Page 7 of Flint’s Strike

Nate, on the other hand, fiddles with the air conditioning…again.

“If we’d taken my car, it’d be a cool seventy-eight degrees right now.” I angle the vent a little higher so it hits my cheeks.

A red light catches us at the next intersection, and then another, the lunch hour traffic working against us at every turn. Nate taps the brake, eases forward, taps it again. We don’t talk. Beyond my window, a mattress store’s going out of business sale sign has seen better days. Unsurprising, as it’s probably been there for ten years.

I roll my head around, my neck cracking more times than I’d like.

A new mattress might help me sleep through the night. I’d never risk that store—I do have standards, after all—but it’d be nice to have a bed that at least pretends to be comfortable at two in the morning when I’m staring at the ceiling. Again.

I don’t remember the last time I had a solid eight hours. Probably kindergarten.

It’s the case load. AJ’s—Chief Stone’s—sabbatical was the right decision for him and his wife, Grace. They needed to make new memories after she lost all of hers when a sick cult leader calling himself “Prophet” kidnapped her and held her for three fucking years. All so he could carry out a ceremony designed to bring about the return of some deity he’d invented in a fever dream. He poisoned and stabbed her, then let her bleed out on a stone altar for his entire flock to see. And when that wasn’t enough to kill her, Marvin—one of ours, for fuck’s sake—tried to finish the job.

Even thinking about Marvin raises my blood pressure. The asshole was wearing his Ranger star when he kicked Grace in the head, stealing all the memories she had of her life. Her childhood, her parents, AJ…everything.

I stare down at my fingers clutched around the incident report. Burn scars lace the back of my hands. My palms…are worse.

Less than three weeks after Grace came home, the cult—with Marvin’s help—kidnapped her again. Prophet apparently wanted a “do over” for his goddamn ceremony. I was in the way, so they took me too. Prophet, deciding I’d be his fifth wife, locked me in a demented sensory deprivation/overload shed he called “the Box” to break me.

We barely survived.

At least in the end, the bus that pancaked Marvin as he was being transferred to a cushy federal prison did the world a favor.

Recovery is still a damn bitch, though. In the past three months, I’ve only carved out a handful of afternoons with Grace—outside of our weekly girls’ nights with Emi and Isabel. The shiny new Captain badges Nate and I are sporting now come with a shit-ton of paperwork and a whole lot more responsibility.

It’s fine. Totally fine. Except for not sleeping. Much.

The light changes, and Nate eases forward, the Chevy’s pitiful air conditioning trying its best, but losing ground to a stronger foe. Another strip mall—this one a full block long—disappears in the side mirror, and I open the case file again.

“You think there’s gonna be a test?” he asks.

I give him the side-eye.

“Just sayin’. Williamson County deputies wouldn’t know a scantron if one bit ‘em in the ass.” At the next intersection, Nate turns left and snorts. “See? I count two guys—one’s on his phone—and that tape’s gonna be halfway to Killeen before we even get out of the car.”

He’s not wrong. The crime scene tape is attached to the chain link fence by what looks like pure chance, the wind doing its level best to pry it free. The other end’s looped around the door handle of a Williamson County cruiser. Not a post. The cruiser. Like that’s going to do a damn bit of good. If its owner drives off, our perimeter goes too.

The two-story office complex in question probably looked great when it was built ten years ago. Now? It’s a shit show. The second floor’s caved in on the east side, roof open to the sky in half a dozen places, windows blown out, and black char streaming up the exterior walls.

Nate doesn’t cut the engine. Instead, he leans over, pops the glove box, and slides a granola bar from the perfectly organized cubby. “Eat this.”

The bright red wrapper crinkles as it lands in my lap. “Cranberries and cashews? You hate cashews.” He doesn’t respond, and I take a closer look at the bar. “Shit. This expired on Tuesday.”

“Friday’s just Tuesday with a hangover,” he says. “Unless you’re telling me you ate a full breakfast this morning before you showed up at the station.”

I scowl at him. “Don’t give me that attitude. Your spreadsheet had us at Dot’s right about now. Breakfast is a waste when lunch is an overflowing plate of loaded french fries with a milkshake chaser.”

“Parker, eat the damn bar.”

Unwrapping it is easier than arguing with him. I did skip breakfast, and by the time we finish here, I’ll be in a world of hurt without calories.

As soon as he turns the car off, the heat—and the stench of burned insulation, melted plastic, and something chemical—scorches my sinuses. My stomach protests immediately.

“Bet AJ’s lovin’ that chief’s badge right about now,” Nate says as he peels himself out of the driver’s seat.

A deputy pushes off the side of another cruiser and heads our way. Mid-thirties, blond, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though it’s bright as fuck out here.

“Captain Elmore,” I say as I duck under the tape. “That’s Captain Hardison.”