Page 87 of Broken Oath

Rain hammered the windshield.

The wipers swept back and forth.

Squeak.

Thump.

Squeak.

Thump.

Rook sat behind the wheel of a black pickup parked across from a roadside diner on the outskirts of Anchorage.

The neon sign above the entrance flickered.

Half the letters had burned out years ago.

The parking lot held six cars, a delivery van, an old sedan, and a pickup that looked older than the diner itself.

Nothing memorable.

Exactly why he had chosen it.

His gaze shifted to the dashboard clock.

7:30 p.m.

Their contact was late.

The passenger door opened, and Caleb “Sniper” McDougal climbed inside carrying two cups of coffee.

Rain followed him into the truck.

He slammed the door, handed one cup to Rook, and looked at him.

His expression flattened.

“Damn.”

Rook kept watching the diner. “What?”

“You look terrible.”

“Good evening to you too.”

“You sleeping?”

It wasn’t really a question.

Rook stared through the rain.

Streetlights blurred across the wet glass. Cars moved along the highway behind them.

People heading home.

Families eating dinner.

Normal lives.