Burn It Up(106)

“You think this is revenge, for your dad firing him? That’s pretty f*cking extreme.”

Miah shook his head. “Dad didn’t fire him. I did. Dad gave him more second chances than he deserved, even paid for him to go to rehab. I’m the one who got sick of it and kicked him out.” His head jerked to the side, facing the open door like he might jump to his feet and stride out into the predawn darkness at any moment.

“There any chance he could’ve dropped that in the barn back when he was still working for you?”

“None. I hustled him out that night. Stood there watching while he packed.”

“He drive a dark truck back then?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean shit.”

Well said. “You know where he is these days?” Casey asked.

“I know where he used to stay, after he left.”

“Has he been in touch since? Started anything, with any of you?”

“Nothing. But I’m only happy to start something with him right f*cking now.”

“It’s six a.m.,” Casey said, but Miah was already swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress and reaching for his boots.

“I’m coming with you.” Casey didn’t trust the hate blazing in Miah’s eyes and wouldn’t put it past the man to do something rash.

He followed his friend out of the room, down the stairs, and they grabbed their coats in the front hall. Miah didn’t hold the door for Casey, just flung it wide and went striding into the dark. “We need answers, Miah, okay? Answers first, justice later.”

“If you come, you stay the f*ck out of my way.”

“I can’t promise that.”

Miah stopped short. “That cocksucker murdered my father. You have any f*cking clue what he has coming to him?”

“Miah—”

He began walking again. “Come with me and you’ll find out.”

“Just don’t get yourself shot or thrown in prison for the rest of your life, man. Your mom needs you.” Hell, f*cking Fortuity needed him. Needed the ranch. Vince needed him. “You got too much riding on your shoulders to f*ck this up, Miah.”

“You come, you better keep out of my way,” he said again.

And what choice did Casey have, really?





Chapter 27


It wasn’t a long drive—just to the other end of Fortuity, barely twenty minutes at the clip Miah was going. He turned them off the main road just before the railroad tracks and down a cracked and faded residential road, all the way to its end. It was one of the town’s more depressing corners, dotted with small houses and trailers, a good quarter of them looking abandoned or at the very least terminally neglected.

The sun was just rising and Miah squinted at the various shitboxes they passed.

“What number?” Casey asked.

“Can’t remember, but it was a single-wide, with an old-school laundry line beside it. Dad insisted on cutting him a final paycheck. I insisted on delivering it, so Bean wouldn’t get a chance to play the pity card and try to win himself any more chances. I remember there were about six cars parked out front. Just what you’d expect from a load of—”

He went silent and eased them to a halt along the roadside, approaching a trailer. There were two cars and three trucks sprawled half on the patchy front lawn like beached whales.

“Motherf*cker,” Casey breathed. The far pickup was navy blue, and a good fifteen, twenty years old to judge by the headlights’ glaucoma. “Could that be the truck?”

“One way to know for sure.” Miah got out and pulled the rifle from behind his seat. Fuck, that wasn’t a good sign. Still, Casey secured the pistol at his own back and followed, jogging to keep up.

Miah wasn’t discreet. He circled the truck, boots crunching on the gravel shoulder. The bed was loaded with crap—a shitty old chair and cardboard boxes, trash bags that looked to be maybe stuffed with clothes, like somebody was planning on moving out, and in a hurry. Crouching, Miah inspected the plate, and Casey did the same. Though he couldn’t say it was a shock, he still got chills when he saw the dirt clinging to it, in the perfect outline to mark where a sticky length of duct tape had once been pressed.

Miah stared at it for a long breath, then murmured, “I’m gonna f*cking kill him.”

“Dude—”

He was up, striding toward the house. Casey dashed behind to catch up, just as the door to the trailer popped open.

A slender pale man of thirty or so stood on the threshold, keys dangling from one hand, an army green frame pack in the other. He had a narrow face and stood about Casey’s height. Bundled up and wearing a balaclava, he could easily have been taken for James Ware, if that was who you’d been expecting. He got one foot on the cinder block standing in for a front step and froze, eyes growing wide.

Miah kept on marching, the rifle swinging right along like an extension of his arm. “And just where the f*ck do you think you’re off to?” he shouted.

“Fuck,” was all Chris Bean said before dropping his pack and hitting the dirt, running at full-tilt for Christ knew where, aimed at the badlands.

Miah was a dozen paces behind him and gaining. “You stop or I will f*cking shoot you in the back!”

Casey got his own weapon drawn but kept the safety on. He hoped to hell Miah had the sense to have done the same.