Page 44 of Truck Stop Tempest

I WAS STILL A baby the first time I killed a man. A week away from my twelfth birthday. I remembered hovering inches from the pedophile’s face, watching the fight and the life drain from his gray eyes. My fingers weren’t long enough to fit around his thick neck. My body trembled from exertion. Twice, he had wrestled free of my hold. Thankfully, what I had lacked in size and experience, I made up for in conviction—and an unholy amount of hatred.

I didn’t kill Father Mulligan for my own benefit, however. I ended his reign of perversion to protect those who would come after me. The boys who wouldn’t be strong enough to defend themselves.

I remembered vivid details of the expression on his wrinkled face as the old man finally gave way to fear and accepted his fate—death at the hands of a child. One of the countless souls he’d ruined.

What I remembered most was that he had shown no hint of remorse, not one goddamn lick of regret for all the innocent lives he had defiled.

Didn’t matter. I would never regret my actions either. I hadn’t ended him to prove a point. I ended him because nobody else would. Not the church. Not the parents of those children brave enough to speak up.

Aside from my first kill, I had never kept a tally of the souls I’d delivered to Lady Death.

As I stood inside the waiting room at Whisper Springs Medical Center, I started to count. There were ten people. Three women and seven men who I would strike down without a second thought, just to burn off steam if I couldn’t get to Tuuli soon.

I fucking hated hospitals.

I sat, unnoticed, in the corner chair of that stifling room, listening, waiting, watching. Three men wearing hand-tailored suits sat at the far end of the space. I pegged them as lawyers. There were two cops, who wouldn’t sit but paced from the nurses’ station back to the waiting room, warily eyeing the heavy-set, balding man who sat like a king five chairs down from me. I recognized him from the intel I’d dug up on Erik Meyer. Jeremy Carver, leader of the Christian Brotherhood of Faith Church. Jonas’s father.

A small blonde woman cried quietly at the fat man’s side, hands in her lap, gaze fixed on the wad of tissues bunched in her delicate fingers.

At one point, she asked, “How could this happen?”

To which the man replied, “He was a damn fool. That’s how.” His lips curled in disgust. “We don’t need this mess,” he snarled, leaning toward the woman. “Don’t you dare cry for that boy. Pull your shit together.” He pushed to stand, and the lawyers snapped to attention when he waddled their way.

Not until Jeremy moved out of earshot did the woman rise. Never taking her eyes off the floor, she headed to the nurses’ station. She was striking. Small and graceful, platinum hair, enormous blue eyes. Dressed entirely in designer threads. Ridiculous fucking rock on her finger.

For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine what she was doing with the inflated fuck-twat, but whatever. Wasn’t my business. I was there for one reason and one reason only. Answers.

Fine. Two reasons. Answers, and to make sure Tuuli was okay, despite being angrier than shit about her deception.

Fuck, she better be okay.

I sighed a breath of relief when Roger strode through the emergency room doors, sent a chin nod my way, and walked toward the frustrated men in blue. They exchanged quiet words before he came to greet me.

“Hey, Rog,” I grunted.

He eyed my bandaged hand but didn’t voice his thoughts. “Hey, Moretti.”

“Everything get cleaned up at the trailer?”

He spoke low, keeping our convo private. “Hell, no. Place is a mess. Gonna be a long night. Found bunkers around the property, most of ‘em empty, but a couple stocked with rifles and hand grenades, military-grade.”

Officer Roger Caldwell ate lunch at The Truck Stop several times a week. Sometimes with his wife and children. They were a young family of four. His eldest daughter was special needs, so he also worked private security for Tango whenever he could to help make ends meet. Nice guy. Good cop. Always sat in Tuuli’s section.

“How’s our waitress doing?” he asked.

“Nurse said she’d let me know as soon as there was any news.” I leaned forward, elbows to knees, hands clasped. “What’s the story with that guy?” I jerked my head toward the bald man, who had pulled one of the suits aside. “Your buddies look like they’re itching to take him out.”

“Whenever he makes a public appearance, his posse isn’t far behind. Trouble inevitably follows.”

That ever-present knot tightened in my gut. “What the fuck was Tuuli doing in Jonas’s trailer?”

“I promise, we’ll get that sorted as soon…” Roger continued to speak, but my attention was drawn to a small figure wearing a baggy sweatshirt, hair tucked into a Mariners baseball cap, and a pair of baggy sweats, hem dragging on the floor over a pair of Doc Martens.

The tiny little beast sauntered right past the cops, who were busy watching Carver, right past the front desk, and right out the motherfucking door.

Roger continued talking. I didn’t hear a word he said. “Excuse me, Rog.” I pushed to my feet and slapped a hand on his shoulder. “I just remembered I have an appointment. Call me as soon as you hear anything about Tuuli?” Or when you realize she snuck out, right under your nose.

“Sure thing, Moretti.”

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