Page 24 of Road Refugees

Sax cut right to the chase. “She’s from that fundy stronghold.”

I nodded crisply, soldier-like. “Yes.”

“You better be careful. We don’t need anything going tits up.”

I frowned. “How do you mean?”

“Those fundies. They’ve got eyes and ears all over this state. If they had half a mind to, they could put us right in their crosshairs. We just got a shipment of coffee beans from Colombia. The investigators at the airport decided to check the bag because it was addressed to Santino D’Antonio, which stupidly is a character from the movie John Wick.”

I shrugged. “What’d they find?”

He shrugged. “Cocaine. We’re in a bit of a sensitive spot right now.”

“No doubt.”

“We’ve had peripheral ops with those fundies. We don’t need any more sights on us since we’re running our own ops. Brother club the Assassins of Youth set up right outside their front door.”

“Never heard of them. Then again, I’m from Fort Carson. Never been this far south.”

Sax managed a small smile. “We got a couple guys who are former military. You’ll run up against them if you’re down there with Crybaby. Fox Isherwood and Tanner Principato.”

“Yeah. I’m thinking of starting a mushroom farm.”

“Now there’s a fucking idea. You got any experience in that?”

I had to admit, “No. It’s just an idea. I always wanted to farm.”

Sax gestured with his beer. “This gal Heaven seems to know a lot about it.”

Frankly, I hadn’t put two and two together. Now that Sax mentioned it, she had talked a lot about farming. “Hm, you could be right. But she talks chicken farming.”

“And soil. Don’t underestimate anyone with farming knowledge. My wife was studying to be a nun, but she wanted to fulfill her love of plants, so she left the order and opened a nursery.”

“Well . . . I get the impression Heaven won’t be around after awhile.”

“You think she’s going back to that stronghold? Nah. Once a woman has been traumatized to that extent, she’s done. She wants to put some distance between her and them.”

“Well. She’s got a clean burner phone. I don’t see how they could find her down here.”

Sax lifted his chin. “Speaking of Crybaby. Make sure to give him shit about his rice rocket Suzuki. He just won’t give that thing up. And hassle him about the time he cried when his lottery ticket didn’t win.”

We both roared with laughter. I realized I hadn’t laughed like that in many months. How can you find humor in the constant assault on your senses of unwelcome memories? Chief among them was the day I’d just described to Heaven.

I was still chuckling when I said, “To be fair, he had to shoot one of his own men who’d been gutted like a horse in the bull ring. He has reason to cry.”

That sobered us up. We were silent when Heaven darted out from the house, holding aloft her burner phone. “I think it’s ringing!” she cried. “What do I do?”

At least, I think that’s what she was saying. I was so damned distracted by her wet hair squiggling over her swinging breasts, I didn’t really listen to her.

She wore some kind of sleeveless sports jersey, and as thin as her frame was, her tits really spoke to me. Round and juicy, and even through the bra you could easily see her nipples protruding. I suppose she wore leggings under that shirt, but I knew instantly I wanted to bury my face in her chest.

And that’s when I noticed the spreading green-purple bruise on her shoulder. Rage broiled in the pit of my stomach. I knew that blow had come from Cornucopia—it was too old to have come from Flagstaff and our Friends of Distinction—and I wanted revenge. A strike that misses its mark can injure you even more. I wondered what emotional damage had been done to her.

We were both beaten, wounded warriors. And I wanted to see Heaven thrive.