38
I’d double-checked that the suite’s adjoining door was locked, but this hotel should have surrendered to the termites twenty years ago. The bathroom taps barely work. Only tsunamis of bleach have repelled the mold and mildew, adding a chlorine tang to the pervasive fug of old crack and weed and tobacco. The carpet is barely more than strings of canvas over abused concrete.
Of course the suite door jiggles open at a bump.
Will stands slack-jawed, eyes narrow, face red and hands open as he stares at me and the rifle in my hands. His five-o-clock shadow highlights his extra chin.
Deke freezes as well, but he’s got his weight on the balls of his feet and his eyes ceaselessly scan Will, me, and the whole room. He’s ready to fight.
My brother, so he’s my problem.
My first impulse is to
