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Back Angels of Vengeance
Chapters (68)
  1. Blurb
  2. CONTENTS
  3. Dedication
  4. CHARACTER LIST
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. TWO MONTHS LATER
  60. ONE YEAR LATER
  61. TWO YEARS LATER
  62. FOUR YEARS LATER
  63. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  64. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  65. Also by John Birmingham
  66. ALSO BY JOHN BIRMINGHAM
  67. Copyright
  68. Cover

She was back in the scrub, in Crockett, Texas. Deep night, and she deep within it, having stolen away from the relative safety of the women’s camp, against Papa’s strict instructions. She had heard the phrase ‘heart in mouth’ before, but until this moment she had never experienced anything remotely like it. But watching her father perform a drunken pantomime as he approached the two road-agent sentries, her heart beat so powerfully and rapidly, and her stomach seemed to contract with such force, that she felt as though she might vomit all of her insides out through her teeth at any moment.

She found it all but impossible to watch the small life-and-death drama unfold through the hunting telescope on her rifle. At least, until she swung the sight off Papa and concentrated instead on the two men he was trying to silence. When she first caught one of them between the crosshairs of her Remington – a fat, ugly pig’s ass of a man, to borrow a phrase she had learned in the refugee camp outside Sydney – it was all she could do not to squeeze the trigger and put a round through his head.

Only the sure knowledge that to do so would alert the other gang members at the clubhouse nearby stayed her hand. She was aware of the ugly scowl that settled over her face as she observed this pair of thieves and killers. The very ugliness of thought and deed that she could see etched into the repulsive features of the man in her ’scope contorted her own face into a rictus of congealing rage as she watched him. Only when her father plunged his bowie knife into the first of them did her expression change.

She smiled.

She smiled under the cover of night in Crockett, Texas, as the ice and frozen soil underneath her thawed from her body heat, soaking her clothes and chilling her to the bone.

And she smiled at the table of the comfortable, renovated loft she shared with her father a thousand miles away, safe in Kansas City. Her eyes, unfocused and unseeing in the present, gazing nine months back to the same night when she’d not just watched men die, she had taken their lives with her own hands. Not up close, as she would have wished if given the chance – to see the red spark of existence snuffed out of their eyes. But close enough. More than close enough.