Page 150 of Liar's Point

Nicole watched with a mix of dread and envy as the vehicles rolled through the gate and disappeared into what looked to be a maze of junk: crushed cars, piles of tires, rows and rows of rusted-out appliances. She waited until they were gone and texted Brady.

Then she crutched toward the still-open gate, nodding at the guy in the hard hat who sat obediently at the base of the wall. Agent Raddick had cuffed the man’s hands behind him, probably in case he got any ideas about picking up a phone and tipping someone off about their presence here.

The smell of diesel and rotting vegetation wafted toward her as she entered the salvage yard. It was eerily quiet except for the faint sound of a distant machine—maybe a truck or bulldozer. Just inside the gate was a dilapidated trailer, likely where the groundskeeper worked. Judging from the solar panels and satellite dishes mounted to the roof, he possibly even lived there, too.

Nicole glanced around, looking for any other vehicles. There was an old moped parked near the trailer, but that was it.

A low hum overhead pulled her attention skyward.

A drone.

Dread washed over her as she stared up at the distant dot. Was it one of McVoy’s? It was way the hell up there, making a wide loop over the property. She had to tell Emmet.

She reached for the phone in her pocket. But it was Emmet’s phone.

“Crap!”

She pulled her phone from the other pocket and texted Owen. She had to warn them. Their stealth approach was blown to hell, and their risk level had just increased exponentially.

!!Drone surveillance!! You copy?

She waited, heart pounding, as her stomach filled with acid.

You copy??

She stared down at her cracked screen. No answer.

“Damn it.”

Nicole rushed back to the car.

***

Malcom hopped down from the backhoe and pointed the pistol at her face. The front of his black shirt was streaked with dirt.

“Over there.” He gestured to the hole.

“Malcom—”

“Now. Come on.” He strode up to her, anger flashing in his eyes, and Cassandra knew he was on a short fuse. Malcom hadn’t been satisfied with the hole the man had dug, and then he’d gotten angry and embarrassed when he climbed into the backhoe himself but couldn’t get it running at first.

He was at his most dangerous when he was embarrassed.

“Now!” He yanked her arm, and she stumbled toward the mound of dirt.

“Don’t do this, Malcom. Please.”

She turned to plead with him, and fury in his eyes flared. He gave her a shove that sent her tripping into the hole, where she landed on her side, hard. She scrambled to her feet and screamed—a shrill, panicked sound that echoed off the high dirt walls.

He stepped to the edge of the hole and aimed the gun at her.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

Emmet moved into position behind the car door, lined up his sights, and took the shot.

Pop!

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