Page 53 of Theirs to Hunt
“And then?” Grayson asked.
Brooks answered. “Then we take something from him. Something he won’t get back. Thumb, maybe. Hand.”
Devon was calm. Almost casual. “The same thing he touched Bobbie with. His dick.”
Brooks didn’t bat an eye. “Copy that.”
“Make it messy, but controlled,” Grayson said. “No bodies. No cops. We send a message, not a headline.”
“Already planned,” Devon replied. “Two boys take him off the grid before sunrise. Backwater spot by St. Bernard Parish. Chain of custody ends there.”
“What about Reagan?” Brooks asked.
Grayson’s voice turned to stone. “She doesn’t find out.”
Devon didn’t argue. “She’ll know something.”
“She doesn’t need to know. She did her part. Our job is to make sure he never breathes in her direction again.”
Brooks hesitated. “She’s going to ask.”
“Then you lie better,” Devon said flatly.
Grayson let silence stretch before he spoke. “Let’s be clear. That man didn’t just touch Bobbie. He put his hands on ours. This isn’t punishment. This is policy.”
Devon’s quiet approval was unmistakable. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
“When?” Brooks asked.
“Truck leaves in fifteen,” Devon said. “Gators get lunch by 0500.”
Grayson nodded once. “Clean. Silent. No fanfare.”
“As always,” Devon said.
No goodbyes.
Just three phones clicking off, one after the other.
Chapter forty-four
Devon, Saturday 04:47 a.m.
The man’s screams echo off the cypress trees, useless out here where the swamp swallows everything.
The only light comes from the truck’s headlights and the dull orange glow of a lantern swaying from a meat hook.
He’s on his knees now, sobbing. Pants long gone, wrists zip-tied behind his back.
“You know what your mistake was?” I ask, voice low, even.
He looks up, face puffy, streaked with blood and spit.
“You thought no one was watching,” I continue. “You thought a woman was prey. That she didn’t have wolves.”
Brooks stands off to the side, silent.
The gator pen churns behind us. Big bastards. Hungry.
