“First of all”—Nick holds up a finger—“we need to go back to Mount Pleasant.”
“Fuck that,” I growl. “No.”
“Yes,” Nick insists. “My truck is still in Mount Pleasant.”
“Who cares? I’m not giving in on the drive, but if I were to give in, why the fuck would we need two trucks?”
“Because this is how Wendy and I do things, OK? We’re leaving here in Wendy’s truck, we’re driving to Mount Pleasant so I can pick up my truck, and then we’ll split up—”
“Fuck you.” I laugh. “Do you think I’m stupid? Let me guess, you and Wendy get in your truck and Sasha, Harrison, and I get in Wendy’s truck—”
“I’m not going,” Harrison says.
We all stop the conversation to look at Harrison. “What?” I ask.
“I’m not going,” he says. “I’m going home, Merc. I’m too old for this shit. So maybe Nick’s idea is a good one.”
I let out a long breath of frustration as I look over at Sasha. We’re all sitting at Nick’s backyard picnic table. It’s late now. Dark and no moon. But there’s a whole line of citronella candles in the middle of the table, so everyone’s face is flickering with flames. Sasha shrugs, and we’re so close, her shoulder bumps against mine.
“It’s probably for the best,” Nick says. He’s talking to Harrison. Then he looks across the table at me. “And no. You and I can drive in my truck and Sasha and Wendy can drive in hers.”
I don’t know that I fully understand the deep connection these two killers have with their fucking vehicles, but whatever. If Harrison’s out—and it sounds like he is—then we really don’t have a choice. My truck is back in Fort Collins, so… “Whatever,” I huff. Then I look at Sasha again. “Is this all OK with you?”
I’m talking about her riding with Wendy, but I think Sasha is more worried about being stuck with Nick. “Sure.” She smiles at Wendy, who is sitting across the table next to Nick. “I’m sure Wendy and I have enough in common to fill a two-day road trip.”
And this makes me think about spending all that time with Nick.
I groan because it’s gonna be horrible.
Sasha pats my arm as she reads my mind. “You’ll live.”
After an uncomfortable sleep on Nick’s floor—Harrison took the couch, Sasha stayed in the jet, and Nick and Wendy took the only bedroom with a bed—I wake just as the sun is rising. We say goodbye to Harrison, pile into Wendy’s truck, and start our ten-hour drive to Mount Pleasant.
Nick and Wendy trade places driving while Sasha and I doze in the back.
Pretty much no one says anything and we stay the night at the hotel. Sash and I get separate rooms, but Wendy and Nick stay together.
They are a team, I realize. And I guess I knew this, but I didn’t understand the extent of their connection. They are a couple and they do couple things. Like speak without words. They shoot each other those looks.
So I spend all of the day-two drive thinking about that.
Nick isn’t chatty, so I’m grateful for that. He doesn’t prompt me for small talk. In fact, he pays more attention to Wendy—who is in a whole other vehicle—than he does to me. So this gives me a lot of time to think.
Thinking can be good. But overthinking is almost never going to get you where you need to go.
So lots of what-ifs begin creeping into my mind as we head south. And we’re just starting to get to that part of Louisiana where you don’t dare pull over to the side of the road because the vegetation could be hiding any number of weird bayou predators when it hits me.
Something is wrong with this entire… what to call it? Encounter? Job? Mission? Take your pick. And here’s how I know something is wrong:
I got to thinking about the image board where all us dangerous types hang out to get intel. And then I started thinking about how that anonymous person misdirected the diggers away from Sasha and on to Nick. I don’t ask him about this even though that would probably make the last couple hours of this nearly intolerable drive go faster, because I don’t want to tip him off.
He was that guy. I know it. I feel this in my gut and you don’t get as far as I have in this fucked-up shadow world without listening to your gut.
Fine. I understand that move. Distraction, right?
Look here, not there. Follow me, not her.
Mistakes always happen when you’re looking the other way.
I knew this.
But even though you know things, when you’re in the middle of a PSYOP it’s almost inevitable that you lose your way—even if it’s just for a few moments as you stop, calm yourself down, and put the pieces together.
I lost my way here with good ol’ Nick Tate.
Because he did the oldest trick in the book on me again.
Look here, not there.
Look at Adam, look at Carter, look at Donovan, look at your girls, look at Sasha.
Look at all the things.
But whatever you do, Merc… do not look at Wendy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - NICK
They call it Old Home, a leftover bit of grandeur from the old days. It’s surrounded on three sides by a lake and the winding, sandy banks of the Old Pearl River. I have never been here, but I’ve relentlessly spied on it over the past several years with high-altitude drones equipped with night vision.
That night vision didn’t do it justice because when I follow Wendy’s truck down the long Spanish oak-lined driveway I almost lose my breath when the house comes into view.
The pecan trees, lush, geometric gardens, and sunset-lit lake are just the icing on the cake that is the mansion. I suddenly feel less of a person for having grown up on a superyacht. For wanting to call a swim platform ‘home’ when Adam Boucher grew up here.
Beyond the house are the infamous woods. Filled with snakes, and gators, and probably even panthers. The entire place smells like… earth. Deep, rich, dark dirt. But not the kind I have up in Nebraska. This earth is overflowing with other things. Magic, maybe.
“Wow.” Merc is craning his neck to get a better look at things. “I was expecting something over the top, but this—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t need to.
There are already four trucks in the driveway when we pull up, but don’t you worry. There’s room enough for ten more vehicles after we pull in next to them.
Off to the left is a shop that looks like a barn. A man comes out wearing a welding apron and shielding his eyes from the sun glare. McKay. Core McKay. Infamous Zero-girl trainer and constant confidant to Adam. But I barely get a look at him before my attention is pulled over to a little girl on the massive front porch.
A little blonde girl.
I stare at her as an old, familiar feeling rushes through my body.
Then a blonde woman appears. Indie. And I give the little girl a name. Magnolia. So very, very Southern, that name.
There is a moment of heavy hesitation as Indie and I stare at each other through the windshield. She could be Wendy—even after their very different upbringings, they are still that alike.
It’s unsettling.
But then the screen door slaps closed behind Indie and Adam appears behind her.