Henry Kistle’s hand tightened on the curtain as he looked down, careful to stay hidden from view. There, in the shadow of the elm a short distance down the street, was a tall, thin man. He was talking on a cell phone. Who was he talking to? Who had managed to track him down this time?
Don’t be nervous, he told himself. It didn’t matter if one of them had found him. He had occasionally been found before and managed to survive. It was only a matter of removing the immediate threat and then running. But he saw to it that those bastards who made him run were always punished for it when he was safe again.
And the immediate threat was standing down there waiting for him to make a mistake. A surge of anger tore through him. It wasn’t fair. He had a right to live and take whatever pleasure he could find in this crap yard of a world.
Who was it? A father, a brother, a cop? Which one?
It didn’t matter. He’d find out. But he had to be ready to go. Grab a few clothes. Pack his guns, his precious memory box, and have everything in the car.
He turned away from the window.
Damn him. He didn’t want to have to run now. He hadn’t had his fill yet of this small, sleepy town. Cities were safer, but pitting his wits against these yokels was exciting. They felt so safe that he could walk into their lives and take whatever he pleased.
