Page 113 of Corpse Roads
Brooklyn steps between them with her hands on her hips. “Does that mean you’ve kissed and made up? We have actual work to do.”
I pull her close and kiss her blonde hair. “Damn, I’ve missed you keeping these morons in line.”
She elbows me in the ribs. “You could’ve enjoyed my charm a long time ago if you bothered to call. When I’m done beating the stupid out of Theo, you’re next on my shit list. Better run.”
“Nah. I reckon I can take you on.”
Hudson cracks his knuckles from behind me. “Try it, pal. Prison or not, I can still turn your skull into a fucking hat.”
“Hunter can always find a new brother,” Kade chimes in.
I have no doubt they mean it. Murder is a very small price to pay when it comes to their girl. To buy a temporary peace, Enzo hands out a round of beers. We crowd around the breakfast bar, disregarding the mess in the kitchen.
Kade raises an eyebrow when he discovers the gun under the newspaper, but Brooklyn gives me a proud fist bump.
“No beer for you.” Enzo makes Theo another coffee instead. “We need you back in the lab.”
Theo rubs his bloodshot eyes. “I’ll go when I can stop seeing three of you. One Enzo is enough for anybody.”
“I’ll join you,” Kade offers. “I’ve narrowed down the search zone for the chapel in Northumberland, but the forest is too thick. The drone was damaged.”
“Not the P300?” Theo winces.
I fight the urge to facepalm. Those drones are nothing more than hunks of soulless metal, not his prized possessions.
“Has anyone heard from Hunter?” I change the topic.
Draining his beer, Enzo’s face is stony. “He’s taking Harlow to meet Giana in the morning.”
“How did she take the news?”
“He didn’t say in his text message.”
Rolling the bottle in my hands, I wrestle with the inexplicable sense of unease that’s keeping me on edge. The sooner Harlow comes home, the better we’ll all feel.
Pastor Michaels is alive and kicking.
That means she’s in imminent danger.
CHAPTER 21
HARLOW
FAMILY - BADFLOWER
He who be worthy shall reach the kingdom of God.
That isn’t you, sinner.
You will never be worthy of the Lord’s love.
Parked up on the curb a stone’s throw from a neat row of cottages, Pastor Michaels’ voice taunts me. He’s louder than usual, rising from the mist of his shallow grave.
I stare at the red door of number thirty-five on Terrence Avenue. It’s a small house, basic, entirely unsuspecting.
Almost too normal.
This could have been my life.