Page 80 of Lone Star

Candy had known what he’d find since the moment he saw the dust trail, but, still, he skidded to a halt, breath catching.

Pacer had been on the couch, reclined back against the pillows stacked there, if he had to guess. The TV was still on; a glass of what looked like orange juice rested on the coffee table, though some of it had spilled when the table was shoved…

By Pacer’s body, as he’d tumbled off the couch. One leg was still propped across the cushions, but his upper body was crushed down to the floor at an awkward angle. Candy smelled the blood before he saw it, bright, arterial arcs of it on the rug, on the cushions, on Pacer’s once-white shirt. The room stank of very recent death; of voided bowels and the copper of blood.

There was no need to walk over, and crouch down; scoot the coffee table over and search for a pulse; but that was what he did, because it felt necessary. He had to know, had to be sure.

Pacer’s eyes were still open, too-bright slits, his face red and still clammy with sweat, feverish.

“Christ,” Fox said, softly, behind him.

Candy dug in hard with his fingertips, searching, searching. The skin was warm, but there was no pulse. He was gone. Dead only moments.

Time slipped a little. He was aware of voices, and footfalls, filtered through a screen of numbness.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he jerked back from Pacer – from Pacer’s corpse. He twisted around on his knees to find Fox giving him a cocked-brow look.

“I figure we have two options,” Fox said, calm as ever, though that one lifted eyebrow spoke volumes of judgement. “We can call your fed friend, and deal with all that, or we can get the hell out of here and catch up with the kids.”

Candy swallowed, his throat dry and tight. For one ugly moment, he had no idea what he ought to do.

They had to play this smart, though.

“Can the kids handle themselves?” he asked.

Fox nodded. “Yeah. Better than us, probably, but don’t tell the little shits I said that.”

“We gotta call Cantrell then, I guess.”

Fox shrugged, and straightened. “Alright. Do it, then.”

He didn’t offer condolences.

~*~

Aidan had been the one to insist that Reese customize his bike, suggested a bevy of modifications designed to make it faster, sleeker, more efficient. He hadn’t seen the need, at first, but was glad for all the adjustments now, as he screamed down the highway in pursuit of the van that was their target.

Tenny rode right beside him, both of them leaning low over the handlebars, trying to reduce drag, trying to catch up.

The van had a good lead.

But the Harleys were much, much more powerful.

It was a long, straight, flat stretch of road, no turnoffs for miles, nothing but rough plain to either side. Now was the time to catch them – and catch them they did.

Reese darted a glance to his left, hoping to catch Ten’s gaze. They needed to approach this the right way, with a strategy that–

Ten veered into the oncoming lane and rocketed forward, pulling up alongside the van.

Reese was beginning to understand why everyone in the club cursed so much, and so loudly. His hatred and frustration boiled up, hot and tight, in need of a release valve. He didn’t think sayingfuckout loud would help, though.

He faced forward again, and saw movement at the rear passenger window. An arm. Holding a gun. He dropped back; saw the quicksilver shine of the muzzle flash, and of the bullet glancing off the pavement in front of him.

Tenny appeared beside him again, bike engine growling and leaping.

“They’re shooting at us,” Reese called to him, shouting above the rush of the wind and the roar of the motors.

“I noticed!” Ten shouted back. “Hold on!” And then he was gone, as if yanked backward.

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