Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 132332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
“Must’ve been the highlight of their weekend,” Murphy says. He squints, studying the tree line behind the gallows.
“They could’ve hosted an elaborate ‘out bad’ ceremony.” Rock shrugs.
Our MC has never been into theatrics. You fuck over the club, you die a quick, painful death and we bury you in places no one will ever find your pieces. End of story. Taking the time to doodle on dolls seems silly.
“We haven’t come across any human bodies. Maybe this was a message?” Murphy suggests.
“The stench of this place is so bad, there could be a corpse somewhere and we’d never know the difference.” I turn to head back the way we came. “This isn’t our mystery to solve.”
Z, Jigsaw, and Grinder stand on the top of the hill. Z jogs down to meet us halfway.
“Is that…?” He lifts his chin toward the gallows.
“Blow-up doll,” I explain.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Okaaay.”
“What we got here?” Jiggy asks, meeting up with us. “A little Salem Biker Trials cosplay?”
“Something like that.” Rock smirks and pats Jiggy’s shoulder.
We reach the top of the hill and Grinder gives us a frustrated hand wave. “Come on,” he urges. “Don’t have time for this.”
The last structure waits for us to the right of the hill. A large, rusted-out rectangle that looks like it came directly from Satan’s trailer park. The largest of all the other structures we’ve seen—practically a palace in this place. At one time, someone tried to give it a homey touch with flower boxes dotted around the perimeter. The flowers must’ve withered under the relentless stench. Nothing but dry dirt fills the cracked boxes now.
We split up into two teams again. Z, Grinder, and Jigsaw circle around the back of the trailer before coming around to the front.
Thump.
I cock my head toward the trailer, waiting for the sound to come again.
The three of us crouch under the windows, putting our backs against the rippled metal siding. On the other side of the front steps, Z, Grinder, and Jigsaw adopt a similar stance. Z points at the trailer in an exaggerated sweep of his arm, then cups his ear. Rock raises his fist to signal he heard it too.
“Carter has to be here,” I whisper. “They probably have someone guarding him.”
Rock nods. “Nice and slow.” He turns toward Murphy. “Stay here.”
Murphy opens his mouth as if he’s about to protest, then closes it.
A fresh dump of adrenaline surges into my blood stream. Tension knots my stomach. The weight of the gun in my hands offers some reassurance.
Rock and I creep onto the rickety boards that constitute the front “porch” of the ramshackle structure. We flank the sides of the door to avoid standing dead center, turning sideways to keep our bodies as thin a target as possible.
Murphy, Z, Grinder, and Jigsaw crouch below the stairs, out of sight.
Rock reaches out and strikes his knuckles against the flimsy door twice.
No answer.
I close my eyes, straining to hear what’s happening on the other side. A shuffling sound. My eyes pop open and I stare at Rock. He cocks his head toward the door.
The click-clack of a shotgun.
Fuck.
A blast punches through the trailer door, sending pellets and splinters exploding outward.
Searing fire slashes across my hip.
“Not again.”
Haven’t I taken enough fucking bullets in my lifetime?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Teller
The shotgun blast ripping through the front door propels Rock and me backward, missing the steps entirely.
I land in the dirt with a punishing thump to my ass that rips the air from my lungs, jars my spine, and numbs my legs.
For a few terrifying seconds, my mind returns to the accident. The afternoon Mariella died. A hard bump against my back tire. Laying down my bike. Mariella’s terrified screams. So much pain. Blood spreading across pavement. Waking up in the hospital and not feeling a fucking thing below my waist.
“T, you whole?” Rock’s question whispers through my fog, pulling me out of the flashback.
I’m finally able to draw in a great, big, greedy gulp of air.
Beads of sweat roll down the sides of my face. The sting in my side doesn’t increase. I take a few more slow breaths. Wiggle my toes and bend my bad leg. The burning in my side feels more annoying than life-threatening. I’ve had enough injuries over the years to recognize the difference.
“I think so,” I finally answer. “You?”
“Yeah.”
I groan as I sit up. My fingers stray to the dagger of fire in my side and come away wet. Not enough blood to indicate anything vital has been hit. I shake my bum leg. Hitting the ground seems to have rocked my system more than whatever pierced my flesh. My probing fingers graze something sharp stuck right above the waistband of my pants and underneath the edge of my Kevlar vest. I yank, wincing at the increased burn as I slowly pull out whatever embedded itself in my flesh.