Hell on Wheels (Black Knights Inc. #1)(60)

Here, in this safe place of childhood dreams, she had to know one more thing. “Were you with him? In the end?”

Nate’s agonized gaze snapped to her face, and there was such bleakness there it stole away her breath.

Yeah, she may’ve been Grigg’s heart. But Grigg had been Nate’s heart.

Closer than brothers, her mother once remarked. And now, seeing his tortured expression, she believed it.

“Yes.” His voice was gritty as sandpaper, the muscle in his jaw working overtime.

“Was there a lot of pain? Did he suffer?” God, she didn’t know why she was asking that.

Of course there was pain. Of course he suffered. He’d been tortured.

“Yes,” Nate whispered and the flinch of one eyelid was the only indication of what it cost him to admit as much to her.

It was only one word, harshly spoken, but when she thought about it, she realized that one word revealed a hundred things. A hundred terrible, horrible things.

Good heavens, Grigg, I’m so sorry. So incredibly sorry.

She’d always known her brother wouldn’t go easy, but to hear it confirmed was almost more than she could bear. Dragging in the musty, familiar smell of the tree house, she blew out a shaky breath and nodded. “Okay.”

She dipped her head again when Nate hesitated, giving her a hard, searching look. “Let’s go. I’m all right.”

He ground his jaw, obviously unsure what to do, then he sighed heavily and turned to lift the trapdoor.

She watched him quickly and dexterously clamber down the rope ladder, and furiously dashed away a rebellious tear. She would not saddle him with a blubbering woman when he’d done the one thing she’d asked of him…namely, he’d given her the inexplicably, horrendously, unvarnished truth.

Then his big black biker boots silently hit the soft earth beneath the oak, and she no longer had to dash away tears. They dried quicker than a desert wind when he held up a fisted hand.

Even if she hadn’t been trained by Grigg, she’d watched enough movies to know what that particular hand gesture meant. It meant hold still and stay absolutely quiet. It meant something had spooked Nate “Ghost” Weller, and that really scared the crap out of her.

Awful seconds ticked by like hours, and her already frayed nerves wound as tight as a metal spring.

She never thought she’d say it, but right at this moment she actually missed the comfort of Nate’s reserve weapon in her hands. As soon as they got back on Phantom, she’d ask him to hand over the little Colt.

And wow, would you look at what a turn her life had taken?

Thirty-six hours after running to Nate, and she was downright itchy without the solid weight of a handgun in her waistband. Maybe by tomorrow morning she’d be sporting bandoliers and a red bandana. She could give Ozzie a run for his money in the Rambo impersonation department.

They drew first blood, not me…She tried it out in her head and decided Ozzie was probably a lot more convincing.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Nate glanced up, black eyes piercing the darkness like lasers. He nodded his head, never relaxing his steady grip on his matte-black weapon. Despite his reassurance, she gave the surroundings one more solid scan before she scrambled down the rope ladder.

She barely touched good ol’ terra firma before he was urging her forward across the lawn.

“What is it?” she whispered, nervously trying to peer into dark corners and through the dense foliage of her parents’ hedges.

By way of answer, he merely shook his head, eyes darting around the same corners and bushes.

A chill rushed down her spine like the cold fingers of a wraith. It was the only warning she received before the subtle creaking of the gate’s hinges was broken by a strangely harsh spitting sound.

Nate grunted and yelled, “Run!” as he pushed her through the opening.

She didn’t need to be told twice.

She bolted across her parents’ front yard, her legs doing a fairly good impression of the Roadrunner when the frighteningly loud boom boom boom of Nate’s .45 split the serene silence of the night and the comfort of the sleepy, middle class neighborhood. Turning just in time to see a large black shadow stumble backward into her parents’ side yard—Hey! That looks a lot like my mugger!—she was once more propelled forward as Nate grabbed her by the elbow.

“Don’t stop,” he hissed.

Was he kidding?

Stopping was the dead last thing on her mind.

Porch lights were snapping on, and the neighborhood dogs were barking their canine heads off by the time the two of them skidded to a breathless stop beside Phantom. In one smooth move, Nate swung astride the mean looking motorcycle and started its enormous engine with a grumbling roar.

Ali clambered up behind him and in the next instant they were zooming down the no longer sleepy, suburban street, struggling into their helmets as they headed for the highway and the relative safety of the open road.

***

Dagan scrambled around the corner of the little clapboard house and stood over the man Nathan Weller had shot mere seconds before.

No mistaking it: the dude was dead.

The two neat holes centered over the guy’s heart and the one smack-dab between his eyes—Mozambique style—were evidence enough without the repulsively permeating aroma of shit. As if being dead wasn’t humiliating enough, it wasn’t unusual for one to suffer a final indignity and fill the ol’ drawers.