Page 7 of Preacher

“Holly, behind me.”

For once she didn’t argue. She moved close enough that I could feel her at my back while the lean man raised his hands.

“We were told the place was empty.”

“Then tell me who gave you the address.”

“No idea. We got a location and a job.”

“Give me the name attached to the job.”

His jaw tightened. I took one step toward him, and he grabbed his friend instead. Between them they managed to get to the open side door, the broad one stumbling and leaving drops of blood on the floor.

I let them go, not because I was finished, but because Holly was behind me and I wasn’t leaving her alone to chase two men into a yard.

The second they were gone, I turned to her. “You hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

I looked at the red marks already forming around her upper arm. “That isn’t fine.”

“He grabbed me. You practically put his face through a table.”

“Should’ve hit him harder.”

Her eyes snapped to mine. There it was, the moment people stopped seeing leather and motorcycles and understood what one percent actually meant. I waited for her to step back, but she stayed exactly where she was and looked past me at the open cabinet. “They weren’t stealing anything.”

“No.”

Following her gaze, I saw that the old computer and valuable tools were untouched while route papers and files covered the desk. Holly crossed toward the desk and picked up the top page. “These are route sheets.”

“And schedules.”

She lifted another sheet and scanned it. “Fuel receipts. Driver lists.”

“Yeah.”

Her face changed as she finally understood why the offer had bothered me. I pulled out my phone and called Smoke.

“Tell me,” he answered.

“Two men inside Curtis Freight. Looking through route and operational records.”

His voice sharpened the second he understood. “Holly there? You need us?”

“She’s here and she’s okay. Not yet. Get Gage checking the road, and tell Deacon I need to know who that buyer is now. I’ve got a horrible fucking feeling about this.”

I ended the call before Smoke could ask anything else. Holly had gone very quiet. “We should call the sheriff,” she said.

“You can if you want.”

Her eyes narrowed because she clearly didn’t believe me. “That almost sounded supportive.”

“It’s your property. Your decision.”

“But you don’t think he can do anything.”

“I think he can take a report. Men who break into warehouses to photograph freight routes don’t usually leave their home address behind.”