26
I passed the address to Conor, who navigated us north to a neighborhood in Peoria with roundabouts and speed bumps every hundred yards. They called them traffic-calming devices, but they made me anything but calm. Maybe if I slowed down for them, but who had time for that?
We stopped in front of a small ash-gray house with wooden siding and a patchy yellowing lawn, littered with empty beer cans, liquor bottles, and a child’s overturned tricycle. A line of scraggly Texas sage shrubs stood vigil in front of the iron-barred windows.
“Charming place.” I switched on the walkie-talkie on my belt, slipped on my shades, and stepped out of the truck. “I’ll take the front door. You take the back.”
Conor pulled a shotgun loaded with beanbag rounds from the back of the Gray Ghost. “Copy that.”
