Chapter 92

92

Shit. That car right there—the one with the Barratt-Handley logo. It had people in it. Two of them.

Trey stopped where he was, right there at the end of the drive at Number Eight Hendricks, and stared at the two men in the interior of that car.

Shit.

They had seen. Knew what Trey and the boys had just done.

One pulled something up to his face. It was a phone.

It was definitely a phone.

He was calling for help. Calling the fucking cops.

There were cops driving around in here too. Not ones he knew either. They'd just circled the block before. They were too damned fucking close.

"What do we do?" Tuell asked beside him.

"What do you think we do? We take care of the fucking problem like we have every other time someone sees something they shouldn't."

Trey pulled up his gun, aimed.

And fired.

Turned to the next guy in that car when he opened the door. Tried to run.

And fired. The guy fell to the ground, his damned head landing in the seat of his fucking car.

All that target practice had finally paid off. Now, he had one more thing to do before he left Finley Creek forever.

He just hoped she was ready for him.