GrishamI’ve got twenty guys ready as Drew’s brotherhood rolls up, straight through the gates, the old man at the head of a very well-planned formation of bikes.
Twenty won’t be enough. They ride straight up on the lawn, outnumbering us by at least double. He puts up a fist as he stops, and they stop, too, all dismounting, all pulling weapons loose, c*****g triggers. They’re ready to fight, ready to wipe the Barking Angels off the map.
I make my way down the steps, hands in the air. “Hold your fire,” I say to my guys, but also, hopefully, to his. “Let’s talk.”
“Seems to me the time for talkin’ is done, boy,” Drew says, seething. “I demand blood for blood. I lost a brother to your second. Looks like my second is bleedin’ out. My daughter is who-the-f**k-knows-where. Seems there ain’t noth
