Page 35 of Fire on the Moon

Back in the car again, they headed toward town and stopped at a drugstore along the highway.

“What are we getting?” Francesca asked.

“Burner phones.”

“For what?”

“In case we need to communicate.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I thought we were staying together.”

“Approximately. We might need to separate.”

“You won’t leave me in the car,” she insisted.

“No.”

After making that promise, Zane cruised past the bar, casing the joint.

Francesca craned her neck. “There are eleven cars in the lot.”

“Okay. And probably other customers could walk here.”

He drove to a cross street where he could turn around, then headed back. He was glad to see that the parking lot had two entrances, if they had to make a quick getaway.

The ideal place to park was in a row of spaces along one side that was shaded by a line of trees. Since all the slots were taken, he waited in a nearby spot until a space in that row opened up. Then he backed in, cut the engine and pulled down the sun visors.

“He could already be in there. If he’s coming at all,” Francesca said

“Yes. I’m going to take a quick look inside.”

“You said . . .”

“Briefly,” he clarified.

“What’s your excuse for going in?”

“To buy a pack of cigarettes.” He activated his phone, and she did the same. They both set them to vibrate. Just to make sure everything was working okay, he called her, and they established that the instruments worked.

After slipping the phone into his pocket, he reached for the door handle. “Stay here. And slump down.”

“I will.” She cranked back her seat and slid down so that only the top of her hat showed.

He got out and strode toward the door of the bar, his feet crunching on the gravel of the lot. Before entering, he stopped and glanced back at the car, feeling a tightness in his chest. He didn’t like leaving Francesca here, but it was better than bringing her inside where Tuckerman and one of his cronies could be lurking. He pulled the bill of his cap down a little farther before pushing the door inward.

He’d seen pictures of the interior, but they’d been shot to make the bar as attractive as possible. In person, it looked grungier, and the customers didn’t help. Most were men, dressed in tee shirts and shorts or jeans. There were a few women who were similarly dressed in Florida casual. Nobody looked like someone he’d want to meet in a dark alley.

He saw several people eying him as he entered. Probably he was too clean he thought with a silent laugh.

He thanked God that smoking was prohibited inside bars and restaurants, even here. As it was, the liquor, beer fumes, and body odor were almost too much for his werewolf senses in the enclosed space.

Struggling not to cough, he scanned the patrons and didn’t see Tuckerman or any of the other men who had been with him. That would have been too easy. Or maybe the guy would have recognized him.

He waited a beat, then crossed to the bar, taking a position near the cash register.

The bartender was serving draft beer to a customer and took his time getting to the newcomer.

“What’ll you have?” he asked as he gave Zane an appraising look.

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