She looked down at Gill and felt the dry sting her eyes.
It was all Sebring.
She looked back to Valenzuela to see his smile had died.
“Unfortunately,” he kept going, “that doesn’t work for me.”
One of his men started moving toward her. She felt another approaching from behind.
She opened her mouth to shout.
She got not a sound out.
Fifteen minutes later, beaten bloody and bullet-ridden, Georgia Shade bled out five feet away from Gill Harkin’s body.
She was found with the gun that murdered her man in her hand, powder residue on her fingers. His fingers were curled around the gun that had the clip that had been emptied into her body.
It looked like a lovers’ spat gone terribly wrong in a ratty twenty-dollar-a-night motel in the middle of nowhere between two criminals desperate and on the run.
And the House of Shade was no more.
* * * * *
Eric
Eric Turner prowled out of the motel room, phone to his ear.
He heard the connect and got the clipped greeting, “This number is only for emergencies. Please, fuck, do not tell me you’re calling with the score of the goddamned Broncos game like last time. I’m in Tennessee, not on the moon, and we got fuckin’ DIRECTV with Sunday Ticket. I get the scores same as you do.”
“I’m not callin’ ’cause a’ that. I’m callin’, askin’ you to please tell me that bloodbath is not you,” he clipped back.
There was a beat of silence before Nick asked, “What bloodbath?”
Turner gave him short, curt details.
“Fuck,” Nick muttered.
Turner relaxed.
It wasn’t Nick.
“Well, the good news is, Denver is gonna be a lot more quiet, Valenzuela won his war against the House of Shade. No more explosions. No more dead bodies,” Eric noted.
“No more war,” Nick concurred.
They were both silent.
Turner drew in breath.
“She’s resting easy now, man,” he said quietly.
For another beat, Nick didn’t answer.
And the one word was weighty with meaning when he finally said it.
“Yeah.”
Hettie was avenged. The bad guys got their due. Not how Turner would have played it, but that didn’t mean it didn’t happen all the same.