Page 43 of Hell and High Water

For now.

A quiet half hour later, we spot another road, this one paved, heading up the mountain. Debris and branches line the track, leading up to an old, overgrown and rusted gate.

It takes both of us to drag it open.

“Damn. You can barely tell anything’s up there.”

But there is a house, hidden back in the trees. A huge country home, half the building consumed with ivy.

Evan already has his gun out as we creep back through the undergrowth, across the courtyard out front, my eyes scanning the ground for signs of recent passage. Raising one hand, I signal Evan to pause as I test the ground with my foot just before the porch steps.

“Looking for booby traps?” he whispers, a hint of mockery in his tone.

“Hey, you never know with these old cult-style, black-hood types, you know?”

“It certainly looks the part for a horror film.”

“Yeah, like Scoobidy-fuckin-Doo.”

Evan sniffs, crossing to post up on the opposite side of the door and nodding toward the knob. I grimace, glaring at him for volunteering me to open it.

“It’s unlocked.”

“Maybe they’re expecting us.”

“Cute.” I ease the door open, letting it drift back.

Dust lines the floor, the stairs across the foyer. The whole place is dim, most of the windows covered with ivy.

“Watch my six.”

“I’ll try not to stare.”

“I know I have a nice ass, but focus,” I hiss, stepping into the doorway, pivoting to clear the entry, checking for doorways.

Strafing through the hall, I feel a slight thrill, that old muscle memory of infiltrating in tactical formation setting my mind into familiar territory. Evan keeps in line, falling in like this is completely normal.

One of these days, I’m going to find out how he got so well-trained.

“Here. Old blood. Looks like the victim was shot in the living room. Front window.”

The glass still has a hole through it, clean. Following the path, I note the old high-backed armchair, the hole in the cushion at head height. Back the other way, I peer through the smudged window, a gap in the ivy revealing a sliver of sky through the trees, a ridge in the distance.

At least two clicks, a few kilometers away.

“Shit.” There’s no way…

“Someone’s been here since. Recently,” Evan adds softly, gesturing to disturbances in the dust along the edge of the wall.

“Could be vermin.”

“One way to find out.”

The stairs tell a different story. Footprints.

“Nothing in here. Most of the rooms are the same as downstairs. Apparently, no one came to clear anything out. Beds are even made.”

“Hmm,” I grunt, closing the door on a room stacked with old furniture.

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