Page 573 of Hell Hath No Fury
The beauty about this sleepy little town, though, is the layout. A simple grid pattern, with small blocks. It means I can circle the place without having to ride past—get another line of sight on the property. It’s approaching from the southeast that I see it: the orange glow of the sunset reflected in the bars of a motorcycle. He’s tucked the goddamn thing around the back, yet from this angle, there’s nothing to hide it: no shrubbery, no vehicle, no washing on the line.
I walk my bike backward and off the road onto the dirt verge, settling out of the way before I tug my phone free.
Found the fucker at his parents’ house.
Murphy replies without hesitation.
Have to bring Timmy-boy with me. Where are you?
I pin the location on the map, screenshot it, and send it through. He gives the image a thumb up and then goes inactive. It’ll take them close to a quarter of an hour to arrive, so I pocket the phone and settle in to stay on watch.
Going in alone is reckless, especially when I don’t know if his parents are on board with their son’s madness. For all I know, he’s had eyes on me too, but like fuck I’ll let that bastard escape by staying hidden out of the line of sight. I’d rather risk losing the element of surprise, than losing him again.
By the time Murphy kills his engine and rolls to a stop behind me, I’ve entertained twenty different fantasies on how to kill Digits. Practiced twice as many hate speeches in my head and smoked half a dozen cigarettes.
It’s all I could do not to break my resolve and storm in there anyway. Especially when thoughts of Beth cross through the madness in my mind.
“Any movement?” Murphy flicks Hooch’s key to the ‘on’ position and then eases back in the seat, arms folded.
I twist to check behind us and find Timmy-boy a few yards back, astride Murphy’s bike. “Nothing.” I face the old boy again, jerking my head toward Timmy. “How did he go?”
“He’s got no issues getting on an unfamiliar ride,” Murphy praises. “You’d think he’d been born around the things.”
His nickname makes a person think otherwise, but Timmy-boy isn’t a boy. Forty-five years old and looking for a change, he struck up a conversation with one of our brothers in a roadhouse, sharing that he’d always regretted not learning to ride at a young age. The laments of a middle-aged man turnedinto back-lot fun that night, the guy getting a crash course in how to keep his ass in the saddle and the chrome off the dirt.
He hasn’t looked back. I get the feeling once this shit blows over, he’ll be the next up for nomination.
“How do you think we approach it?” I study the simple house, noting the only spill of light comes from the rear. Presumably the kitchen.
“Got any insight on his parents?”
“Old man fixes irrigation. Momma does community work through the church.”
He lifts a hand to his chin, scratching at the stubble. “Gives you the idea they wouldn’t be supportive of what their boy’s been up to, eh.”
“My thoughts too.” Compliance from his parents is the best we can hope for. “You think a simple knock on the door would suffice?”
“I think it has a higher success rate than scarin’ his parents by going in blazing.” He tilts forward, peering down the adjacent streets. “Where do we post Timmy?”
“Not sure.” I point to the back of the house. “Digits’ bike faces southwest. The same direction he needs to go to reach the highway. If I were him, I’d try to throw us off by bolting northwest—joining farther up the way.”
Murphy tugs his phone free and flicks through a couple of message threads. “I put feelers out, see if any of our nomad brothers are close by. Nobody within an hour.”
“Waiting gives the fucker too much time to plan.” I reach down and flick my key on. “I think we risk it.”
“Agreed.” He pockets his phone and then raises one hand, circling his finger to indicate he wants Timmy closer.
The prospect starts Murphy’s bike without extra throttle to keep the noise down, giving it a moment to idle before he clicks it into gear and creeps to our position.
“We’ve got Digits pin-pointed to that yellow house, there,” Murphy tells him, gesturing toward the dwelling. “Gut feelin’ is he’ll bolt up this road if he gets the chance. The problem is figuring out where to head him off when there’s half a dozen of these fuckin’ roads that join onto the highway.”
Timmy leans to his left, turning in the seat to study the roads behind and on either side of us. “Next intersection over, I reckon.” He nods his head toward the northwest corner of the block. “If I wait midway, I’ve got a line of sight to know if he bolts that way.” He gestures northeast.
“Looks solid to me,” I say, giving my approval of the idea.
Murphy nods. “We’ll back in either side of the house, covering east and west.” He leans across and pats Timmy on the lower back. “Make sure that’s ready to use; I wouldn’t put it past this fucker to come out shooting.”
Timmy retrieves the piece from the back of his belt and checks the clip. “Good to go.” He might have never ridden before, but the fucker is ex-army. Lethal with a side-arm, awake or asleep.
