Page 289 of Fearless

“It is.” Save for all the bones buried beneath the lapping waves of grass.

In truth, Aidan did love the property. Ringed along the edges and cut across in several places by thin strips of forest, it was a dipping and diving expanse of hills and hollows, deep stream beds and high crests. You could see nothing of Knoxville up here. There were no sounds save those made by the animals that slept between the trees. A forgotten, timeless place, all brushed over with gray in the evening like this.

The drive climbed for a while, before finally leveling out, and at its end, beyond the fork that led to the barn farther up the hill, was the house. It was a classic old farmhouse, white clapboard, wraparound porch, high peaked roof with slate shingles. It was falling apart, slowly but surely, a spectral ghost as it glowed in the fading light, its porch spindles broken and uneven, like gapped teeth.

Aidan parked in front of the detached garage and stared through the windshield a moment after he’d killed the engine. His skin felt too tight and cold all over, prickly even, as he contemplated what was about to happen. He envisioned Ghost’s face from earlier, the unforgiving insistence of his dark eyes. He was the president, and if he asked Aidan to rob a bunch of nuns at gunpoint, he expected his order to be carried out without protest.

What must that be like, Aidan wondered, to have such absolute certainty in your authority?

“Aidan,” Greg said, yanking him back to the present. “You alright?”

“Fine.” Aidan gave himself an all-over shake. “Let’s go.”

They climbed from the truck and Greg stood waiting, hands in his jacket pockets, expectant and maybe a little excited. He was being included. He felt needed, and that was bringing some small happiness back into his life.

Aidan wanted to throw up.

“What did you say we’re supposed to be picking up?”

“There’s an old Impala engine up in the barn. Dad’s convinced we can salvage it.”

Greg turned, scanning for the barn. “Should we drive there?”

“Nah. We can walk. Come on.”

They fell into step beside one another, Aidan keeping his strides short so he didn’t outdistance the smaller man, their boots crunching on the gravel. The sky had clouded up, and the last light of the day was an underwater silver, pressing low at the horizon. The wind scudded along the ground, blowing dirt and sand, providing resistance to their pace as it tugged at their jeans.

“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” Greg said, as they left the house behind.

“For what?”

“For helping me out like you have. You didn’t have to believe me.” He shot Aidan a sideways glance that was almost shy. “You could have tossed me out on my ass. But you listened. Really listened. You got me away from Larsen and his crew–”

“Look, Greg–”

“And I’m thankful for that.” He kicked at a rock. “What happened to Jasper anyway? He just split, didn’t he?”

“Something like that.” Aidan sighed. He scanned their surroundings. The driveway was flanked by tossing pine trees, crowded at their bases with honeysuckle. This seemed like as good a place as any. “Look, Greg,” he started again. “Step over here for a second.” He left the drive, walking toward the trees, and heard Greg follow.

“Um, why?”

Aidan slipped a hand inside his cut, fingers curling around the butt of the .45 in his shoulder holster. “I want to show you something.”

“What?” Greg asked, but he followed. Trusting. Unsuspecting. Doomed.

Aidan leaned between two trunks, pointing beyond at the needle-strewn earth. “Look there.”

Greg pitched forward at the waist and stuck his head between the trees, not noticing that Aidan had stepped back, that he was withdrawing the gun from inside his cut. “I don’t see anything.”

“Greg.”

Aidan had meant to sound commanding, but some strain in his voice gave him away, caused Greg to go still, and then turn slowly, his eyes already wide before they landed on the .45 aimed at his heart.

“Aidan.”

“I’m sorry,” Aidan said, grinding his molars together.

Part of him wished that Greg would run, so that he’d have no choice but to fire. But instead, the poor man stared down the barrel of the gun, tears springing up in his eyes.

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