Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Exactly the type of bad boy poser that Carolina likes to mount when she can’t snag anything better.
He tries to step back, but I tighten my hold on his shirt, reeling him closer.
“Careful, now. I asked you a question. It’d be a damn shame if you need to chat with Sheriff Wallace instead of me.”
“Faulk, let Marvin go! He didn’t do nothing; he was just looking after me,” Carolina shouts, trying to barge in without quite getting between us.
“Marvin, is it?” I ask the man. “Where you from, Marvin? I can tell you’re not a local.”
“None of your damn business,” he throws back. “What the hell are you? Some kinda cop or something?”
It’s times like this I wish the Bureau let me keep my badge so I could flash it in his face, but no dice.
“Close enough,” I grind out, baring my teeth. “And I also know a thing or two about hell. I’d be happy to send you on a cruise there—no expenses spared—if you don’t beat it in the next twenty seconds.”
He scoffs, even as his face turns beet red. “You...you can’t tell me what to do!”
“Bad news. I can.”
“No, wait, wait, he’s staying here with me,” Carolina clucks, grabbing at my arm with those overdone nails.
Let her dig like an angry kitten. I’m not releasing my new friend till I’m good and ready.
“Are you paying rent with her?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer.
Cool. A freeloader, then. Just like I thought.
Snarling, I shove him backwards so I can get a look at his license plates on the orange Dodge.
Oklahoma?
I do a double take.
Son-of-a-bitch.
For a second, I’m so shocked I almost lose my grip. But it looks like helping Tory did me another favor.
I bet he’s one of the weasels asking about me at the Purple Bobcat, looking to sell my whereabouts straight to Bat Pickett.
Carolina would’ve already told him all she knows, which is enough to confirm who I am and that I live here in Dallas.
Without releasing my hold on the asshole’s shirt or taking the gun out of his gut, I turn to Tory. “Close the gate on the trailer and back it out of the driveway.”
While she’s doing that, I tell Marvin, “Listen real good. You’re gonna get in that beat-up shitpile of a truck and start driving. Leave town, leave the county, and never come back, you hear?”
The defiant look in those nasty eyes tells me I haven’t been loud enough for him to read me.
“Who do you think you are?” Marvin snaps. “If you’re a cop, I’ll report your ass for—”
“You know who I am.” I push the barrel harder against his torso till he winces. Good. “But you don’t know what I’m capable of, and you don’t want to find out. That, I can assure you.”
“You don’t know sh—”
I laugh, cutting him off. “What you’re capable of? Sure, I do. And I guess you’ll just have to man up in jail for weeks, months, even years if I ever see you around this town again.”
“For what?”
“Threatening bodily harm against a lady trying to do her job,” I growl. “I don’t take kindly to folks fucking with my friends. In fact, I can’t think of anything I dislike more. You should also know that the sheriff’s a personal friend of mine, and so’s the entire Dallas police force. You don’t want to deal with that.”
Once Tory has her truck moved, I frog-march Marvin around his pickup to the driver’s door and shoulder-slam him against the metal. A menacing snatch of ink on his neck catches my eye.
Prison gang tattoo. Laughing Jokers, like the kind somebody designing poker cards on LSD might draw.
Shit.
More hints he has serious ties to the old Pickett crew.
I release his shirt and open the door. Before he gets in, I yank the phone out of his shirt pocket. An obvious cheap, bare-bones burner model.
“I’ll be keeping this.” I pocket his phone. “And this piece.” I poke his stomach with the gun again. “You can report that back to your sources, whenever you find the nearest store and active your next burner.”
I know that’s the first place he’ll go, too, straight for a new disposable phone.
He glares at me, his dark eyes turning into angry slits.
I stare venom back and rattle off the plate number of his truck.
“What the—?” he sputters.
“Hush, I’m memorizing. Your plate number will be called into the highway patrol within two hours. That should give you just enough time to hit the Montana border, if you’re lucky. And if that rusted-out box doesn’t fall apart on you.”
Marvin visibly turns pale. “Dude. Hold up...”
“Nah,” I say. “Every highway patrol this side of North Dakota deserves a fair shake. I bet they’ll be mighty interested in any warrants already posted for your arrest. I’m thinking you’ve got plenty.”
I hit a nerve there.