Page 69 of Man of Lies

“I—I didn’t see,” she stammered. “I was inside. I heard them arguing—two men, maybe three—I don’t know. The voices were angry, and I just got this… this f-feeling.”

“What kind of feeling?”

Her voice cracked. “Like I needed to run.”

I exhaled through my nose, still holding her steady. “So you ran.”

“Out the back.” She nodded frantically. “Through the kitchen and past the fence. I didn’t see who fired. I just heard it—two, maybe three shots. Then nothing.”

I squinted through the sheets of rain, scanning the trees, but there were no signs of life besides us.

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a black smear across her cheekbone. “I w-waited. I waited until I saw someone pull up on a m-motorcycle. Your friend—that pretty Beaufort lawyer.”

“Did you see anyone leave? The shooter?”

She shook her head hard, water flying from her hair. “That’s the thing—I didn’t. I never saw anyone leave.”

“Shit.” I let go of her and stood, my side burning like it wanted to tear open again. Either she was too scared to look, or whoever pulled the trigger was still on the property when Dominic and Mason arrived.

And that meant we had a bigger goddamn problem.

I left Sylvia trembling in the dark and jogged toward the house, boots sliding across the saturated yard. The porch groaned under my weight—soggy wood, soft in the middle from termites. One hard stomp and I could probably punch right through it. I shoved open the door with my shoulder, leading the rain inside.

The stench hit first: blood, mildew, and something sour underneath. A swamp of bad decisions and old crime. I’d been in shitholes like this before. They were all the same: sagging floorboards, torn linoleum, and furniture coated in the same grime as the men who used it. A busted ceiling fan hung limp from the living room ceiling, blades swollen with humidity and dust.

Gator’s body was crumpled just inside the main room, legs twisted awkwardly, arm flung out like he’d been trying to crawl away before he went still. Blood had pooled beneath his skull, thick and already drying at the edges. Eyes wide. Jaw slack. Uglier in death than he’d ever been in life. Now the package finally matched the soul inside: warped and dead.

I stepped around the body and cleared the kitchen fast. Nothing but roaches, mold, and the shattered remains of a dish rack that had lost the fight against gravity. The back hall, closets, and bedrooms turned up nothing. No movement. No shooter. No sound beyond the storm beating the roof to hell.

Whoever had done it was long gone.

I doubled back, shoved through the front door, and took the porch steps two at a time.

Sylvia flinched as I passed. I didn’t stop.

“It’s clear,” I shouted over the rain. “Call 911. Tell them it’s a homicide scene. Say you didn’t see a goddamn thing!”

Her mouth moved, but I didn’t wait for the reply. I was already mounting the Scout, kicking it to life with a roar loud enough to cut through the growing storm. The engine throbbed beneath me as I peeled out of the yard, chasing the one man I couldn’t afford to lose.

Again.

I didn’t know where he was headed. Hell, he probably didn’t either. But this stretch of highway didn’t leave many options. No turns. No cutoffs. Just twenty miles of narrow, uneven blacktop cutting through the backwoods like a scar, choked on both sides by wild scrub and moss-draped cypress. Mist rose in patches off the asphalt, curling around the road's edges like smoke. Rain had turned the world gray and shifting, and the air smelled like standing water, ozone, and churned-up earth.

It wasn’t a road built for speed. It was built to swallow mistakes.

But if he stayed on it, and I pushed hard enough, I still had time to catch him.

Mason rode his Ducati like the laws of physics were a suggestion. Lightweight, twitchy, all throttle and ego. It’d outrun the Scout on a track every time.

But this wasn’t a track. It was real pavement, slick with runoff, littered with loose gravel tossed by the storm. The ditches on either side were swollen and choked with water, waiting for someone to miss their line.

Out here, power counted more than polish. My Scout was heavier, built for pull, with torque like a battering ram. She didn’t dance, but she sure as hell didn’t slip either. And I had years in this seat. I knew how to read the road; that mattered more than topping out the speedometer.

I leaned forward and opened the throttle wide, letting the engine snarl beneath me as the Scout ate up the distance. I hadn’t had time to mess with riding gear beyond a helmet. Rain was soaking through my cotton shirt and plastering it to my chest. But I kept my eyes locked ahead, every nerve wired to the road.

He was fast.

But this road was long.

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