Page 38 of Marked By Tank
“Salazar Huntington’s uncle.”
I go still.
Wind cuts through the trees. Somewhere above me, a branch creaks.
Ghost keeps talking.
“Not one of the polished ones. Family rot. Old money. Old appetite. The kind they keep half in the dark because he’s useful and connected.”
My grip tightens on the phone.
“So now what?”
“Now Salazar’s pissed.”
No surprise there.
Ghost exhales once. “Word is there’s money out on both of you.”
I look at the trees again, every line of my body going hard and quiet.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
Meaning enough to make every lowlife in three counties start thinking they could get rich if they got lucky.
Ghost’s voice roughens. “Stay put. Stay buried. Havoc wants your ass off the grid until we know where the Huntington side is moving from.”
“They won’t stop at me.”
“No. They won’t.”
We both know what that means.
If they know who she is, if they know she got pulled from that sale alive, then this just got uglier.
“Anything else?” I ask.
A beat.
“Yeah,” Ghost says. “Don’t go stupid.”
That almost gets a laugh out of me.
Almost.
“A little late for that.”
“Probably.” He pauses. “You good?”
I look back at the cabin again.
At the thin line of smoke rising from the chimney.
At the woman inside wearing my shirt and thinking I turned her down because I did not want her enough.
No. Not good.
