He indicates his arm and says, “With my life, man.”
I give him a slow deep nod that says I trust him, and it’s a thank you. He nods and I turn to Lucifer. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Savage
Lucifer leads me to a moonlit hilltop a good ten miles south of downtown Sonoma. We locate Dexter, behind a cluster of trees, where Dexter is belly flat on the ground with a pair of binoculars. I get low with him. Lucifer comes in on the other side of me. “Talk to me.”
“He’s been sitting in front of his computer eating potato chips for the last fifteen minutes.” He hands me the binoculars. “He’s on bag two.”
I accept the lenses and take a gander at the view and I don’t know what it is about hillbilly-ass cabins Max likes, but he’s hiding out in yet another one. Homing in on the window view, sure enough, Max, the potato chip-eating bastard, is stuffing his face. That little prick shot my woman and best friend, and then went on back to the ol’ cabin to stuff his ugly face. I hand off the lenses to Lucifer and side-eye Dexter. “You sure he’s alone?”
“Positive,” he responds. “I covered the house twice over and I’ve been sitting here damn near two hours.”
And he’s still alive. He’s full of shit. There’s a reason Max is sitting there eating potato chips. He booby-trapped the hell out of this place. “He’s been at that computer all this time?” I ask.
“He spent a shit ton of time cleaning his guns.”
That actually sounds like Max. He’s obsessed with cleaning his guns, especially after a kill. He might just think Candace and/or Adam are dead. But right now, I want to know who’s at my back. “How did you get here just in time?”
“I’d say luck, but I can’t really call my sister being a bitch good luck. I guess for once, she was a well-timed bitch. And don’t even get me started on her bitch-ass boyfriend who’s lucky to be alive right now, with his investment banking tips and bullshit attitude about ‘anyone not like me.’ And don’t ask what that means. I might go shoot that fucker in that stupid-ass cabin for you. Want me to?”
“I got it,” I say. “But don’t make yourself next.” With that, I don’t check in with Lucifer. I just start moving.
“Wait,” Dexter growls. “Just wait.”
I pause and glare at him. “What?”
“He’s got the place booby-trapped out the ass.” He points in front of him. “Straight line down to the house.”
“Why don’t you lead the way?”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
He shifts to a squat and then starts moving. Lucifer eases closer to me. “Told you to trust him.”
“I’m nowhere near trust at this point,” I say, “but you go right ahead.”
He laughs and accepts my invitation, easing behind Dexter.
I go the other direction, well aware of how Max operates. I pull a flashlight from my pocket and head around back, following the lines of the trees where he loves to play dirty. I sidestep several potential traps and then I’m at the backdoor. I pull my weapon, kick in the door, and I’m blasting through the tiny cabin. Max has his guard down. He’s left with a computer and an empty bag of potato chips as his weapons.
He curses and stands up, but I fire a round to his left and right and at his feet, and I’m on top of him before he can act. I flatten him on the ground, plant my boot on his chest, and my weapon at his neck. The front door bursts open and Lucifer barges into the cabin.
I’m aware of him, but I don’t care about him, not right now. “Why, Max?”
Max laughs a bitter laugh. “Why? You moved the insurance. You fucked me. I had a sweet payout and you fucked it up.”
“I didn’t move shit. I just never put it where you thought I did. And what happened to all your money?”
“I needed the money,” he groans. “That’s all you need to know.”
“Obviously your old enemy story was bullshit. Who was paying you?”
“I’m not telling you shit.”
“I will shoot your fingers off one by one. And this is me saying this. You know I don’t bluff.”
Dexter appears beside Max, his possible ally and I’m about two seconds from shooting his ass when he grabs Max’s hand, holds it down, and steps on it. A crunching sound follows Max’s groan of, “Bastard.”
Dexter smirks. There is definitely a side to him I do not know. I’m not sure if I love him or hate him.
Max is another story. I hate his fucking ass. I glare at him. “Talk”
Dexter grinds Max’s hand.
Wuss-ass Max gives up the goods. “A guy name Mick North wanted the goods on Allen,” Max snarls.
“The former NSA director,” I say and this is all starting to make sense to me.