28. Hugo
28
HUGO
I never sleep deeply, but tonight, rest is especially elusive. I drift in and out of half-formed dreams. Something about how our cups won’t hold coffee…it leaks from every cup I try. No matter what I do, nothing works.
A hand clamps onto my shoulder and shakes me. My eyes snap open. Sam looms over me, tension radiating from every line of his posture. One look at his face, and my stomach twists.
He jerks his chin toward the door, and I follow. The moment I close the door, he growls, “The Hammers got Preacher. Crow is at Preacher’s house.” Sam swallows hard. “He wants Marie.”
My brain jolts from groggy to razor-sharp in an instant. “What in the fuck? They broke into his house?”
Sam nods, handing me his phone, and my mind refuses to believe what I see.
There’s a picture of Preacher, shirtless, bloody, swollen, purple in places. The bastard Crow has him by his hair, but by the look on Preacher’s face, he doesn’t feel it. Or perhaps he won’t give Crow the satisfaction of reeling from the pain.
Preacher was always that way. Never giving in. Never surrendering. And neither will we.
Everything inside of me goes tight and hot and sick. I want to scream. I want to wail on their faces, fist after fist. I want to make them bleed. My jaw clenches as my rage builds. Every cell in my body demands vengeance, and I will have it.
Sam murmurs, “He called from Preacher’s number. Sent that photo. Twenty minutes to show up with Marie, or they kill him.”
Something hotter than rage surges through me, a physical burn in my chest. In his own home? That’s a violation that goes beyond mere kidnapping. It’s an insult, a statement that they can walk into our friend’s safe space and tear it apart. That Auclair is not safe for anyone.
My fists clench. “We aren’t calling the cops, right?”
“No time,” Sam mutters.
“Thank fuck.” I’m already planning a small arsenal to take with us. Cops would only get themselves killed if they were to be involved.
“We have to wake Trick and tell Marie. We can’t hide it from her.”
I let out a breath. Marie is the hitch in the plan. Telling her…I dread it. And with only twenty minutes, anything else is almost impossible. There is no way out of telling her. Such is life. “Oui. Now.”
Sam nods once, and we head back into the bedroom. Of course, Trick must have woken upon our exit. He’s always hungry upon waking, and now, there is a mysterious lump beneath the sheets and Marie is sleepily writhing for him like a dirty angel.
Sam clears his throat, catching her attention. She beckons us to join, but he shakes his head. “Trick, snack time is over.”
Trick flips back the sheet and grins, his face shiny. His gaze bounces between us, and he jokes half-heartedly, “Who died?”
Sam’s voice is flat. “Preacher might, if we don’t get to him.”
Marie snaps awake. “What the fuck?”
“Crow wants to trade him for you. They’re at your place. We have nineteen minutes as of now.”
Trick’s eyes spark with immediate fury. He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes glaze over the way they do when he’s looking for a fight. He starts for his bedroom, presumably to gear up.
But Marie keeps shaking her head, confused. “Why…?”
I sit on the edge of the bed, choosing my words carefully. I cannot tell if she is in shock, so I explain again. “They want you. Crow and his men forced their way into your house. They have him.”
“My house? Dad…” She looks at Sam, who quietly shows her the photo on his phone. A strangled gasp escapes her. “No. Oh God, no.” Her eyes brim with tears.
I pet her shoulder. “I am sorry, love. We will?—”
“The cops?”
“Cops have rules to follow. We don’t.”
Her breaths heave for a moment as tears stream down her face. But just as suddenly, they stop. Her countenance is icy. “We have to go get him!” she snarls. What was fear a moment ago has become a blind fury.
It makes me love her all the more.
Sam crosses his arms. “We will. But it’s dangerous as hell. Crow wants to use you. You’re safer here.”
She tosses the blanket aside, stumbling to her feet and searching for clothes. “I don’t fucking care. That’s my father in my home. You think I’m staying here while you run into a fight? No way. No fucking way.”
My chest tightens. She is right, of course. None of us would stay here instead of helping Preacher, least of all his own daughter.
Sam tries for reason. “Marie, the three of us know how to handle ourselves in a fight. You don’t. You froze up the last time you tangled with Crow, and we’re not letting him get his hands on you?—”
She merely scoffs a laugh as she straps on her sandals.
Sam raises his brows to me. A silent plea for my help.
Dammit. I am on both her side and his in this matter. Inconvenient. “Your father would not want you risking your safety for him, love.”
