Ice sneered. “Me, kryptonite? From the guy who skipped bail? Cyrus is out of his mind.”

Ice read the older man’s body language and was ready to move a split second before the gun, suppressor attached, came out of Digger’s robe pocket. Ice jerked to the right and the bullet missed, but the cup of hot coffee Ice tossed in Digger’s face didn’t.

Digger cried out in pain and stumbled back. Ice was up and on him, wrenching the gun easily from the older man’s hand. Ice put his hand on Digger’s chest and shoved with all his might, and the man went down onto the floor.

Ice stood over him. “Was that Cyrus’s idea or yours?” he asked, pointing the gun at center mass.

“Does it matter?”

“Where is Cyrus?”

“You won’t find out from me.”

Royal could barely see straight, he was so angry, holding the gun on Digger, glaring at the man who taught him everything he knew. The pain that blossomed from the rapid movements he’d made caused his eyes to water.

Digger stared back. “Cyrus made you, and now you betray him.”

“I can bury Cyrus. And I just might.” He fired once into Digger.

After a minute, the pain in his body subsided, and Royal went back to his breakfast. He didn’t think the pop from the suppressor would bring any unwanted attention. Digger liked small-caliber weapons. Now he contemplated this new development and wondered just what exactly his next move should be.

By the time he finished his breakfast, he had a plan. He showered, dressed, searched Digger’s things, and took everything he thought he could use.

On his way out the door, he looked down on Digger. “You’re right, old man. Cyrus made me.”

He left the hotel room, remembering to put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

44

Tess had just ordered her late breakfast at the Hollow Grind when her phone rang. It was the deputy working Shady Cove. He’d found Ken Blakely’s pickup truck. But where he found it gave Tess pause. It was at the Maple Leaf Hotel.

She took her breakfast to go and headed down to the parking lot of the Maple Leaf. She remembered that was where she was when she got the call about the shooting at Faith’s Place. She’d planned to check on Jim Smith, a member of the work crew. He’d listed his residence as room 10.

What a coincidence that the stolen truck belonging to murdered Ken Blakely would be found at the same hotel where a potential suspect in Tami’s shooting had been staying.

“I haven’t gone through the truck yet,” the deputy told her when she arrived. “Thought you might want to take a look first.”

“Thanks.”

The hotel manager was also in the parking lot. “This truck was never registered here,” he said. “All my guests register their vehicles.”