8
Two sets of boots ticked into Spike’s cell. “Morning,” he greeted his captor as he rolled to his feet. Gabriel paced, steps keeping time with the flickering fluorescent bulb, his lack of response not giving Spike a clue on the actual time. The buttons on his western shirt strained against his potbelly as he turned, gun flashing in the back of his waistband.
Spike’s least favorite henchman posted up by the door, his dead eyes set in a face that looked like it’d been hit with a frying pan, staring straight ahead.
A bit dramatic, considering Gabriel was armed. And Spike’s hands were still cuffed behind his back. Maybe it was time to change that. “I’m guessing my info checked out. What do you say we lose these cuffs?”
“Micheal.” Gabriel jerked his chin, and the oaf stepped forward. A
