Page 31 of Ride with the Devil

That’s because Rolls is Devil’s right-hand man. Though Rolls and Cross are old high school friends, if Devil says ‘keep quiet’, Rolls shuts his mouth.

I know why, too. Cross is an easygoing, chill guy most of the time. He has a few triggers. CSA is one. So is fire. Lately, though, it’s Genevieve Libellula—and his hatred for Johnny Winter and his crew.

He’s been obsessively searching for some sign of the Snowflakes. If only to protect his butterfly, he wants to go after Winter himself. Devil disagrees. He wants to make a statement by taking down the Snowflakes. Damien, too. He knew he couldn’t come to Blockbuster last night to confront the vice mayor himself, but he’s probably been dying for an update.

I wish I had better news for him. “If it’s not out now, it will be soon. Devil had to off Collins after he admitted he was on Winter’s payroll. He didn’t really have more than that.” Then, because I know he’ll ask, I add, “No lead on where Winter is hiding out, either. They did everything online. Tanner’s probably combing through Collins’s accounts right now so maybe there will be something out of that.”

Cross mutters a curse under his breath. “Yeah. I figured as much. Word on the street is that Collins bit it, but that it wasn’t a Sinner who pulled the trigger.”

Really? “Then who?”

“The Hummingbird.”

Wait… didn’t he mentioned something about a person with that name at his studio last night? Not like the little figurine he was playing withhummingbird, but someone who had a ‘the’ before it?

“Who’s the Hummingbird?”

“You haven’t heard about him?” Cross sounds surprised. “I thought I mentioned it.”

He started to, then somehow we changed the subject. “Nah. I don’t think so.”

“Shit, Luca. The Hummingbird is an assassin. A hired hitman. This.. this contract killer who burned down my studio because Mickey Kelly paid him to. That’s why I found the hummingbird. It’s his… I don’t know… symbol or some shit. He leaves it behind so everyone knows he pulled the job.”

“We’ve got a killer in Springfield targeting Sinners?” I ask, stunned.

“That’s the worst part. It’s not just Springfield. This guy is a savage, dropping people all over the country in messy ways. Like gluing the window shut and lighting a fire so I burn to deathmessy.”

We all wondered if that was on purpose. In our circle, everyone knows Cross has trauma, even if—like me—he keeps it to himself. His family died in a fire. For him to nearly go out the same way, that’s fucked up. Up until now, he thought Mickey did it for payback after Cross went for his cock. But to hear that he hired a guy to do it, and that the guy makes a habit of shit like that?

“So… what? They think this Hummingbird dick killed Collins? He’s a bastard for what he did to you, but maybe that’s a good thing. It won’t fall back on us.”

It won’t fall back on Devil.

And if no one thinks Devil did it, and some fresh-faced twenty-six-year-old stunner will tell the cops that itwasDevil and not only does the Hummingbird get away with trying to kill Cross, but he might be pissed off that people were blaming him for a hit he didn’t do.

Shit. That means I still have to go through with this.

“Maybe. But I’m not worried about some faceless killer coming after me again. It’s been months, and Damien gave us the best security system money could buy for our new place. Let him try to break in and set a fire. I’ll be ready for him.”

Thou shall not kill—unless you’re saving your fiance… and getting vengeance.

I may not bethe world’s best cook, but I’ve learned how to fend for myself since living on my own. In the beginning, it was a lot of take-out, frozen chicken nuggets, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, all ‘garbage’ food that the prophet wouldn’t let us have in Donovan. And while I gorged myself on all the snacksI had been deprived of, the tiny apartment I lived in had a stove. Before long, I was making simple meals.

I’m not sure what to expect from the girl in the basement. Figuring that pasta with butter or sauce is a safe bet—unless she’s gluten-sensitive, then I’m fucked—I put on a pot of water to boil.

While that’s working, I finish putting away the groceries I ordered. I know I’ll need more. I’ve barely filled the fridge with what I got, and the cabinets in the kitchen have plenty of space for things like canned goods, boxes and cereal, and other non-perishables.

I’m just glad they showed up after all. I was beginning to think I screwed up when I made the order, but toward the end of my conversation with Cross, I heard a doorbell. I rushed him off the phone, only giving the screen a puzzled look when he tells me to enjoy my Christmas vacation—before realizing that that must be how Devil’s explaining away my disappearance for now—then answered the door.

My groceries were there, being dropped off by a blank-faced kid of about nineteen who nodded when I handed him an extra twenty as a tip for coming out in the cold. It started to flurry a little, too, with a dusting of snow covering a package that must’ve been dropped off earlier without me knowing.

The pasta is done and ready in less than twenty minutes. Only after I finish cooking it do I realize that Burns’s cabins doesn’t have a strainer. I do my best not to spill long spaghetti strands as I dump the pot of starchy water into the sink. A tablespoon of butter to keep them from sticking, then a quick stir before I figure that’s as good as it’s going to get.

The pot goes on the kitchen table. I pop open the jar of sauce and place it next to the pot. I keep the stick of butter out, and two of the plastic forks I ordered since giving her access to a metalone just doesn’t seem like a great idea when I’m still getting a read on the girl.

Do I think she’s going to stab me with a fork? Of course not. But, well, you never know.

I take the other package that came earlier and put it on the other side of the table so she can’t miss it. All that taken care of, I run my fingers through my hair nervously before going to the basement door and knocking.

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