Could Abigail have been referring to a specific group rather than making a general comment? If so, were these boys part of that old gang? Too many things lined up all at once for me to dismiss the possibility, and that included my own gut instinct.

Which meant they were probably bad guys after all.

Even so, they hadn’t killed those people in the clearing. So . . . what in the wide blue fuck was going on out here? I glanced at the peach-stuccoed walls, with the incompetent security and the strange goings on in the nearby clearing. I did not believe for one second that Mr. Church was in Happy Valley.

All sorts of emotions warred inside my head and heart.

I clicked my tongue for Baskerville and together we faded into the woods. We’d found people. Now we wanted answers. And maybe we both wanted some blood, too. Seemed about the right time for that.

— 23 —: DAHLIA AND THE PACK

— 23 —

DAHLIA AND THE PACK

Dahlia found Church cleaning up the equipment after a training session. Neeko and some of the others were limping off to recover from a grueling combat drill. Church turned before she could call his name and stood waiting, frowning as she came close.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Dahlia was winded and had to take a moment to catch her breath. The extra weight she carried helped her in fighting, but it was not her friend in a flat run through the woods. Sweat streamed down her face and throat, and her clothes were pasted to her.

“Tra—Trash,” she gasped.

Church glanced around to make sure no one else was close, then guided her to a pair of camp chairs. She thumped down in hers and gratefully accepted a canteen. After three gulps her throat felt less raw.

“Tell me,” said Church, and she did. The frown he wore deepened as she described the men Trash was with. When she was done he had her go through it again, slowing down, describing everything in minute detail. By now she was used to this. Church was all about the details. What he called “deep intelligence.”

When she was done he sat back in his chair and was quiet for a moment, then he nodded slowly. “I expected them to come this way soon, but I thought we’d have at least another month.”

“Wait . . . you know those guys?”

“Not specifically,” said Church, “but I know of them. They called themselves the Rovers. The core group used to be a biker gang.”

“Sure,” she said, “I heard about them. On the news, I mean . . . before. They were always in trouble for something. Drugs, I think.”

“Drugs were a big part of their activities,” agreed Church. “They also trafficked in arms. Gun, explosives. Civilian and military grade. Selling to other gangs, to organized crime outfits, and to militia groups from Pennsylvania to Mississippi.”

“They sound like a bunch of assholes.”