Page 9 of Hard Rain

Whip smirked as the Jeep rocked through a muddy pothole and kept crawling up the steep incline serving as the Montane driveway.

A year of riding together had taught him the look. Axel worried. Axel complained. Then Axel followed him into whatever mess waited at the end of the road.

Whip parked, killed the lights, and reached into the back seat for the rain slickers. He slid his arms into one of the thin clear covers and shoved the other toward Axel.

“What’s the plan?”

“Go in and get him.”

Axel snorted, then snapped the rain slicker closed before shoving open the Jeep door.

The place was a fucking dump. Weeds high around rusted vehicles that hadn’t been driven in years, if not decades. A few dogs on thick chains around their necks paced near weathered dog houses, barking hard at them as they approached the house. One finally retreated beneath the shelter when Whip slammed the Jeep door shut.

He stepped up the rickety porch steps while Axel stayed back a few feet with his weapon ready. The damn thing could give way any second, he was sure of it.

His knock rattled the flimsy trailer door hard enough to shake the frame.

“U.S. Marshals,” Whip called through the rain. “Open the door, Mike.”

The latch clicked from inside before the trailer door swung open.

“Yeah?” Mike said. Red hair stuck out above pale skin scarred with old pockmarks, bloodshot eyes heavy beneath half-lidded exhaustion. Shirtless despite the cold, he looked skinny enough a hard wind could’ve knocked him over.

“We’re looking for Bobby. You seen him?”

Mike scratched his ass through jeans hanging loose on his too-thin frame.

“Nope. Looking in the wrong place.”

“I don’t think so,” Axel growled low.

Mike’s eyes flicked toward the Glock in Axel’s hand. “Don’t you got a witness to transfer or somethin’?”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” Axel bared his teeth. “Marshals do more than that. We provide full service.”

Axel wasn’t wrong. Most folks thought Marshals just hauled prisoners around.

“He ain’t here. See fer yourself.”

“We will,” Whip said, stepping forward until Mike automatically backed deeper into the trailer.

Axel climbed the porch steps behind him, old wood groaning beneath his weight.

The place stank of sweat, rotten garbage, and backed-up sewage. One glance toward the filled kitchen sink made it obvious Mike had been living without running water for a while.

Axel did a quick sweep of the bedroom and bathroom but turned up nothing.

“I suggest if you don’t want to join your cousin in jail for obstruction, then you tell us where he’s hiding,” Whip said conversationally when Axel came back in the living room.

Mike Montane thought about it for a few seconds before pointing toward the pile of dirty laundry shoved against one wall.

Pile was generous. The thing looked more like a landfill with shirts hanging off it.

Axel walked over and pressed the muzzle of his Glock into the pile of clothes.

Whip kept one eye on Axel and the other on Mike. “Where’s your firearms?”

“Can’t afford bullets,” Mike mumbled.