Page 153 of Lone Star

He didn’t ease his grip. The pain was a good reminder of what could happen when you let your guard down.

Which he’d now done twice.

Only this time, he wasn’t the one to bear the consequences of overconfidence.

Christ.

Every time he blinked, he saw it replaying in slow motion. He’d heard the roar of the engine the second before the world had turned upside down. An awful crash, and a shove. It had been like a sudden fall, a sideswipe, a tumble of noise and pressure and the impossible. Not so different from the explosion in London, when his new little brother tried to blow him up.

He’d hit his head hard, had blacked out, just a second – more of a fritz, really. A second of crowding black spots and muffled hearing, a dizzy swim back to the top. When he’d lifted his head, blinking against a cloud of dust, he’d seen scattered furniture and big chunks of drywall. The glowing yellow high-beams of the truck, bright and distinct as klieg lights through the haze of pulverized sheetrock.

It came through the wall, he’d thought, wildly, and then he’d seen boots, and he’d seen bodies being lifted up into the air, two flags of long, bright hair, honey and gold.

He’d scrambled to his feet – too slow, too dizzy, slipping on tufts of insulation – and pulled his gun, and he’d fired, right at the driver. But the girls were already inside, and the glass held, and then the truck was…

Gone.

He’d thought he’d caught a glimpse of it, once, at that first stop sign headed into town: a black tailgate, and mud tires. He’d been so sure, back at that garage, so very sure…

He couldn’t feel shame about his mistake, because he was full to the brim with shame for letting Michelle and Axelle be taken.

Little Chelle, who’d sat on his knee when she was in diapers, who he’d given knives to for Christmas, and gotten tight hugs in return.

And Axelle, who he’d promised to keep safe, who was so tentative and skittish under the tough-girl veneer, but who’d melted when he kissed her, responsive and touch-starved.

Michelle pregnant.

And Axe unused to this sort of life. Both of them scared to death. Both of them precious to him, to so many. How was he going to face Candy? How was he going to face himself each night in the mirror if anything happened to either of them?

He and Fox rode side-by-side, running stop-signs, pushing speed limits along some stretches, and crawling down others, ignoring the irate honks and shouts of other drivers. This part of town was a rabbit warren of narrow side-streets lined by warehouses, garages, and industrial buildings of all sorts, a few sad houses with cracked foundations and weedy, chain-link enclosed yards interspersed. They passed lots of trucks sitting in driveways, many of them worth more than the buildings they were parked before, but none with the exact combination of traits they needed.

Every turn, every boarded-up window, every red or blue or white truck ratcheted Albie’s pulse a little higher.

At the next stoplight, Fox waved to get his attention, and then pointed off to the right.

About a block down from the intersection, a long, low-slung building studded with garage doors sported a shiny new fence along the street: tall chain-link topped with razor wire. As they watched, a van rolled in through an open gate that a man standing attendance shut right after. He locked it with a piece of fat chain and a padlock before turning to follow the van up to a garage bay. The gun he wore on his hip was obvious.

As was the glimpse of a tall-set, black tailgate through another open door.

Fox leaned over, speaking just loud enough to be heard above the din of their idling motors. “That fence is brand new.”

Albie’s heart lurched. “That’s the truck.”

“Yeah. Follow me.”

Albie did, reluctantly, palms clammy inside his gloves, as Fox went straight through the intersection and pulled over in the parking lot of a small grocery store with a Mexican flag in the window.

When the engines were cut, Albie continued to feel the purring thrum in his chest, his heartbeat as charged as the Harley motor.

“The fence makes sense,” Fox said. “Whatever I was doing, I’d want it roped off. Dartmoor locks down like Fort Knox at night.”

Albie found he had little patience for speculation. “That’s them. You know it.”

“I suspect it.Youdon’tknowanything – you almost blew poor Ray’s brains all over the street in front of God and everybody.”

“Glad you can be so calm about our niece getting kidnapped.”

“I am calm.” Fox nudged his shades down his nose and gave him a steely look over the tops.Get it together. “Because that’s more useful than wringing my bloody hands. Shut up and listen to me.

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