Page 1 of Turn That River Red

PROLOGUE

AMBROSE

Icrouch in the thick, muggy shade of an old metal shed, listening to the road two hundred feet in front of me. Rust has eaten holes into the metal so the baking Texas sun comes streaming in, filling the shed with stars even though it’s two in the afternoon and I think I might sweat away into oblivion.

Who knows how long this thing has been sitting out here, or why it was built in the first place; I’ve claimed it for my purposes now.

I take a long drink of water and swish it around in my mouth. Silence. No one comes out this way unless they’re headed to the Church of the Well compound, and that works in my favor. Because that compound is exactly where I need to be.

Something stirs in the distance, the faint hum of tires on asphalt. I spring into action, launching myself over to the little slat I peeled away when I set up my trap this morning. When I look out, I see the road, mirage heat shimmering like an oil slick. Everything around us is flat and dead and dusty. Not a lot of places to hide, but tacks on the road are an old trick, and they’ll get the job done.

The van comes into view. White-paneled and plain. Nondescript. The sort of van you’re meant to not look at twice. When the Church of the Well sends one of their members out into the secular world, they don’t want to draw attention to themselves.

I peer out through the slat, holding my breath like I’m watching deer in the woods. When the van hits the tacks, it’s like a gun going off. The tires explode, the rubber shreds to ribbons, and the metal frames rattle and scrape along the asphalt. Sparks fly up, pale in the sunlight, as the driver slams on the brakes, the van screeching and spinning. For a minute, I think it’s going to tip over. It doesn’t.

I pat the knives hanging on the side of my belt: a carving knife on my right, a gutting knife on my left. Just reminding myself they’re there.

The van idles. I steady my breathing, waiting to see if this van really does belong to one of Sterling Gunner’s flock.

A dark-haired man gets out, wearing the loose, old-fashioned shirts the men all wear. I grin, excitement bubbling up even though this is a killing of necessity, not pleasure.

He mills around the van, cursing to himself in Spanish. I slick back my hair and plaster on an affable grin and shove out through the shed’s rickety door.

“Hola!” I call out. “Tienes problemas con tu camioneta?”

The man looks up at me, confusion and suspicion warring across his features. If his clothes didn’t give him away as being from the Church of the Well, his distrust certainly does. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Gabe,” I say. “I was doing some deer hunting and I heard your tire blow out.” It’s a dumb story, but he’s not going to be alive long enough to really think about it.

“This close to the highway?” He frowns and looks around, as if a deer might come trotting out of the endless flatlands.

“Well, hey, it ain’t exactly hunting season, you know?” Iamble up to him with a touch of cowboy swagger, and he keeps watching me with narrow, guarded eyes. Fair enough. He should be suspicious of me.

I notice his gaze dropping down to my knives.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Something on the road.” He kicks at the asphalt. “Shredded my tires. Nails or something.”

I peer through the front windshield of the van. The passenger side is empty. I walk closer, aware of the man watching me with suspicion, as I crouch down beside the tires and let out a low whistle.

“Damn,” I tell him. “These things are shredded to hell.”

“Hijo de puta,” he mutters softly. He pushes his hands through his hair and drags open the passenger side of the van. “Let me get my phone.”

“Where you headed?” I rise to standing. “You from that church down the road?”

He glances over my shoulder at me. “Yes,” he says stiffly.

Perfect. I just needed the confirmation.

“You want me to give you a ride? Hot as balls out here. No sense in you waiting for the tow truck.”

“I can’t leave the van alone,” he says, burrowing around in the front seat.

“It’ll be fine. Ain’t nobody comes out this way. Why do you think I was doing my hunting out here?”

As I talk, I walk toward him, my steps soft and light. Too light for a human like him to hear.

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