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Chapter 4
Six Days Later
The rhythmic, franticscreeching woke him up.
It was the second morning in a row but at least this time, he didn’t strain his slowly healing side by rolling out of bed in a crouch and coming upon the side with his weapon in hand.
He didpullthe handgun out from under his pillow where he’d stashed it, the habit too hard to break after years of training. But this time, he was able to stay on his back, breathing mostly level as his heart hammered away in sheer reaction.
The whole time, he listened to the strained, painful sounds and slowly realized there was some sort ofintentbehind it.
Yesterday, he’d been all but nauseated with pain, too much so to think past anything but now, as he sat there, breathing through the slightly less intense misery, it was obvious. Somebodywantedthat sound—thatsound in particular.
He eased himself upright, one hand braced on the bed. Once upright, he shoved the handgun under his pillow and slowly plodded over to the window. His heart thudded hard but began to slow.
As he glared out the window, somebody walked out of the neighbor’s open garage, guitar in hand, the cord trailing along behind him like a restraining leash. The kid grabbed something from the van and trudged back into the garage.
Maybe he was done ...
The wailing resumed.
Travis eyed the clock on the nightstand and groaned when he saw the time. It wasn’t that early, but what the fuck happened to kids sleeping in and watching cartoons on Saturdays? Wasn’t that still a thing?
“Just kids,” he muttered to himself. “They’re just kids. Lighten up before you turn into nothing more than a grumpy old bastard.”
The kid playing the guitar hit another off-note and Travis shuffled over to the bed, sank onto it and grabbed his pillow. Dragging it over his face, he closed his eyes. He was exhausted, worn out in a way he couldn’t begin to explain. After another restless night, he desperately wanted a few more hours before trying to face the world.
But there was no blocking out that ... music.
He was a light sleeper anyway, had been all his life. Ever since stepping into a darker world, he’d refined that trait. It seemed best since he worked a job where anybody who didn’t wake at the drop of a pin might find themselves waking up with a knife at their throat or a gun at the base of their skull.
Or worse.
In the shadowy world where he made a living, there were thingsmuchworse than dying.
He’d seen that firsthand.
“Maybe that’s what this is ... a new form of torture,” he muttered, cringing at the chords lingering in the air. They sounded like the guitar’s death refrain. Maybe they were—maybe the guitar was dying and the torturous sounds were a plea for help.
Flinging the pillow to the floor, he sat up. Once more, healing muscle and skin pulled and he grimaced. On the opposite side, he had an injury that had laid him up less than two years earlier. It had barely healed and here he was down with an even uglier wound.
At this rate, his sorry ass was going to be able to double as a sieve—assuming he didn’t end up dead first.
