckles’ voice was small and timid.
Preacher squeezed his shoulder. “Yeah, man. Real fuckin’ good.”
Knuckles let out a breath, then another, and then he grabbed the bottle. While Knuckles drank, Preacher pulled Joe into the hallway and lit his cigarette for him.
“Get some girls over here,” he said. “Smoke some shit, snort some shit. And you make sure you fuckin’ call me when Smokey and Jim get back.”
When Joe didn’t respond, Preacher slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Hey, you hearin’ me?”
Joe blinked several times. “Yeah, man, yeah. Get some girls over here. Call you when Smokey and Jim get back. Got it.” He continued to smoke—quick, successive drags. Sighing, Preacher turned to leave.
“You headed home?” Joe called after him, “You gonna make me go home to Sylvie tonight, too?”
“I’m goin’ home. You do whatever the fuck you gotta do.”
“Preacher! Shit! Preacher!” Shouting excitedly, Max swung his long body over the first-floor stair railing. “Debbie had the baby!”
As if he’d been punched in the gut, all air fled Preacher’s lungs.
Max rushed down the hall. “Debbie, she had the baby! She’s at the hospital! Sylvie’s with her—Tiny, too!”
