Page 128 of Flint’s Strike

“I could’ve driven again.” I give him a sweet smile. “Though, I should probably replace the ‘oh shit’ handle first. You crushed it.”

He shoots me a look before returning his attention to the rutted county road stretching out ahead of us. “It’s the smoothies. They do wonders for my grip strength. You should try them.”

I scowl. “My grip strength is just fine. I’m range certified. The physical therapist cleared me.”

“Parker…” His voice takes on that careful tone he uses when he knows he’s put his foot in his mouth. “That’s not what I meant. I’m not worried about your hands. Unless…you are?”

“What did I just say to you, Nathaniel?”

Now it’s his turn to scowl. He drops his voice to a whisper. “No one calls me Nathaniel.”

Shit. I’ve hit a nerve. Then again, so did he, so I guess we’re even.

Except we’re not. Not really.

I know Nate. I know the jokes he makes when he’s uncomfortable, the way he deflects when something gets too close. And I know I didn’t mean to hit that particular target.

Before I can figure out if I should apologize, he turns onto the dirt road, his attention shifting to the trees and any potholes that might hurt his car.

“So…Cooter’s on the way back?”

“Now I know something’s wrong. You’ll willingly eat brisket twice in the same week? What about my cholesterol? What about your cholesterol?”

“I added rolled oats and cinnamon to my smoothie this morning. They cancel out the bacon in the collard greens.”

“But not the brisket.”

“Fair.”

The dirt road narrows as we get closer to the cabin, the trees crowding in on either side of us. Dust billows in a thick cloud behind the Impala before settling back over the road.

Nate eases into the clearing and parks beneath the shade of the trees.

Kessler’s truck is gone.

“Did we drive all the way out here for nothin’?” I ask.

“Only one way to find out.”

We exchange a glance as he cuts the engine. The sudden silence makes the absence obvious.

When we were here yesterday, Lost Pines was alive with nature. Birds calling from the trees. The rustle of leaves in the breeze. The steady buzz of insects hiding in the undergrowth.

Now, the woods are quiet. Not empty. Just quieter than they should be.

Without a word, we ease our guns from their holsters. Nate slows his pace, trusting me to match him. He takes the left side of the path. I drift right, widening the angle between us.

At the edge of the clearing, he lifts two fingers. Wait.

I scan the windows. The tree line. The porch.

Nothing moves.

The curtains are all open. The windows catch the noonday sun, the glass bright enough to make me squint.

Nate reaches the door first. He doesn’t knock. His hand settles on the knob, and he cuts a quick gaze to me.

I nod and raise my weapon.