A Field of Blood (Chief Inspector Holt 1) Preview

A killer out for revenge. A detective with nothing left to lose. A town on the brink of chaos.

After catching his boss in bed with his wife, Chief Inspector Holt’s once-illustrious career crumbles in a single punch. Exiled to a sleepy countryside town, Holt is forced to move in with his daughter Poppy, who also happens to be a detective—now under his command. Their bond will be tested when a pair of teenagers steal a bus for a joyride, only to turn up savagely murdered.

As the body count rises, this quiet town reveals dark, hidden fractures, and it will take every ounce of Holt’s expertise to hunt down a killer whose thirst for vengeance knows no bounds. With tensions mounting, and the town on the edge of civil war, Holt finds himself in a race against time, where every misstep could be his last.

A Field of Blood is the gripping first novel in the Chief Inspector Holt series—an electrifying thriller that will keep you turning the pages until the final twist.

Prologue

Like before, the figure stood by the graveside. A familiar sight, since that fateful day, eighteen months ago now. And every time, there was the same mix of profound sadness and intense despair. Even though the priest said the feelings would eventually dissipate and the shrink said it was important to give them a place, that hadn’t happened yet. On the contrary, a new feeling had begun to surface more and more: one of anger and rage.

Rage at the injustice and the sheer senselessness of the events that had transpired.

Religion hadn’t helped, and neither had therapy. But there was another option, one that hadn’t been mentioned by either the priest or the shrink. A remedy that might finally bring some peace of mind—a peace that had proven most elusive these past few months.

The remedy was as old as time. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. In other words: revenge. Sweet vengeance upon the person responsible for the tragic and senseless death.

All that remained was to find a suitable method.

A punishment that fit the crime.

In other words: as painful as possible.

Chapter One

Chief Inspector Holt rubbed his eyes. He’d been staring at his computer screen for the past half hour with unseeing eyes, wondering if life could possibly get any more boring. Six months ago, he had a career and a great future ahead of him, eager to take his Commissioner exams and be assigned his own precinct—the next step in a great career.

Now, all he had to look forward to was to await early retirement in this tiny outpost—one of the more insignificant precincts in all of Belgium—with only his pension to look forward to, if he ever made it that far without getting the boot.

All it took was one well-aimed punch to end his career and go from being a promising Chief Inspector to being relegated to obscurity.

Of course, he hadn’t just punched anyone. The person he had used his right hook on was his boss, Commissioner Terrence Bayton. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t had a good reason to punch the man’s lights out. He had, after all, just discovered that the guy had been having an affair with his wife. In fact, he had walked in on the couple while they were enjoying carnal relations, so to speak, on top of Commissioner Bayton’s desk. An oversight on the part of the otherwise very careful and always prudent police chief, as evidenced by the first words he uttered when he came face to face with his underling:

“Who the hell forgot to lock that door?”

At first, Holt’s jaw had dropped, his eyes had bulged out of his head, and he’d experienced that sudden out-of-body experience that many facing these same circumstances would have felt. But when his wife gave him a weak smile and said, “It isn’t what it looks like, Glen,” he finally snapped out of his stupor, walked up to his boss, and delivered that well-aimed punch to the man’s treacherous visage.

The Commissioner had gone down, Holt had left the chief’s office and hadn’t turned back, even when his boss cursed loudly and demanded he return and face the music.

Face the music he did, though, when he was called into the office of the Chief of Police himself. It was then that he was informed that, contrary to what he had feared, he wasn’t being kicked out of the force. Instead, he was being transferred to Loveringem, located smack dab in the middle of nowhere, a place that could only be described as the town where ambitious police officers go to die.

In other words, the end of a most promising career. And all it took was one punch.

In all fairness, he shouldn’t have done it. Though even the Chief of Police, after reading him the riot act, had admitted that he might have acted in the same way himself.

There was one ray of light, though: Loveringem was where his daughter was working her way up the chain of command, currently as an inspector. But even though it was a nice change of pace to work with Poppy, he wasn’t quite sure if she felt the same about working with her dear old dad—especially now that his marriage was on the rocks.

His son, for one, had picked sides and opted to live with his mom, casting his dad out of his life altogether. It was hard to tell what Poppy thought. Though he liked to think she was on his side, newly disgraced and the butt of every joke in precincts around the country. People had even given him a new nickname: Glen Coopman, after well-known boxing champion Jean-Pierre Coopman, who had once fought Muhammad Ali himself.

