CHAPTER 16

Pedestrians sauntered along the main drag, tussling for the right-of-way as they weaved in and out of watering holes and grease pits. The occasional blast of a car horn or the whoop of a police siren fought for attention among the ruckus of obscure bands roaring out of the bars with the flow of coeds soaking up the nightlife.

CHAPTER 22

He stalked through the store with his pistol in one hand and a small flashlight in the other. He pushed open the employee door and took a single step into the service area, then listened.

Rochelle’s adrenaline spiked, feeling the air pressure shift and hearing the faint creak of the door’s hinge. She gasped.

Mikel turned his light in the direction of the shallow cry and cocked the hammer of his pistol.

Rochelle recognized the click. “No,” she whimpered.

Mikel tiptoed around the high-stacked tires and shined the flashlight down the aisle.

Rochelle extended her arms out, displaying her palms. “No!”

CHAPTER 30

Yellow crime-scene tape stretched several yards from one pylon to another, cordoning off an abandoned gray Ford sedan alongside the rural road. State troopers circled the Enterprise Rental car.

An investigator took photographs of the immense hole in the windshield directly in front of the driver’s seat. “Shotgun blast, I’d say.”

“Slug or double-aught?” his partner asked.

“Double-aught. When you look inside, I imagine you’re going to find buckshot sprayed everywhere.”

Bullet holes riddled the driver’s side of the sedan. Inside, blood and brain matter caked the interior and dash. But the bodies were gone.

Outside, blood grimly layered the top of the frozen snow like Italian shaved ice.

CHAPTER 38

Three Hispanics took cover on either side of the door to Rochelle’s walkout basement. They could hear loud music playing inside and that was a good thing.

One of the men took off his stocking cap and placed it against the door’s small rectangular windowpane. With the butt of his gun, he placed a whip like blow to the glass, shattering it, then reached in and unlocked the door.

The trio made their way through the dark musty basement to the stairs leading up to the kitchen.

[…]

Rochelle sensed Chris sneaking up behind her. She swirled around with a playful smile. “Ready to ea—”

A leather-gloved fist smashed into her face, knocking her to the floor. The room started spinning. The salty taste of blood rolled down the back of her throat. She tried to inhale and yell for help, but the butt of a pistol slammed into the side of her head.

Everything went dark.

CHAPTER 45

“Drive real slow,” Daniels said to Agent Monroe. He rested his left arm on the center console with his head tilted slightly, looking out under the rising sun. “Let’s have a good look at this place before we go stomping across it.”

A thin mist hanging no taller than the weeds cobwebbed the Donovan farm all the way back to the Big Sandy. Droplets of dew shimmered beneath.

CHAPTER 46

Chao Nang’s restaurant served the best dumplings in Columbus. Their Cashew Chicken sucked.

CHAPTER 46

Saigon Sally’s was a pitiful pool hall nestled among a strip of red brick stores in a quaint neighborhood labeled by law enforcement as Columbus’ Golden Triangle.

Neon signs reflecting off mirrors behind the bar bathed everything in a sickly hue, leaving the low-hanging fluorescents above the dozen mahogany billiard tables looking like a sea of makeshift operating tables from another time and war. Pool players edging in and out of the dim light surgically cleared the tables for an audience of emaciated runaways lounging dead-eyed in braless midriffs and soiled leather miniskirts that were short enough to leave a crime scene wherever they squatted.

Three Asian girls, clad in daisy dukes tight enough to split their ass cheeks like a rubber band around a water balloon, caddied drinks among the pool tables and half-dozen card tables littered with mahjong tiles and cash.

The acrid haze of Chinese cigarettes battled against the permeation of stale piss, alky-sweat, and the unsavory sweet smell of burnt metal and black tar heroin. Behind the occasional crack of a cue ball breaking hard off a clean rack, a mandarin fan rattled like a machine gun.

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