Page 63 of Ride with the Devil

Turtleneck appears, stepping out of the bathroom, walking into a disaster. His eyes find me. With my free hand, I shove my headphones up over my ears, bump the door with my ass, and walk out into the cold.

After that, I walk leisurely toward my rental in the certainty that the second goon will rush over to check on Johnny Winter rather than follow me. They think they know who I am. They’ll think they can get help for their boss, then come after me.

But I’m the Hummingbird, and I don’t plan on being caught again. Besides, I have a flight to catch.

As I start the car, pulling out of the lot as I didn’t have a car in the world, I listen for the inevitable blare of an ambulance as I think about what I just did. Devil was meant to be a high-profile hit. In a way, it was. As far as Johnny Winter knows, the other mafia leader died in that explosion.

But he’s going to choke to death on poison in the middle of a retail coffee house in Hamilton.

Know what? Seems like a fitting end to me.

TWENTY

MINE

KYLIE

In the middle of bumfuck Oklahoma, it was a million times easier to get my hands on an untraceable gun than it was to find anyone who would give me information on the Holy Church of Jesus Devotion.

Within three hours of landing at the OKC Airport, I had my choice between a scraped Ruger, a Colt, and a Smith & Wesson. As a nod to Luca, I went with the Ruger, then flirted with the hick selling me the weapon until I was sure he’d remember more about my tits and ass than my face if it ever came to him having to identify me.

And though Andy was more than willing to take sex in exchange for the Ruger—which I passed on, handing him five hundreds instead—he flinched, then played dumb when I asked about the church run by Jack Donovan.

From what Luca told me, it’s a secluded cult that lives in a small community named after the prick who thinks he’s their god. I know it’s called Donovan, but it’s not on any map. I couldn’t find shit about it online, using my burner phone. Iwould’ve thought Luca made the whole thing up, only I saw that brand on his arm, and I noticed the way Andy flinched.

It’s real, and it takes me nearly all of the time I allotted in Oklahoma to find it.

Luckily for me, I find a lead from the last place I expect: a little old lady eating breakfast by herself at a Cracker Barrel. I stopped there to eat on my way to see if a local Southern Baptist Church had any idea where to find Donovan. She seemed lonely, and fuck knows I can be an empathetic ear when I want to, and we struck up a conversation over biscuits, eggs, and bacon.

Mary Su had heard of Donovan. Mary Su has a cousin’s friend’s daughter who married a man involved with that sacrilegious church. Mary Su didn’t like how the priest called himself a prophet, or how he had three young children with that browbeaten wife of his, all while whoring around with some of the young ladies in Oklahoma City.

Mary Su doesn’t think a good girl like me should have anything to do with those fake Christian heathens, but if I insist, she’ll jot down the approximate location on this napkin for me.

Thank you, Mary Su.

From the outskirts, Donovan looks like a retirement community. Built on a large expanse of flat lands, there are multiple apartment buildings, all surrounded by a massive—and I meanmassive—church in the center. Elaborate and expensive, it glitters like gold in the sunlight.

I figured I would find Jack Donovan and his altar in there. If not in the pulpit, then a place where he could lord over the rest of his ‘congruents’. I park the car I rented under another one of my fake IDs at the nearest lot to the church. There aren’t many. Despite it being the first week of January, and fuckingcoldout, there are people milling out everywhere you look.

Just like always, if you walk with certainty, as if you belong where you are, no one will ever doubt that you do. So whileI catch a few curious stares from the people outside, no one actually approaches me on the way inside the church.

No one, that is, except one man.

“Hello. I don’t think I’ve seen your face around Donovan before. Can I help you?”

I have an immediate refusal halfway to my lips when I glance up at the man who’s blocking my path. He’s about mid-forties, sandy color hair dotted with a few grey strands. It’s his eyes, though, that make me do a double-take.

I know those eyes.

This man is the spitting image of Luca, only about twenty years older.

Holy shit. I think this is hisdad.

Can he help me?

I smile. “Yes, actually. I’m new in town. I’m interested in finding a church that lines up with my ideals. One of the local pastors recommended that I’d be a perfect fit for the Holy Church of Jesus Devotion. That I’d need to speak with Pastor Jack Donovan.” I lower my voice, trying to adopt a tone of reverence when all I want to do is put my Ruger against Mr. St. James’s gut and pull the trigger. “That the prophet might be interested in reforming a sinner like me.”

Luca’s father nods. On third glance, I notice that his eyes aren’t exactly like his son’s. There’s the darkness of fanaticism lurking in their depths, and if he has any clue what I mean by my last comment—thank you for the tip, Mary Su—he doesn’t care that his precious prophet is fucking bad girls on the side.

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