Page 6 of Preacher

Because I didn’t like the man who’d come to the office, because he knew details Holly hadn’t given him which made me suspicious. But also because somebody had decided Rowan’s death made his business easy to take, and because Holly was there alone. “Because I don’t trust any of it.”

Smoke’s expression lost the amusement as he straightened. “Want company?”

“No. Have Deacon call me when he finds something. You hear anything else about this, I want it.”

Gage pushed to his feet. “You planning to tell Holly any of this?”

“When I know enough to tell her something useful.”

“That’ll go well.”

I gave him a look and headed for the door. The sun was lower when I turned onto the freight road, but heat still came off the asphalt. Holly’s car was where I’d left it, and everything looked normal until I saw the warehouse side door hanging open.

I killed the bike and was off it before the engine stopped ticking. The office was empty when I looked inside. “Holly?”

No answer came, so I crossed the yard with my hand near the pistol under my cut. Nobody wandered into Curtis Freight by accident. The road ended here, and the warehouse held little worth stealing.

A scrape came from inside. I stepped through the side door and found two men near the back office, one with a drawer pulled out of a metal cabinet and the other beside a desk covered in dispatch sheets, route printouts and maintenance logs. Neither looked like a junkie hunting for something to pawn.

“Put it down,” I said.

Both men turned toward me. The one at the cabinet was broad and heavy through the shoulders; the other was leaner, maybe thirty, with a tattoo crawling up the side of his neck.

“Private fucking property,” I added.

Neck Tattoo smiled like he thought the answer mattered. “You the owner?”

“No.”

“Then walk away.”

I almost laughed at that, but footsteps sounded behind me before I could answer.

“Preacher?”

Every muscle in my body locked. Holly came through the warehouse door carrying a cardboard file box against her hip, her eyes moving from me to the two men as understanding hit.

“Get outside,” I said.

She lowered the box instead. “Who are they?”

“Holly, I know you heard me. Get outside until I know what this is.”

The broad man moved first, not toward me but toward her. I was already crossing the space when he caught Holly by the upper arm, and he got one second, maybe less.

I hit him hard enough that his grip broke before Holly could pull away. My fist connected with his mouth and then his jaw, and when he staggered, I drove him into the metal shelving with enough force to rattle every tool on it.

“Preacher!”

Holly’s voice registered somewhere behind the blood roaring in my ears. The man swung at me, but I blocked it, buried a fist in his ribs and heard the air leave him. When he bent, I grabbed the back of his neck and slammed his face onto the workbench.

He went loose under my hand, and I could have stopped there. Instead, I pulled him upright and hit him again.

“Touch her again,” I said against his ear, “and I’ll bury you where nobody finds the pieces.”

The other man had backed away from the desk. His hand hovered near his waistband, and I turned my head just enough to meet his eyes. “Try it.”

He looked at his friend bleeding onto the concrete, then at me, and thought better of whatever he’d been considering.