Chapter Twenty-Eight Pete Miller
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Pete Miller
The jail doors slammed behind him.
Pete strode toward the deputy. The old guy looked pissed, annoyed. Most of these deputies and guards hated people like him. But this guy . . .
“Bad day?” he asked.
The deputy shoved a gray tub toward him. It was filled with the few items he’d had when he was arrested three months ago. “You’ll be back.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Pete collected the few rumpled bills. Coins. Pocketknife. Keys. And an envelope he didn’t recognize. He scooped it all up.
Door locks opened. He strode past a holding area outside. The morning sun rose over gray concrete. He looked down. He hated the sun. Too glaring.
Sitting on a brick wall in the shade, he opened the envelope. Inside: cash. And a note. No postmark. No return address. Why hadn’t it been confiscated?
He read the note.
Short. Simple. Directions to a location three hours south of here.
He’d seen instructions like this before. Followed them. Gotten the shit beaten out of him after he’d been torn off Raine.
Take the cash. Run. He’d never win this game.
But this now was really about Raine.
And he needed to see her again.
Their business wasn’t finished.