Dead South Rising: Book 1 (49 page)

She considered this, and said, “Right. I’ll drive the Dodge, you drive the girl car.” And tossed Randy a playful smile along with the keys.

“Today, I’m okay with that,” David said, easing himself onto his elbows, then onto his back.
 

After fetching the car, Jessica helped Randy load David into the passenger seat. David was fighting it, but he was losing, slipping in and out of consciousness, the day’s pummeling having robbed him of strength and health. And vitality.
 

Back at the trailer house, Jess climbed into the towering truck while David and Randy waited in the compact car.
 

Just as they were about to leave, Jess honked.

David looked up, managing to focus his good eye.

“These yours?” Jessica asked, holding up two shiny Ruger Vaqueros. “Or did they belong to those two?”

David shook his head, “Not mine.”

“Alright then. See you two at the Alamo.”

And she dropped the pistols to the dirt.

On a cedar deck splashed with blood and whiskey and glass, Thomas Theodore Mackey sat silently. His blood-caked fingers curled lovingly around the whiskey bottle’s neck while he balanced the chair on its two back legs. With his own legs comfortably crossed and propped on the railing, he flicked the business card over and over again in his fingers.

Alamo Assisted Living, 889 Highway 259, Leeson, Texas …

The darkness had stolen his sight, but that was okay. He’d memorized the address easily enough off of the card he’d found on the floor at the Morris residence. He suspected David Morris was dead by now, courtesy of two worthless gangsters. Gangsters that Tom should have killed when he had the chance. He’d heard the gunshots from across the way earlier that night. But until he knew for sure …

Finally, he exchanged the card for the pack of Camels residing in his coat. Then paused.

He tilted his head, ear toward the highway. A vehicle. A familiar vehicle. A grinding diesel. The same diesel that killed his Kate. He knew this, without a doubt. That sound would be eternally embedded and emblazoned in his mind—and in his anger—like a hot iron, branding him. Scarring him. Forever property of Vengeance Ranch. It would forever fuel his unforgiving fury.
 

And that grinding metal beast, he could tell, was headed east. Leeson was east. Alamo Assisted Living was east.
 

Soon, he’d head east, too.

www.seanrobertlang.com

My heartfelt thanks to…

My one-of-a-kind, patient, and wonderful wife, Cass. Thank you for allowing me to pursue my passion. And for listening to me go on and on and on about it…

My just-as-wonderful and supportive family and friends.

Those brave enough to read my raw manuscript and give me feedback without worrying about my feelings. Thanks for helping make it a much better book.

And to those readers who took a chance on me. My humble thanks to you.

Sean