Chapters (95)
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Eighty-One
- Eighty-Two
- Eighty-Three
- Eighty-Four
- Eighty-Five
- Eighty-Six
- Eighty-Seven
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Also by David Swinson
- Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.
I push the door open, look inside. His suitcase is still there. He isn’t.
I walk in slowly, hand on the grip of my gun. I scan the small room, walk to the bathroom.
It’s clean, no sign of a struggle. Everything as it was.
I exit.
“You can lock the door,” I tell him.
“Is there something I need to worry about here?” he says while locking it.
“No, not you, but if you see him return, you tell him to call Frank. He’s got my number. You see anybody else going up to this door, you call nine one one.”
“You got a card or something?”
“No.”
I quickly walk to my car, leaving him standing there wondering, What the hell just happened?
Sixty-Nine
Sixty-Nine
When I park near my house, I check out my surroundings before I exit, see if I can spot any moving heads in parked vehicles. I tuck the right side of my T-shirt behind my holstered weapon so I have quicker access.
I cross W Street and walk the block to my house. I lock the door behind me when I enter, drop my pack near the sofa. The tabletop lamp in the living room is on. I always keep it on, even when I’m in bed. I walk back to the hall to go to the laundry room and my stash.
Before I enter, I’m surprised by “Put your hands up!” It’s coming from behind me, near the hallway entry to the kitchen. I immediately recognize it as Biddy’s voice. Unsubstantial, but trying hard to sound tough. I resist the natural temptation to dive behind the wall of the laundry room and go for my gun. I slowly raise my hands.
“Can I turn?” I ask.
“Slowly. I swear you make a move and I’ll shoot you.”
Those threats hardly sound like threats coming from him.
“Don’t worry, Robby, that’d be the last thing we both want.”
I turn around, arms still in the air.
He’s wearing the same clothes he had on at the motel, but he has dried blood on the front of his shirt and his forearms. Beads of sweat are dripping now, not seeping, down his forehead. His hands are shaking, and his finger’s on the trigger of a semiauto, looks like a Beretta. His eyes are wide as hell, too, but not like fear. He’s flying high on crack. Maybe a bit too high.
“Are you injured?” I ask.
Looks confused, then remembers the blood on him.
“No. No, that’s not my blood.”
“Did you hurt somebody?”
“No!”
“Could I ask you to take your finger off the trigger? ’Cause you’re shaking so hard you might accidentally pull it.”
“I plan on pulling it.”
Sounds like he means it, but he’s got to work himself up to it.