Page 61 of In the Shadows
He kept his speed steady. Passed the turn for Main Street and continued north on Beach Road, letting the sedan follow. Past the condos. Past the public access path to the beach. Past Sid’s place, where Grace’s herb garden was visible from the road.
The road narrowed past Sid’s. Trees crowded in on both sides, live oaks trailing Spanish moss over the pavement. Ahead, it curved toward the boat slips. The last stretch before the turnaround at the water’s edge.
No houses. No traffic. No witnesses.
He pulled onto the gravel shoulder and cut the engine.
In the rearview mirror, the sedan slowed. Hesitated. Then pulled over fifty yards back.
Ronan opened his door and stepped out.
The sedan’s engine idled for ten seconds. Then it cut off. The driver’s door opened.
The man was mid-thirties, heavy through the shoulders, wearing a polo shirt that didn’t quite hide the bulge at his right hip. Thick neck. Small eyes. The kind of walk that said he was used to people getting out of his way.
He stopped eight feet from Ronan.
“You lost?” Ronan asked.
“Nah.” The man glanced up and down the empty road. “Just enjoying the drive. Nice area. Quiet.”
“You’ve been enjoying the drive for about a week. Same car. Same route. You’re either lost or lazy.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. The easy expression didn’t change, but his weight moved forward onto the balls of his feet.
“Friendly advice, Mr. Cross. This town has a way of dealing with outsiders who stay too long. Who ask the wrong questions. Who get too close to people who don’t belong to them.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“Sounds like a concerned citizen looking out for a visitor.” He stepped closer. “The centennial is coming up. Big event. Lots of moving parts. Things go wrong at big events. People get hurt.” His gaze hardened. “Sometimes the people who get hurt are the ones standing too close to trouble.”
Lila. He was talking about Lila.
The calculation happened in under a second. Six inches of reach advantage. A decade of combat training. The man was armed, hand at his side, not on the weapon. Overconfident. Accustomed to intimidation doing the work.
“You should leave,” Ronan said. Level. Quiet.
“Or what?”
The man reached forward and planted his palm against Ronan’s chest. A shove. Not hard enough to move him. Hard enough to establish dominance.
Ronan caught the wrist. Twisted. Stepped inside the man’s reach and took his legs out with a sweep that put him face-down on the gravel in under two seconds. He pinned the wrist against the man’s back, one knee between his shoulder blades, and leaned down.
“Tell whoever sent you that I’m not leaving. Tell them if anyone goes near Lila Bennett again—her house, her office, her car—I will take this town apart. Piece by piece. Starting with the person who gives the order.”
He held the position for three seconds. Then released and stood.
The man scrambled up, gravel embedded in his cheek, backing toward his car.
“This isn’t over,” he said.
“No,” Ronan agreed. “It’s not.”
The sedan reversed and disappeared up Beach Road.
Ronan stood in the silence. His pulse was elevated. His hands were steady. He pulled out his phone.
Gray sedan, plate FL 7K2-M91. Driver mid-thirties, armed. Delivered a warning. Mentioned the centennial. Mentioned Lila. Need an ID.