He didn’t feel like a champion, though. After all, with that one punch he’d lost not only any future prospects he might have nurtured, but also his marriage, the affection of his son, and the respect of his colleagues. Though truth be told, some people had privately told him he had done the right thing. Apparently, Commissioner Bayton’s extramarital shenanigans weren’t condoned by everyone—quite the contrary. And as some had informed him, Leah wasn’t the first woman Bayton had cheated on his wife with.

He looked up when Commissioner Ezekiel Forrester’s door swung open, and the Commissioner motioned for Holt to step into his office.

He shared a brief look with Poppy, seated across from him and hard at work on her own computer. She shrugged, indicating she had no idea why her dad was being called into the Commissioner’s office.

“Try not to punch his lights out, boss,” said Leland Mealing, one of the inspectors assigned to his team. “When you feel that urge, just think: what would Leland do?”

“Very funny, Leland,” Holt said as he got up. “Extremely droll.”

It was a joke that never seemed to get old.

He passed the desks of his other officers. Apart from Leland, he could count Georgina Gibe and Rasheed Genner as members of his crew. Also Jaime Lett, who wasn’t a police officer but an administrative aide handling the more mundane tasks every police station is tasked with.

“Give him hell, boss,” said Georgina with a wink. “But go for the gut this time—not the face.”

“Ha ha,” he said. “So very funny, you guys.”

“Glen Coopman for the win,” said Rasheed with a grin as he punched the air.

He sighed, entered his boss’s office, and took a seat in front of the man’s desk. At least there were no scantily clad ladies present, unlike in the case of his now ex-wife.

“Yes, boss?” he said dutifully.

“Glen,” said the Commissioner with an avuncular smile as he intertwined his fingers on his desk blotter. “How long have you been with us now? Three months? Four?”

“Six months, sir,” he said.

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” said the chief with a wink. “But seriously, have you given any thought to Jaime?”

“Jaime?”

“Jaime Lett? Her birthday is coming up.”

He stared at the Commissioner, wondering if this was a trick question. “Oh… I see what you mean,” he said finally. “Should I buy her a cake, you think, sir?” Back in Ghent, at his original precinct, birthdays were celebrated with cake, to be bought by the person celebrating their birthday. Here in Loveringem, where they did things differently, it would appear it was the other way around. “What kind of cake does she like, you think, sir?”

The Commissioner gave him another one of those warm smiles he was rightly famous for. The man was alternately described as a teddy bear and the best boss you could ever hope to have. He was almost as old as Holt’s dad and close to retirement. “In this precinct, we have the habit of never forgetting a single birthday, Glen. And it’s the responsibility of the team leader to make sure they treat the members of their team. I’d suggest buying her a couple of Boules de Berlin or a Couque Suisse. I know for a fact she loves those.”

“Right, boss,” he said. “Of course. I’ll get right on it. A bag of Boules de Berlin and Couques Suisses coming up on the double.” Maybe he’d add in some croissants as well.

The Commissioner leaned back in his chair, interlaced his fingers on his impressive belly and gave him a look of concern. “So, how’s it going, Glen? Settling in all right?”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Moved in with Poppy, have you?”

“Yes, sir,” he admitted, wondering how the Commissioner knew about that. After he’d left the family home in Ghent, he needed a place to stay and bunked with a friend for a while. When it became clear he was being transferred to Loveringem and would need to find a place to live there, it was Poppy herself who had suggested he stay with her for the time being—especially as she was dealing with her own relationship crisis, ever since her boyfriend of three years had proven as unfaithful to her as her mom had been to her dad.

It had created a bond between father and daughter, and although it had felt a little strange at first to move in with his daughter, so far the arrangement had proven doable.

“Good,” said the Commissioner with a nod of satisfaction. “It’s important that my officers enjoy a happy and stable home life, as if reflects on their professional life.” He directed an affectionate glance at the framed picture of himself and his wife, occupying a prominent place on his desk. Next to it, another framed portrait of his Lab Daisy stood.

“That’s great to hear, sir,” he murmured.

“You have a dog, don’t you, Glen?”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Harley.”

“French poodle?”

“French bulldog,” he corrected his boss.

