Page 37 of Jensen
It’s sickly warm out. I drag her onto the metal porch and shut the door quietly.
Then,we both hear it—footsteps.
Quick as a flash, I push her off the porch and jump down with her. It’s only a few feet, but she falls into the tall grass and struggles like she can’t get up. The door bursts open, insulation exploding from where it was kicked. Pat Pretty stands in the doorway, all six-seven of him, tatted up, bigger than a house. He has a Glock in one hand, trained on me.
“Don’t you leave, Childress,” he snarls. “We fucking talked about this.”
Talked about what? I don’t know, but fuck all this shit. Nothing is worth this.I’m barely twenty. I’ve got my whole life ahead of me,and now I’m sitting here, looking down the cold barrel of a pill pusher.
“Hey, I’m not here for nothing,” I say evenly. “Just let us go.”
He jerks his head at the woman in the grass. “That’s one of Harlan’s mules. You can’t take her.”
The woman rolls to her side, trying to get up. It’s clear that even if she’s physically unharmed, somebody drugged her the way they did to me. Even on her hands and knees, she can’t keep from swaying. On cue, she starts vomiting, body recoiling like a cat trying to get up a hairball. There’s a stirring from inside the trailer.
The living room window is yanked open.
A rifle pushes out.
I stare into the dark barrel and think back to the first time I pulled a trigger. I was a little kid, standing on the dirt road by my house. There was a snake coming at me—a copperhead—whipping hard back and forth. My mother stood a few yards off the porch, hands on her hips. I still remember her screaming at me but not daring to move in case it came at her instead.
“Put the damn gun back, baby.”
Bam—I blew that motherfucker off the map. Then,I took the tail and nailed it to the porch as a sign to all the other snakes.Pass over this house because there’s a crazy six year old with a Smith and Wesson inside,and he sends snakes to meet Jesus.
My mother beat my ass, which was her solution to everything. But she let that tail hang up there,because why the hell not?Maybe,deep down, she was a little proud.
I glance down at the vomiting girl, then back at Pat Pretty, then over at the rifle. Panic sets in. I’m getting out of this death house right fucking now. Tensing my body, I swing my AK up and pull the trigger, unloading the magazine like an amateur, but it works. Pat Pretty goes down, spilling out onto the porch, stuck in the metal bars. The rifle in the window disappears back into the trailer.
I can’t run. They’ll shoot me. So,I step over the woman and swing onto the porch, kicking the door open. There’s another magazine on my belt. They didn’t take that. I rip it out, pop it in the rifle, and stride into the kitchen.
All three men are up now, scrambling for their guns.I mow them down. One by one, quick and steady as that snake in the grass.
Parts of the couch flutter through the air. The woman on it is screaming, wide awake now. There’s no threat to her. All the men are dead. Just to make sure, I walk through that house and kick open every door. Then,I go through the front, walking fast, to the gray Toyota parked at the end of the gravel drive.
Heart pounding, I hightail it down the gravel road. Maybe I should have gone back for the women, but there was nobody left to hurt them. They can run and have as fair a shot as me.
I don’t know what happened to get me to this point, but I know I did something terrible. Pat Pretty is the man in charge of running all the Caudills’product. He’s protected by all the power of their family. I don’t think even Brothers Boyd can save my ass now.
This means war.
I don’t stop.I get on I-75 and head towards the other side of Lexington without washing the blood off my hands. I don’t take my iron grip off the wheel until I pull up in front of Brothers’ mansion.
The gate pulls back as I hit the button. I drive up to the porch and get out, leaving the door hanging open. My body is stiff, and it’s making me limp.
The security code doesn’t work. I beat the front door with my fist. The cameras swivel and lock on me. The door swings open. It’s Jem Boyd,who just got back from a trip overseas a month ago. He’s wearing a tracksuitlike he was about to go for a run. His brows rise,and he steps back, jerking his head, indicating I should go inside.
I spill into the foyer, just as Brothers appears at the top of the circular staircase. His brows rise, face a mask. I stand, gasping in the middle of the room. He descends and looks me over from head to foot.
“So you decided to come back,” he drawls. “What the fuck happened?”
“Pat Pretty—he’s dead,” I burst out.
Jem freezes, andBrothers Boyd’s face goes slack, all the lines easing out. His eyes round, then narrow. The curl of his palm tightens, knuckles going white.
His throat bobs. “You kill him?” he asks, voice flat.
I nod.
