Page 30 of Pocketful of Us

"Yeah, I know. I'm disappointed in myself, too." He shrugged. "I was aiming for his head."

My mouth fell open. "You're a freakinglunatic. Seriously. You need locking up.Again.In a padded cell. With no goddamn firearms!"

"Duly noted." Rolling his shoulders, he slid his gun into the back of jeans before crouching down next to the body. "Alright. Let's see who we've got here."

He reached into the dead man's pocket and withdrew his wallet. "Oh my good lord, are you actuallylootingthe corpse?"

"Ramon Catochi," he mused, flipping through the cards in his wallet. "Can't say his bullet was meant for me." Flicking his drivers license into my hands, he asked, "Ring any bells?"

"Only the bells ofNotre freaking Dame!" I strangled out, immediately recognizing the name. "He's one of Cal's goons."

"You sure about that?"

"Positive." Eyes glued to the piece of plastic in my hand, I felt a tremor roll through me. "He's the one who killed Chris." I narrowed my eyes, feeling my temper rise and my sympathy vanish. "He tried to shoot us in El Paso."

Fury.

It was all I could feel.

"If Catochi was here, it means that Cal knows we're in Boulder." I looked at Lucky, horror encompassing my features. "It means that he knowsSketchis here."

Like a sadistic form of Satan's clockwork, Lucky's cell phone began to chime in his pocket. Dragging it out, he glanced at the screen once before swiping his thumb over it and putting the sleek device to his ear. "G, I've got some firewood for your men to collect about four miles south of the warehouse," he said in an eerily cheerful tone of voice. "I'd take care of it myself, but my woman's ovulating or some shit and I need to get home pronto."

I eyeballed the hitman who was standing over the body of a man whose throat he had just opened up to the night sky. He genuinely didn’t seem to have a care in the world and I mentally stewed over the safety of the citizens of Colorado should he be successful in procreating another littlemiracle.

Chuckling into the phone, he kicked at a piece of snow. "Yeah, she's doing good. Still pumping out those bestsellers… Nah, we haven't seen that one yet, but I'll put it on the list for date night."

Oh my freaking God!

These people were outrageous.

"Say what now?" A frown quickly replaced Lucky's carefree expression. "When did this happen?" Okay, he was definitely scowling now. "And he's gone with him? You're sure?" He dropped his head. "Well shit."

Uh-oh.

This was bad.

So freaking bad.

"Alright, keep me updated," Lucky said before finally ending the call. He turned to look at me, expression grim. "One of Gonzalez's informants called. Your boy Sketch's truck was identified crossing the border of Texas yesterday."

"No." I closed my eyes and groaned. "Tell me he's not going back there?"

"It gets worse," he added with a heavy sigh. "Seth's missing."

I stared blankly. "Come again?"

"This is bad, cowboy." Muttering a string of curse words under his breath, Lucky stalked back to his truck. "This is very fucking bad." Yanking the door of the truck open, he climbed into the passenger seat, looking a helluva lot more sober now – and a helluva lot more pissed.

"Tell me your thoughts?" I asked, jumping into the driver's seat. "You're the criminal mastermind – no offense intended. What do you think's happening here?"

"Evil twin shows up out of the blue and persuades fullback to take on a glorified suicide mission with him, all the while this Catochi piece of shit comes sniffing 'round my neck of the woods? Both know exactly where to find us. Is that merely a coincidence or do they both have one mutual advisor – or should I say, one common interest?"

"Cal Dillon," I gasped, doing the math while I cranked the engine.

"Cal fucking Dillon!" Releasing a frustrated growl, Lucky slammed his fist against the dashboard. "Goddammit to hell, your boy Sketch just got played, cowboy." He looked me dead in the eye. "And he's in serious fucking trouble, kid."

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