Make light the dark.
And Maria planned to, using the money gifted her to help those in need. Maria looked at her canvas and it came to her. The flower would be a rose. It seemed a fitting flower for the van, since Maria planned on meeting with the reporter who'd written the article at a restaurant called Rosa's Café.
Maria squirted a deep red into the recessed bowl and, looking at her canvas, she wondered if the reporter, Miguel Ayala, would like to see one of her flower drawings.
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The Rachel Hatch Series
Drift
Downburst
Fever Burn
Smoke Signal
Firewalk
Whitewater
Aftershock (pre-order now)
RACHEL HATCH SHORT STORIES
Fractured
Proving Ground
The Gauntlet
Aftershock
Rachel Hatch Book Seven
by L.T. Ryan & Brian Shea
Copyright ? 2021 by L.T. Ryan, Liquid Mind Media, LLC, & Brian Christopher Shea. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.
Aftershock Chapter 1
The moon hid under a thin veil of wispy gray clouds but still managed to cast its glow over the freshly fallen snow.
Chris Macintosh’s hot breath melted the flakes falling in front of him and covering his face in a glimmering sheen. He snapped an icicle from his nose with the rough edge of his sleeve. The leaking pipes that were his nostrils worked to replace the stalactite of snot. The cold air pinched his throat and stung his lungs. He'd forgotten how much he hated the cold. Breakneck, Alaska, was a lifetime away from his Austin, Texas, childhood. The company he currently kept worsened his tolerance for the cold, wet embrace of Mother Nature.
Lank cursed under his breath as he turned his face from the wind. The man assisting Lank’s right side complained in hushed curses, most of which were washed out by the high winds that blew in their faces every few minutes or so. "How much did you say this guy weighs?"
Lank's pitchy voice irritated Macintosh to no end. He’d been listening to Lank moan for the past ten minutes since they'd pulled the body out of the trunk of the Bronco a half mile back. Todd Lankowski, better known as Lank, was by all accounts an idiot. And his question about the weight was the third time he’d asked, thus making this Macintosh’s third attempt to explain. “Because he’s dead weight.”
Lank spit. The wind blew it back into his face, instigating another round of expletives. His use of the f-bomb would give a sailor pause. Lankowksi peppered that word into just about every sentence the wire-thin man uttered. Macintosh tolerated Lank out of necessity. In other circumstances, Macintosh would’ve probably already punched him in the face.
Macintosh had spent the last two weeks kissing ass with the scrawny lackey in the hopes of getting an audience with the king. He’d spent the last seven years at Spring Creek Maximum Security networking himself into this position. And the last two weeks had led to this moment.
“Are you sure he’s gonna be here?” Icy wind stung the back of his throat.
“He said he was.” Lank stopped walking. The dead weight of the man between them anchored Macintosh. He turned in annoyance to see Lank eyeing him.
“You seem real eager to see Grizz.”
“I am. Been waiting a while.”
“Doesn’t mean the feds couldn’t have gotten to you.”
Macintosh balled a fist. “Accuse me of it again and you’ll be the second asshole I drag up this hill tonight.”
“I’m just sayin’ is all.”
“You think I did ten years in Spring Creek just to cop a deal? And you remember, it was Ray Winslow who tapped me and brought me in. I didn’t go looking for any brotherhood. It found me.” Macintosh tapped at the swastika tattooed in dark black against the side of his neck.
“It’s just—ya know—been crazy ever since Grizz whacked those three Marshals.”
“Then we best not be wasting any more time out here.”
Lank began moving again, although the lion’s share of the load was still being shouldered by Macintosh.
A few feet from the door, Lank's feet shot out from under him like a poorly placed Charlie Brown kick after Lucy had just yanked the football away. The unconscious man between them broke his fall.
A long slow grunt rumbled from their prisoner.
The prisoner muttered something unintelligible. The wind obscured any sound not absorbed by the rag taped to his mouth. Macintosh pressed on the man’s shoulder, keeping him pinned to the ground while Lank scrambled to get his feet under him.
Macintosh knew the unconscious man’s name was Dawes. He also knew Dawes was a member of the United States Marshal Services Special Operations Group, as indicated by the OD green patch sewn into the shoulder of his black tactical uniform. Dawes had been unconscious for the better part of the past twenty-four hours since they’d captured him after a failed breach of their compound.
"Grab his damn arm," Macintosh barked. Lank pulled Dawes’ other shoulder. "We have two feet to go to the door. Do you think you can do it without falling on your ass?" Macintosh was cold, he was tired, and he was terrified of what lay on the other side of that door, and what he might be asked to do.
They made the last few steps across the glass surface. The light above the door bathed Lank in a pale glow, making his bony form look more skeletal in the light.
Macintosh adjusted Dawes’ weight and gripped the doorknob. As he turned the knob to open it, Macintosh knew one thing for certain. Today would be somebody’s last.
Aftershock Chapter 2