With the threat of being put behind bars looming, Preacher threw caution to the wind and rushed forward, clipping Red in the gut with his elbow as he blew past him. A hand grabbed at the bag on his back, and he threw all his weight into shoving the man aside. He felt the swish of air as the bat swung and managed to spin around, catching Red in his meaty middle. Grunting, Red lost his momentum.
“Behind you! He’s comin’ up behind you!” The warning shouts followed Preacher as he tore across the parking lot.
Still grappling with the girl, the man attempted to turn toward the noise, but Preacher was already upon him. Skidding to a stop, gripping the tire iron with two hands, Preacher sent the metal bar swinging into the man’s lower back.
Roaring in pain, the man spun around and toppled over. A quick glance behind showed Preacher Red and company were headed their way. Grabbing the girl’s arm, he yanked her to him. “We need to go!” he shouted.
“My bag!” She screamed, thrashing in his grip. “Where’s my bag?”
He tightened his hold on her. “They called the cops!” he bellowed. “We’ve got to go!”
“No!” She tried to pull free again. “I need my bag! Where’s my bag?”
“Fuck your bag! Are you deaf? They called the cops! We have to go!”
She paused, barely breathing, and looked up at him with wide, savage eyes. A trail of blood trickled from her swollen bottom lip down to her chin. Her flannel shirt was hanging open, and the T-shirt beneath was torn and gaping at the collar. Then she blinked.
“But…my bag…” It was barely a whisper, all her fight gone.
Preacher was done listening. The moment she’d gone limp, he’d started running, dragging her along beside him.
They’d just hit the highway, swallowed up into the darkness when the skies opened up again.
Chapter 4
Franklin Deluva Sr. slipped his hands into his pockets and glanced up at the starless sky. Better known to others as “Frank,” or “Ghost” for his uncanny ability to slip in and out of places unseen and unheard, his black leather riding boots pounded a nearly silent rhythm on the rain-dampened sidewalks. The darkened streets of Philadelphia were quiet and nearly empty at this time of night, and his business had wrapped up hours ago.
He should have been thrilled that everything had gone according to the book; he’d delivered the goods, and all money owed to the Silver Demons had been paid in full, right down to the last red cent. But he was far from thrilled. There were other things weighing heavily on his mind, shrouding his thoughts beneath a dome of static—static that would grow louder and louder until it would be all Frank would hear.
Frank was a man who liked order. He liked everything in its rightful place. He liked his hair just so, his clothing to fit a certain way, his wallet always in his right back pocket, and his keys in his front left pocket. Everything in its rightful place. Everything and everyone.
Frank liked his wife at home, caring for their young son. He liked coming home to a clean house and a hot meal. And he liked his club and all their business partners in their respective roles, working in perfect sync, the cogs turning like a well-oiled machine.
This madness inside him extended to all facets of his life. His clothing had to be folded a particular way, the different foods on his plate could never touch, and then there was his unexplainable aversion to even numbers. He typically did certain things in groups of threes—looked at something three times, said a word three times, usually silently, or touched something three times. It was a never-ending cycle of constantly counting, enough to drive a sane man mad… or keep a mad man sane.
He’d often speculated that growing up as a ward of the state, never having had a place to call home, might have caused this incessant, demanding need for order in all things. If it hadn’t been for his friendship with Preacher, the only constant in his hectic young life, who knew what kind of person he would have turned out to be?
Preacher.
Frank picked up his pace as the buzzing in his head grew louder, his heart pounding as a surge of anxiety-fueled adrenaline coursed through him. Preacher was not where he was supposed to be. Something was leaking inside Frank’s well-oiled machine. Cogs were rusting, and one had stopped turning altogether.
Frank hadn’t exactly minded when Preacher had gone and gotten himself locked up. In fact, in a lot of ways, he’d preferred it. For the two years Preacher had been in prison, Frank had known exactly where to find his friend when he’d needed him, and had been secure in the knowledge that, once Preacher’s sentence was up, things would return to normal.
Only… they hadn’t.
Preacher had been released from prison, and right off the bat, everything had been different. Angry and sullen, Preacher had refused to come to the club, refusing anything and everyone. He drank incessantly, slept constantly, and when he wasn’t drinking or sleeping, he was fighting with everyone. Then one day he’d upped and left. Vanished in the middle of the night without a word to anyone.
Weeks had passed, then months, and with every passing day without word of his whereabouts or his return, Frank had felt the crack in his control begin to splinter in every direction. His moods had been unpredictable lately. His usual methods for keeping control of himself weren’t working properly. Preacher consumed his thoughts day in and day out.
Where was Preacher?
Was he ever coming home?
Frank didn’t want to lose control. He liked being in control.
His hands clenched into fists, his short nails pressed painfully into his palms. His pace continued to increase.
He needed his fucking control. Because if his world couldn’t stay together, he couldn’t stay together.
If he was a drinking man, Frank supposed he’d be drinking right now, but he wasn’t. Booze, drugs… he didn’t like anything that messed with his head. If a man couldn’t think clearly, he wasn’t useful, and if a man wasn’t useful, that man had no business breathing.
What he needed was to figure out how to get Preacher home. Hell, first he needed to find Preacher. Without Preacher…
Blinking, Frank shook his head quickly. One, two, three, four—
He cursed and tried again.
He was already fraying.
A door slammed closed, echoing across the quiet street. Frank went instantly still, blending into the shadows as he observed a young black woman descend a nearby stoop. Wearing a slinky red dress and matching heels, she paused on the last step, rummaging through her purse.
Frank cocked his head to one side, a burst of excitement and anticipation heating his chest. It hadn’t been all that long since his last, and he knew he shouldn’t be craving it again so soon, but—
Frank calculated the distance between them, wondering if the door she’d just come from was locked. He glanced to a small alley some twenty feet away and wondered about the apartments above. Were they occupied? Were the windows open? He wasn’t a man who particularly liked taking chances. He liked plans. Carefully crafted, calculated plans. Spur of the moment shit like this was just further proof that he was losing his grip on control.