Page 26 of Crow’s Shadow

I hit the racks hard enough to rock them, shoulder through hanging chains that slap across my face and chest. Something catches my cut. Tears loose. I don’t feel it. I clear the gutted outboards and drive through the back door into cold gray daylight.

The river is right there.

So is Colt.

He is on his back on the dock with his boots hanging over the edge, heels knocking weakly against the timber.

Three rounds took him through his chest. His mouth is open, his eyes fixed on nothing.

The man who put them there is sprawled six feet farther down the dock. Colt must have caught him on the way down, because one of his boots is twisted under him and his gun has skidded almost to the edge.

He scrambles for it.

I’m faster.

He looks up, sees me and knows.

I kick the gun out of reach before his fingers close around it, grab a fistful of his collar, and haul him halfway upright just to slam him back down. His head cracks against the dock boards hard enough to bounce. Then I drag him past Buck kneeling over Colt with both hands pressed to his chest even though there’s nothing left to save.

“He’s gone.” Buck’s voice comes from somewhere far off. “Crow. Crow, the kid’s gone.”

I keep going into the garage, his heels bouncing over the threshold and scraping across concrete, past his dead friends.

Nineteen. The quiet door. Half his cut to a sister he will never send another dollar to.

I set Renner’s man in a chair and shove it back against the workbench.

“Wait.” His hands come up. One is shaking. “Wait, man. I can tell you shit.”

I turn away from him.

The tools are hung in rows above the bench. Wrenches graded by size. Pliers. Hammers. A hacksaw with rust along the teeth. Somebody has taken the time to paint white outlines behind each one so they know where everything goes.

My eyes stop on the cutting torch.

Behind me, the chair scrapes.

“I know Renner.” I take the torch off its hook. “I fucking know him. I know where he’s got people. I know—”

The chair scrapes again. Grim puts a boot against one of its legs. It stops.

The man looks at him. “Come on, brother.”

Grim’s face does not move. “Don’t call me that.”

Loco stands off to my right. He has not said a word since we brought this fucker inside. He doesn’t need to. Our prospect is lying dead twenty feet away.

“Kid came at me,” the man says.

My thumb stills against the torch. “What?”

“Your kid. Outside. He fucking came at me. I didn’t have a choice.”

Grim’s takes his boot off the chair and steps toward him.

The man looks from me to Grim, then to Loco. Maybe he finally understands who Loco is, because his eyes stick there.

“Look, man, he had a gun. What was I supposed to do? Just let him—”