Page 7 of Rogue
We wait and wait, in a battle of wills. Although I might be slouched nonchalantly in the chair before him, my spine is as straight as they come—stubbornness being a character trait I’ve perfected out of necessity.
My mother and Madelyn must be worried sick. And at this rate, we’ll be at this all day.
“What do you want?” I demand.
He stares at me, assessing me. Like a chess master gaging the worth of his opponent as he moves his piece into checkmate.Dangerous, I remind myself, struggling to control the anxiousness rolling around in the pit of my stomach.
“Answer my first question. Why have you been spying on the compound on the edge of town?”
“I’m curious.”
“Bullshit.”
Thump. Thump. Thump.Our eyes connect and hold. His harden, shooting daggers at me. The wordsDon’t fuck with meunspoken, yet as loud as thunder within his unforgiving depths. A shiver runs down my spine as I realize how threatening this man truly is. Still, I struggle not to look away.
He tosses a familiar black pocket-size notebook onto the desk. I grip the chair arms as he recites my annotations from memory.
January 22, 4:27 a.m.-Twenty-two pricks unload twelve heavy burlap bags.
January 29, 4:35 a.m.-Eighteen pricks unload fifteen bags.
February 5, 4:21 a.m.-Twenty-five pricks unload thirty-three bags.
“I’ll ask you again. Why are you spying on them?”
I shrug. “They’re up to no good.”
Hayden snorts.
“You agree?”
“You’ve got balls and work well under pressure, I’ll give you that.” He picks up his pencil yet cuts me a break by not thumping it. Placing his forearms onto the desk and leaning forward, he stares at me up and down. “You’ve got a set of guns on you. Can you fight?”
“You looking to find out?” I shoot back, my tone cocky despite how nervous I feel sitting before him. Right after Franco DiCapitano and his mob associates began filtering into town—along with their drugs, money, and poor taste in clothing and cars, favoring 1970s polyester suits and gas-guzzling sedans—my father enrolled me in intensive self-defense classes over in Dayton, a short ride from Shelby. An old army buddy of my pop’s ran the class, though he never went easy on me. By the time I turned sixteen, I could break a man’s nose, bring him to his knees, and put a serious hurting on his baby jewels. Matter of fact, if it wasn’t for Mama falling ill along with the fact that I’m a rule bender not follower, I’d have enlisted in the army by now.
“How about weapons?”
“I spent some time at the firing range.” Yeah, Pop saw to it that I could accurately handle both pistols and rifles. Some of my fondest memories are of us shooting cans out of the air. Two scientists chuckling over the precision of each spot-on shot. God, do I miss him.
“Good enough.”
I frown. “Why do I feel like I’m being interviewed?”
“Tell me why you’ve been documenting the compound’s activities and we’ll chat about why I had you brought to me.”
Broughtto him?
My head hurts. I’m tired. I want to get home to Madelyn and my mother. Make a few phone calls and tackle the other issue weighing heavily on my mind. Maybe the truth might just strike enough of a sympathetic chord that he’ll let me go on my merry, miserable way.
No twenty-three-year-old—no one at any age, for that matter—should have to survive the murder of her father then, in an awful twist of fate, struggle to prevent the death of her sick mother.
I straighten then lean forward and fold my arms on his desk. I might be blonde but I’ve got the temperament of a redhead, which is why instead of cowering before the intimidating man, I find my body stiffening in anger. “Those Pricks shot my father. One moment, he was sitting on the front porch, reading the newspaper and minding his own business, and the next he’s riddled with bullets from a drive-by shooting. He died in my arms.” I blink, but my tears have long since dried up. If only I’d had a rifle with me, and that Mercedes and the Pricks inside would be history. Yet crying in front of this man could only be perceived as weakness. I inhale sharply, then continue. “The sheriff is afraid to act. Always has been a coward but in recent years, he’s worse. Too afraid of the consequences to do his damn job.”
“But you’re not?”
“Not what?”
“Afraid.”
