once before—after the second trip with the uncle. Even when Otis had fallen off Boyd’s bike when he was four, breaking his wrist, he hadn’t shed a tear. Otis was born tough. Texas tough.
A twig snapped under Boyd’s foot as he approached his brother near the creek, and Otis bolted up, his fists raised. Through his tear-filled eyes, Otis couldn’t tell who it was. He kept dancing, like a prizefighter ready for the knockout blow.
“Otis, it’s okay. It’s me, Boyd.”
Otis lowered his dukes. “I don’t want to go fishing anymore, Boyd.” As soon as the words left his lips, a deluge of tears and snot rendered him incapable of talking further.
That was when Boyd really knew about the uncle.
He walked up to his brother and held him in his arms. He had never hugged Otis before. “You won’t ever see him again, Otis.”
And Otis never did.
No one in the family ever saw the uncle again. Once, their mother mentioned his name, and Otis ran from the room. She thought it was because the uncle had abandoned them, just like their father had. After that day, Mrs. Woolf never mentioned the uncle again.
Boyd never directly asked Otis what happened; Otis’s face told him enough, and he didn’t see the need to force his brother to relive the events. But it was enough to make Boyd determined that he would never let anyone mess with his baby brother again.
When Boyd saw the tear in Otis’s eye earlier that day in Gordy’s Pizza, he knew what Otis was thinking about.
Then Otis told him about the messenger. He didn’t mention the thigh thing, but from Boyd’s experience with the messenger, he knew a threat was made. Boyd couldn’t fail his brother, even if he had decided—in the brief moment that he had looked into Claudia’s eyes—that she was the victim, the hunted. When he saw her, the real target, not Parker, he knew he didn’t want to kill her. Boyd had only stared into Claudia’s captivating sea-green eyes for a second, a brief second, but in that moment, it had become personal.
Yet now, he had to kill Claudia. He had vowed that day by the creek never to let anyone hurt Otis again. Pulling the trigger was the simplest way to ensure that. The easiest way out of the predicament.
To himself, Boyd also vowed that this would be their last job. He wouldn’t let them go back to delivering packages again either. Instead, he wanted to take their savings and start their own business. Never again would he be someone’s bitch. Never.
Chapter Twelve
Francis walked by the Woolf’s car on his way to pick up the pizza. He didn’t look inside, didn’t react, and didn’t show any emotion whatsoever. But he knew the boys who sat inside. He had his own man, who had tracked down the boys in Connecticut. When Francis discovered the brothers were returning to Boston, he was ready.
One of those boys shot his cousin. The other sat by and watched it happen. Both were guilty, and Francis wanted them to pay.
On his way back from Gordy’s, he spied the car once again. The younger one, Otis, looked to be asleep. The older, Boyd, who Francis assumed was the brains behind the operation, looked stoic. Neither of them looked older than twenty.
Damn . How am I to pull the trigger on two babies?
He’d worry about that later. For the moment, his plan concentrated on Claudia and the evil man, and then the Woolf brothers. Slipping into the side gate of Parker’s apartment complex, he saw that she had showered and finally changed out of her PJs. Francis, still couldn’t, after all these years, loaf around all day in his PJs. The military had banished that idea from his mind forever.
He preferred pressed khakis and a crisp polo shirt. In winter, he wore his black leather jacket. The line in his trousers never strayed off course. Each night, before bed, he pressed the pleat deep into the fabric of his pants. Every morning, he ironed his polo. Every two weeks, he had his ginger hair trimmed. His fingernails and toenails never
A twig snapped under Boyd’s foot as he approached his brother near the creek, and Otis bolted up, his fists raised. Through his tear-filled eyes, Otis couldn’t tell who it was. He kept dancing, like a prizefighter ready for the knockout blow.
“Otis, it’s okay. It’s me, Boyd.”
Otis lowered his dukes. “I don’t want to go fishing anymore, Boyd.” As soon as the words left his lips, a deluge of tears and snot rendered him incapable of talking further.
That was when Boyd really knew about the uncle.
He walked up to his brother and held him in his arms. He had never hugged Otis before. “You won’t ever see him again, Otis.”
And Otis never did.
No one in the family ever saw the uncle again. Once, their mother mentioned his name, and Otis ran from the room. She thought it was because the uncle had abandoned them, just like their father had. After that day, Mrs. Woolf never mentioned the uncle again.
Boyd never directly asked Otis what happened; Otis’s face told him enough, and he didn’t see the need to force his brother to relive the events. But it was enough to make Boyd determined that he would never let anyone mess with his baby brother again.
When Boyd saw the tear in Otis’s eye earlier that day in Gordy’s Pizza, he knew what Otis was thinking about.
Then Otis told him about the messenger. He didn’t mention the thigh thing, but from Boyd’s experience with the messenger, he knew a threat was made. Boyd couldn’t fail his brother, even if he had decided—in the brief moment that he had looked into Claudia’s eyes—that she was the victim, the hunted. When he saw her, the real target, not Parker, he knew he didn’t want to kill her. Boyd had only stared into Claudia’s captivating sea-green eyes for a second, a brief second, but in that moment, it had become personal.
Yet now, he had to kill Claudia. He had vowed that day by the creek never to let anyone hurt Otis again. Pulling the trigger was the simplest way to ensure that. The easiest way out of the predicament.
To himself, Boyd also vowed that this would be their last job. He wouldn’t let them go back to delivering packages again either. Instead, he wanted to take their savings and start their own business. Never again would he be someone’s bitch. Never.
Chapter Twelve
Francis walked by the Woolf’s car on his way to pick up the pizza. He didn’t look inside, didn’t react, and didn’t show any emotion whatsoever. But he knew the boys who sat inside. He had his own man, who had tracked down the boys in Connecticut. When Francis discovered the brothers were returning to Boston, he was ready.
One of those boys shot his cousin. The other sat by and watched it happen. Both were guilty, and Francis wanted them to pay.
On his way back from Gordy’s, he spied the car once again. The younger one, Otis, looked to be asleep. The older, Boyd, who Francis assumed was the brains behind the operation, looked stoic. Neither of them looked older than twenty.
Damn . How am I to pull the trigger on two babies?
He’d worry about that later. For the moment, his plan concentrated on Claudia and the evil man, and then the Woolf brothers. Slipping into the side gate of Parker’s apartment complex, he saw that she had showered and finally changed out of her PJs. Francis, still couldn’t, after all these years, loaf around all day in his PJs. The military had banished that idea from his mind forever.
He preferred pressed khakis and a crisp polo shirt. In winter, he wore his black leather jacket. The line in his trousers never strayed off course. Each night, before bed, he pressed the pleat deep into the fabric of his pants. Every morning, he ironed his polo. Every two weeks, he had his ginger hair trimmed. His fingernails and toenails never
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