So they followed the bike on and off the pavement, in and out of alleyways, dodging around wrecked cars and shapeless bodies until there was no way they could have been followed.
When they pulled into a pair of brown garage doors, which slid quietly closed behind them, Connor had to force his fingers to let go of the steel bar.
Justin and the surviving new guy were fussing over Gertie. “I’m alright. I’m fine.”
Connor wasn’t fine. His thighs were on fire from the buggy’s engine, his fingers were cramping, and he was just too old and out of shape for this.
“Well done, guys.” He moved through the garage, pushing open a wooden door that seemed to lead into the main house. “It took experience and training to get us this lost.”
“Nobody’s lost, Connor. In fact, everybody is finally exactly where they’re supposed to be.”
Connor didn’t bother reaching for his gun. His cramped fingers would have fumbled the draw. The gun waving in his face would have gone off long before that happened. And he could probably do as much damage right now with his teeth.
The only question was which jugular he should sink them into first. Francina’s pretty white neck, to rip that superior smile from her gloating face?
Or Noecker’s grizzled leather carcass? Of course, to do that, he’d have to get past the military-issue cannon the man was holding.
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Cheers.
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