CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
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ADAM YANKED THE TWO semiautomatic pistols from under the picnic table. Then he hurried with quiet steps to the back door, which laid wide open.
‘Amateurs,’ he thought. ‘They haven’t left anyone outside.’
The man leaned on the jamb and tilted his head to look inside the kitchen. A body was lying on the floor in front of the sink. It was definitely a man, so Adam didn’t care about him.
A man with sandy hair came to his fallen comrade and helped him to sit up in spite of his groans. Blood ran freely from one of the wounded man’s thighs.
“Can you walk?” the sandy-haired man asked his buddy, but this one shook his head and groaned. “Damn, I’ll have to carry you out,” the man grumbled and pulled him up, draping him over his shoulders afterward.
Weighed down by
