Prologue
“God Damnit!”
Boot skidding down unpaved rocky incline, Charlie lost control of the derelict Ford the bounty hunter had been pushing uphill for three fucking hours. The jalopy rolled back a good two feet, bodily dragging the cursing, sweaty figure trying to push it over another blasted hill. Three miles Charlie had struggled with that damn car, hoping the faded wooden sign pointing to civilization an hour back was accurate.
With Charlie’s luck, it would not be surprising to find the entire town of Gap Mills long ago leveled by some tornado, burned to the ground, or just plain abandoned.
Days of frantic travel, so damn close to the finish line, and the blue Ford’s guts had gone out with a mighty lurch and a rolling plume of smoke. That engine was a goner, and if Charlie had the choice, that whole goddamn car would have been set to flame. Burned it down to a twisted metal shell, and moved on with life.
That wasn’t an option. Not with the cargo inside.
Grinding teeth until an aching jaw matched the sour mood, Charlie did what had to be done—pushed that fucking car through the foothills, and up a twisting, hilly road named Devil’s Hallow, certain Lucifer himself was trying to meddle in human affairs.
Charlie spit on the devil. Was worked up into such a mood that had the red-skinned, forked tail, horned-one popped into existence at that moment, Charlie would’ve landed a good swing on Satan’s smirking mouth.
Settling for kicking the chuckling cargo right in the ass, Charlie found some satisfaction in the grunt and squeal that followed.
Far better than the convict’s stifled mockery and laughter. Asshole.
Chained, gagged, and blindfolded, a bounty evil through and through lay sprawled across the Ford’s backseat—a bastard Charlie looked particularly forward to watching fry strapped down to Sing Sing’s infamous electric chair. Old Sparky would light up bright as a goddamn chandelier. Charlie wouldn’t even mind the stink of burning flesh… not so long as the corpse smoking and lurching on that throne was Ronnie Pearson.
Murderer, rapist, all around piece of shit.
Imagining the squeals Ronnie would make when he finally had to pay for what he did thoroughly motivated the bounty hunter to soldier on. Fuck, Charlie would push that damn car all the way to New York if that’s what it took.
There was one saving grace in this fucked up situation; though it was winter, it wasn’t snowing.
Biting wind soothed a laboring body. Clouds of breath steaming from flared nostrils, sweat running through the dirt on Charlie’s face was a vision of determination.
A vision of determination who was greatly in need of a bath.
Grunting when the car caught just before the crest of the steepest slope yet, Charlie gave it one last Herculean effort. It was just enough to ease the car over the slope.
Panting, thirsty, surly, and worn out, Charlie looked up the road.
Jesus, there were more hills. More of this muddy slice of hell.
Prayer had never been so tempting.
And perhaps God was watching, or maybe it was the devil after all. Because the undeniable rumble of an approaching vehicle sounded on the road behind. Peering back, Charlie pulled the brim of an old hat low, and automatically reached for the rifle hanging from an aching shoulder.
The cloud of dirt approaching in the distance potentially spelled trouble.
Missing things got a man dead quick in Charlie’s line of work.
Or maybe it was nothing.
Vehicles speeding fast enough to kick up that kind of dust didn’t usually stop for strangers, nor were country boys quite as friendly as folks might expect. So, when a rusty truck came to a slow rolling stop, Charlie’s glare was less than friendly.
There was good goddamn reason to be wary. It wasn’t the pale eyes of the brawny passenger, narrowed as they ran the length of Charlie’s muddied frame. It wasn’t the scarred knuckles flexing where the man’s arm rested out the window.
It was the smell.
Moonshine. Charlie knew that corn stink. Loved it, in fact.
Gloved fingers rising to the low brim, Charlie offered one silent nod—all the while, red rimmed eyes measured what mattered and what didn’t. The greater threat wasn’t the bruiser riding shotgun.
It was the man holding a double barrel shotgun tucked under his arm. Tall as a tree and dirty as a pig, a burly man glared down from the truck’s bed. Unlike the men in the cab, the giant was well aware of the hidden rifle Charlie’s trigger finger kissed.
Deadpan, Charlie broke the silence. Voice hoarse and distorted with disuse. “Afternoon...”
A wordless, grunted reply was offered—not from the man looming with the firearm, but from the bruiser with his arm hanging out the passenger window. A tense stretch of silence, and the unsmiling stranger smoothly rumbled, “Where you headed to?”
Scraping words from a dry throat, Charlie croaked, “Sign a few miles back pointed to Gap Mills.”
Pursing his lips, the stranger swung the toothpick between his lips from the left side of his mouth to the right. Chewing that sliver of wood, he turned to his driver. “Eli, help him push the car.”
The open annoyance on the boy’s face told the story clear as day. Helping a road-worn stranger wasn’t exactly appealing to the youth. Even so, Eli did as he was told, climbing out of the cab so the broad shouldered male might scoot towards the wheel.
Without another glance or word exchanged, the truck took off, kicking up dust right in Charlie’s face.
Sauntering through the cloud, Eli held his hand out friendly-like. “I’m Eli Emerson. My cousin, Matthew, owns the roadhouse up the way.”
A roadhouse would do. “I’ll need a car.”
The kid gave a shrug. “You’ll have to talk to Matthew.”
Eyeballing the boy up close, Charlie realized Eli wasn’t a kid, exactly. He was something nearer a man, but a bit too pretty for his own good. “Charlie.”
Greeting over, the boy moved straight towards the back of the car. Together they pushed that damn Ford, Eli chattering up a storm, asking questions that went unanswered, pouring out compliments on the shiny blue car.
Even with assistance, it was another hour of hard labor before the creaking roadhouse’s sign came into sight. It was just what you’d expect from a country pit stop—a simple two story building, everything set in vacant, surrounding woods. Faded tin signs advertising motor oil, cigarettes and Coca-Cola splashed a little color against wooden slats. Mismatched chairs graced the porch, one of them full of the hospitable passenger from the truck, sipping on a steaming mug.
Even seated, it was clear Matthew Emerson was a big fellow. A weathered version of his pretty-boy cousin. Eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat, the single porch light flickering above offered little more to peruse beyond the rigid set of an unfriendly jaw three days past the need of a shave.
Leaving the car and its precious hidden cargo, Charlie walked the dusty yard and marched up the porch steps.