The hammer’s click was a death sentence. Cardie pressed against the ghost gum, bark digging into her shoulder blades, and watched Ethane level the revolver. His face was all hard lines and old grudges—the Bush Butcher, they called him.
Colt Rek’s shadow cocked his own Glock and shot the Maguire boy through the windowpane. The glass shattered, the kid crumpled, and Colt’s hands—his real hands—were still empty. It was 3:00 a.m. GMT, and in Cedar Grove, Iowa, the darkness had stopped following orders.
We use cookies to enhance your browsing experience, and analyze our traffic. By clicking "Accept All", you consent to our use of cookies. Cookie Policy
