Page 322 of Property of Whiskey

The stop.

Whiskey turns his head and looks at me.

Really looks. His gaze drops to my split lip and the blood running down my chin. I can see every murderous thought moving behind his eyes.

“I need him alive.”

His chest heaves once, then again. He lowers his fist. Steps back.

The man groans on the pavement.

Whiskey points down at him. “You owe her your life.”

My heart does something stupid.

Crowley reaches his SUV.

I start toward him.

Whiskey’s hand lifts like he’s going to catch me.

Then stops. He lets it fall.

Good.

I draw my gun. “Reverend Crowley!”

He pauses with one hand on the driver’s door and looks back.

I can’t legally shoot him. He hasn’t presented a weapon or personally put his hands on me. Being a smug evil motherfucker is unfortunately not a capital offense.

He knows it too.

“This is larger than you understand,” he says.

I keep the muzzle at low ready. “Good.”

His eyebrows lift.

“I like big cases.”

For the first time, real anger flickers across his face.

“You should’ve listened to your father.”

I smile through the blood. “He raised me not to.”

Crowley gets into the SUV and peels out of the lot.

I memorize the plate. I key my radio. “Dispatch, BOLO. Black SUV leaving the scene of an assault on a deputy, plate...” I give the number and the direction Crowley took. “Possible Reverend Crowley driving.”

Whiskey walks toward me slowly.

“Let me see.”

“I’m fine.”

“Twila.”