“There are a lot of things my father doesn’t want me to do. Namely, the three of you. So, I’m not real worried about what he wants right now. I’m worried about him breathing.” She stands up, hands on her hips as Trick walks back in.
He’s got his tactical bag on his shoulder, and he looks her up and down. She’s a sight, wearing his T-shirt, my jeans, and those damn sandals that will do nothing to protect her feet in a fight. But I doubt she could wear our boots. His gaze goes cold. “You’re not coming with us.”
“I’m not asking for permission. If you leave without me, I’ll follow you in my car. If you take my keys, I’ll run all the way there through the swamp without a car or good shoes to protect me. You don’t have the time to tie me up, so make your choice now. I ride with you, I drive myself, or I get myself killed in the swamp between here and there. The clock is ticking.”
Sam sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But you stay in the truck. If we find Preacher, you let us do the extraction while you stay in the fucking truck.”
“Deal. Just promise we won’t let them kill him.”
Trick nods. “Whatever it takes.”
We gear up in under five minutes, each movement fueled by an undercurrent of panic. Sam checks a pistol, slides it into his belt. I yank on jeans and boots, rummaging for a sidearm. Trick hunts down extra ammunition. Marie paces, biting her lip, face drawn with terror.
Unevenly, she asks, “Can I have a gun?”
“Can you shoot one?” I ask.
“Well, I’ve seen enough movies?—”
“Have you ever shot a gun?”
She shakes her head. “But I think I’ll feel better if I have one.”
“I am afraid no, love. If you don’t know how to use it, you’re likely to hurt yourself with it, or they can get it and use it on you. Or worse, they see you with it, and think you’re more of a threat, so they open fire without a second thought. As long as they don’t think you’re a threat in this, you’re an asset they want.”
She sighs, but nods. “Understood.”
Once in the truck, I sit in the back with her while Sam drives, Trick in the passenger seat. We speed through Auclair’s empty streets, the streetlights passing over Marie’s pale features. She grips my hand so hard it almost numbs. I let her. The adrenaline in my veins demands action, but all I can do is steel myself.
We kill the headlights blocks away from Preacher’s property. The silhouette of the house stands out, lights blazing in the windows, as though inviting us to a trap. The front yard—once meticulously kept—has signs of chaos even from this distance. Something is knocked over near the porch. A window is smashed. My jaw sets. Those bastards have desecrated their home.
Sam parks behind a scraggly row of shrubs. We exchange quick glances. “Marie,” he says firmly, “they’re watching us as we speak, which means they know it’s not just me and you, which is what Crow wanted. You stay in here, stay down, doors locked, no matter what you see or hear. If there’s trouble, honk. We’ll handle it. Get me?”
She swallows, tears glistening, but nods. “I…I understand.” She watches us clamber out, eyes huge with fear and anger. The door shuts, leaving her alone in the truck’s dark interior.
I hate leaving her, but it’s safer than letting her walk into that war zone.
We melt into the yard, using the flanking swamp to our advantage. No one wants to travel through the muck, the saw palmetto, or the knobby cypress knees in the dark. But we made this place our playground. We built Preacher’s home with our hands all those years ago, and Crow’s men don’t know it as well as we do.
I move to the right, crossing the swamp next to the side yard. The grass is damp, the air thick with the smell of upturned earth—someone might have driven a vehicle over the lawn. I can just make out shapes inside the house. Furniture? People?
Trick’s owl call signals from the left side that he sees at least one figure the living room. Sam caws his signal, each of us understanding we’ll converge in a matter of seconds. We want to do this quietly if possible.
Preacher’s inside, possibly injured. One wrong bullet could end him. They know we’re here, but they don’t know where we are now.
My hand tightens on my sidearm. I slip along the outer wall toward a side window, which is partially cracked. The faintest whiff of stale cigarette smoke wafts out. My nostrils flare. They’re making themselves at home.
Through a gap in the curtain, I spy a man rummaging in a cabinet, carelessly tossing aside whatever he finds. My blood boils. That cabinet might hold Preacher’s old photos or personal items. He tosses something, and the sound of glass breaking carries on the breeze.
Motherfucker.
I inch forward, scanning for more. I glimpse a second figure in the hallway, possibly armed, though I can’t see details. Where is Preacher? Did they tie him up in the living room? If he’s seriously hurt, time is not on our side.