Holy fuck. Panic has my heart thundering inside my chest, but before I can act on it, a black SUV rolls down the road toward us.
There’s only one car here aside from mine: Flynn’s, the night clerk. From what Mac told me last night, Flynn is “deaf as fuck, so if you need something, wait until Paula starts her shift at six.”
And the only other person staying at the motel aside from me is Deiter, who Mac said, “gets too drunk to function and sleeps it off here, because otherwise, his wife’ll kick him out for it.” But since Mac mentioned he got his driver’s license revoked for too many DUIs, the guy walks here.
A coil of unease grows in the pit of my stomach as I track the SUV. No headlights. Dark-tinted windows make it impossible to determine who’s inside. If this isn’t a goddamn sign that something bad’s about to happen, I don’t know what is.
The crunch of gravel sounds as it pulls into the parking lot. It draws to a stop beside where my car is parked, putting it parallel to the window of my motel room. Silence descends for a moment before all hell breaks loose.
Rapid gunfire shatters my motel room window, dousing it in bullets before turning their attention to my car.
Bullets ping, ping, ping against the armored body of my Chevelle. I clench my jaw so tightly my molars begin to ache. Who the fuck would do this?
My windows take a goddamn barrage of bullets, and I expect them to shatter at any moment, especially since my run-flats are like motherfucking pancakes. But they surprise me when they don’t. They’re spiderwebbed as fuck, but they’re still intact.
As if on cue, the gunfire from the vehicle stops and it pulls out of the parking lot and speeds away.
Once it’s gone, leaving an eerie silence behind, the man moves away from me. When I turn to face him, he’s staring down the road in the direction the SUV went.
“Safe to say they delivered a strong warning.”
“No shit.” My dry response gets no reaction from him. Then again, I didn’t really expect one.
When he pins me with that unsettling gaze, an ominous sensation floods me. He withdraws a business card from his pocket and hands it to me. I accept it without breaking eye contact.
“If you really want to know the circumstances surrounding your sister’s death.”
I flick my eyes to the card. On it is distinct, bold lettering, and an older Mustang is pictured. Otis Brothers Salvage Yard. Below it in slightly smaller print is, Mac Ford, Owner, along with an address, email, and phone number.
On the back is a map, showing where the salvage yard is located. Instantly, I recognize that it’s less than a mile away from the road this motel’s on.
I part my lips to ask the man how the hell Mac would be able to help me, only to realize I’m now alone. I whip my head around, searching for sight of him before realizing he’s likely gone invisible to escape detection.
“The fuck?!” a groggy voice, thick with a Southern accent, calls out.
I don’t bother responding. I sprint to my car, keys already in hand. Clicking the key fob I’m relieved still works, I tug open the door. I knock my sleeve-covered elbow against the window and the spiderwebbed glass showers the gravel parking lot.
With a swift movement, I slide behind the wheel. The bulk of my windshield is a clusterfuck, but at least I have enough of a clear portion to see through on my side.
When I crank the engine and the familiar sound greets me, a fraction of my unease fades. But only a fraction.
The business card practically singes my palm as I work to navigate my Chevelle and its fucked-up tires out of the lot and onto the road.
The concise directions lead me straight to the salvage yard. I stop outside and inspect the large fence surrounding the property. With barbwire at the very top, the fence looks like it was installed a while ago but is still in good shape and structurally sound.
A sign posted beside the open gated entrance says it’s open every day except Sunday, hours starting as early as seven a.m.
Good thing, ’cause I need to get some motherfucking answers right about now.
24
HIM
Jacksonville, Florida
My fingers curl into a fist, but I resist the urge to punch anything. I can’t risk not having my hands in working order.
“Sir?”
I grit out the single word. “Yes.”
“I did as you asked. But there was definitely an odd energy disbursement that indicated he was involved.”
I tip my head back and study the ceiling tiles. A tiny corner of one has a slight brown spot, and it eats away at me, knowing moisture has affected it and no one cares to remedy it.
“I know.” That’s all I say, because I don’t owe him more of an explanation.
He has involved himself in this situation, yes, but I’m not overly concerned. I know how to manage him. I always knew he’d turn up once again.
“We didn’t pick up any sign of the other man.”
I mash my lips together to stifle the outburst that itches to break free. I know that, you moron! Because it doesn’t matter.
“All that matters is we delivered a warning. Now, he will run away.” Either back home to his filthy scum-of-the-earth gang members…or he’ll give in to his stubbornness and continue searching.
My bet is on the latter, and I’m rarely wrong when it comes to human behavior.
If I’m correct, the path will lead him straight to his death.
Just like his sister.
25
MAC
The first thing that registers is the whap, whap, whap sound, and I wonder who the hell is heading my way with four goddamn flat tires this early in the morning—and how the hell they managed to do that all at once.
The second thing—what has me stopping in my search for a ratchet head in my large tool chest—is the sound of the engine.
A shiver travels through me at the way the engine practically purrs. Smooth, without a catch, its low rumble is a euphoric-like sound.
I don’t know anybody around here with a vehicle that sounds like that. It sure as hell isn’t coming from a pickup or some new SUV.
Abandoning my search, I plod over to the open bay doors to watch for whoever’s heading up the drive toward me. The instant the car comes into view, my lips part in shocked horror.
“Ohmygod,” I breathe out. What the hell happened to Daniel’s car?
He pulls to a stop outside the first garage bay entrance, and our eyes lock through the small area of his windshield that isn’t a cracked shitshow. His features are like granite, eyes piercing me with his unrelenting stare.
It’s now that I register the death of that tiny fragment of hope inside me that thought he was returning because he wanted to see me again.
Something drove him here, and it sure as hell wasn’t lust. I’m scared shitless to find out what it was.
Once he shuts off the engine and emerges from the car, I’m reminded again how imposing he is. He carries himself like a man who’s familiar with giving orders, oozing with confidence. But now, I’m granted a view of a different version of Daniel Madrano.
This isn’t the man who’d kissed me with a passion that robbed me of breath. It’s not the man who put my pleasure before his. It’s certainly not the man who muttered dirty things to me through the night and fucked me like his life depended on it.