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“I care about my people,” he snaps, his eyes narrowing, “and I care about Matty. He’s Lyric’s brother, which makes him family too. Even if he is an FBI agent, we’ll do whatever it takes to keep him safe…even if we have to save him from himself.”
I nod, understanding that there’s more at stake than I realized. This isn’t just about revenge or power, it’s about survival. Desmond is fighting for his family, people, and life, and I’m caught in the middle of it all, unable to do anything but hold on for the ride.
My throat burns to ask a thousand questions, none of which Desmond has the answers to.
As Desmond slows the car, he reaches into his holster hidden under his shirt and hands me the gun his mom gave me. “Each of our bullets are engraved with a black feather. The bullet my mom pulled out of Matty will be analyzed. Each family uses different bullets.”
“Why engrave the bullets? It’s traceable,” I remark, holding the gun. I know how to shoot. My mother saw to it. Although I don’t enjoy shooting a gun, I will if I have to. My eighteenth birthday was my last time with Mom at a shooting range.
“Is it?” Desmond answers my question with a question, irritating me. Now is not the time for philosophical bullshit. “I don’t know what we are entering. If anyone, and I mean anyone, comes at you, Charlotte, you shoot to fucking kill. I don’t care if you shoot in panic. I don’t care if you know the person. Shoot to kill.”
“Your mom said the same thing,” I say, tracing the emblem on the gun. “Why a feather?”
“My mother chose a feather,” he says, swinging the car onto Route Thirty. “Hope and love and new beginnings. That is what she chose over her family.”
It’s ironic, considering the bullet is used to end another person’s life. “And yet here you are, still knee-deep in criminal activity.”
“Yes,” he says without remorse. “To end them. That was always the end goal, but Mom knew she couldn’t do it on her own.” He pauses as he swings onto the ramp that leads to the truck stop. “We’re here.” He turns off his headlights as he slowly drives toward the truck stop through the rain.
Large streetlights highlight the path. Several trucks litter the long spots to accommodate a Mac truck. I don’t even know what kind of car Lyric drives, so I don’t know what I’m looking for. All I do know is that the parking lot is a labyrinth of trucks. He could be anywhere in here.
“There.” Desmond speeds up and swings into a spot beside an Impala. The dark car shines in the sliver of moonlight. “Backup is five minutes behind us. Stay with me, and don’t you dare walk off,” he warns, sending my pulse through the roof.
“Yes, sir,” I snap.
I know Desmond is worried because he doesn’t address my snark. He rises from the car like a demon, his presence larger than life. Maybe I was a fool for demanding I tag along, but something inside me wouldn’t allow me to sit on the sidelines, waiting like a damsel in distress.
I don’t want to be that bitch.
My hand is steady as I grip the gun and open my door, rising to stand in the dim night. I look around, taking in everything I can, memorizing the trucks. There are five. All look marginally normal, but I know that could change depending on what they are carrying.
Beyond Lyric’s car is the edge of a forest with a path leading into the woods, where visibility fades about twenty feet in. I step around the vehicle to look and see if there are any fresh footsteps. I’m unsure what I’m looking at or how to tell if footsteps are fresh.
“Old,” Desmond whispers, pointing down. “They are muddled. The edges blurred.”
“Could be from the rain,” I whisper back to him, turning around to look at the trucks again. “Three trucks are running.” I peer into the parking lot. No cars are out this early in the morning.
Desmond nods, his eyes narrowing as he scans the area. “Keep your eyes peeled,” he murmurs, his hand hovering near his gun. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
I nod, trying to quell the fear clawing at my chest. I remind myself that I’m not alone and can handle myself, which I can, I just need to stay focused. As thoughts whisper through me, my fingers become steady, my steps quieter and surer, and my focus narrows to the parking lot surrounding us.
Desmond leads the way, his movements purposeful and alert. We weave our way through the maze of trucks, our boots splashing in puddles as the rain intensifies. In seconds, water saturates my clothing, chilling my flesh. I keep my gun ready, my finger hovering over the trigger.
As we round a corner, we come face-to-face with a burly man, his arms crossed over his chest. He eyes us warily, his mouth set in a thin line and trucker hat pulled low. In his mouth is a toothpick he pulls out to spit on the wet ground.
“Can I help you?” he rumbles, his tone hostile.
Desmond steps forward, his hand resting on his gun. “We’re looking for a man,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “Light hair, dressed in all black, covered in tattoos.”
The man narrows his eyes, sizing us up. “What’s in it for me?” he asks, his tone still hostile.
Desmond takes a step closer, his eyes never leaving the man’s face. “Money,” he says simply. “I’ll pay you for any information you have.”
The man considers this for a moment, his gaze shifting between us. Finally, he nods. “Yeah, I saw him. He was here not that long ago. He ran off in that direction after hopping out of the red cab.” He jerks his head to the left, in the direction of the woods. “But I don’t know where he was going in the woods. It isn’t safe in there.”
Desmond nods, slipping a wad of cash into the man’s hand. “Thank you,” he says, turning to leave. His palm slides to my lower back, searing hot against my cold flesh.
“How do you know he didn’t hurt Lyric?” I whisper as we walk away from the stranger.