“Pets are important,” the chief pronounced. “Did you know that it’s been scientifically proven that pet owners suffer less stress-related disorders? It’s true,” he said when Holt raised an eyebrow. “Pets reduce stress, boost mental health and provide a sense of well-being. They even lower your heart rate, Glen,” he added as he patted his chest. “I don’t have to tell you how important that is. Do you personally walk your dog, Glen?”

“I do, sir,” he confirmed, squirming a little in his seat. He hadn’t expected to be quizzed on his qualities as a dog parent. “Every morning and every night.”

“Good,” the chief. He leaned forward. “I like to hear that. I don’t mind telling you that I, for one, don’t trust a man who claims not to love pets, Glen.” He shook his head. “You can tell a lot about a man when you know where he stands vis-à-vis pets—dogs in particular. And you are sound on dogs, Glen. I can tell. Very sound on dogs.”

“Thank you… sir,” he said.

The chief leaned back again, that same warm smile wreathing his features. “I won’t keep you,” he said. “I’m sure you have plenty of work piling up on your desk.”

“Yes, sir. I do, sir,” he said, even though his work pile was woefully lacking in both substance and challenge. But then such was the life of a cop in the countryside.

 

He left his boss’s office and cast a quick glance at Jaime, kicking himself for completely forgetting about her birthday. He’d pop by the bakery right away and get her those Boules de Berlin and Couques Suisses she loved so much.

Leland craned his neck to look into the Commissioner’s office. “I don’t see him, boss,” he said. “I hope he’s not on the floor, out for the count?”

“The joke is really wearing out, Leland,” Holt said.

“And I still think it’s funny,” his underling replied. “Though I have to admit, the idea of the Commissioner doing the horizontal mambo with a member of the opposite sex seems remote, to say the least. I mean, the man is old. Ancient, even.”

“He’s not that old,” said Georgina.

“He’s the same age as my grandfather,” said Poppy. “And he retired years ago—so, yeah. The Commissioner is pretty old, Georgina.”

“Yes, but your granddad retired early, didn’t he?”

That was true enough. The moment Holt’s dad had the chance, he’d signed on the dotted line and bought the boat he’d been dreaming of for years. Ever since then, he and Holt’s mom had been happily using Fern, as they had christened the boat, to sail all the rivers and canals of Belgium, Holland, and Germany they could find.

“Okay, I’m going to pop out for a moment,” Holt said, grabbing his wallet from his desk. “Be back in a sec.”

Just then, Poppy held up a finger. A call had come in, and she was frowning. “I’m afraid that will have to wait, boss,” she said. “A bus has just been hijacked, and fifty Japanese tourists have been left stranded by the side of the road.”

Glen suppressed a deep sigh. A hijacked bus was probably the most excitement he could wish for today. “Let’s roll,” he said, and headed for the lockers where he kept his weapon safely tucked away. He didn’t think he’d need it, but since it was standard operating procedure never to go out on patrol without it, he had no other choice.

Chapter Two

Boyd Batham cursed inwardly as he took his phone from his pocket and dialed the familiar number.

“Boyd.” The voice was curt and crisp, as usual.

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news, Teddy,” he said.

“Toilet’s clogged again?” asked his boss, referring to a recurring issue.

“It’s not the toilets,” he said, wondering how to broach the topic without causing the boss to explode.

“Well? What is it? Spit it out, man.” Teddy never did have a lot of patience, and it was in moments like these that Boyd wondered if he shouldn’t have followed his wife’s advice a long time ago and started looking for a different job—one with an employer who didn’t snap at him all the time. Then again, after talking with plenty of his colleagues, also bus drivers, he had come to the conclusion that there was no such thing as the perfect boss.

“The bus has been stolen, boss.”

Silence on the other end. But not for long. “What?!” Teddy exploded.

“Two kids. I saw them climbing in and taking off. Teenagers, actually. I called the police, and they should be here any moment now.”

There was plenty of cursing on the other end of the call, then Teddy started breathing very heavily into the device, which was not a good sign. “What about the tourists?”

“Oh, they’re fine,” he assured the man. At least that was one silver lining to the whole terrible incident. “We had just stopped at Castle Coninxdonck and they were snapping shots as usual when all of a sudden I heard a noise. When I looked over, I saw that those two kids had snuck onto the bus and were taking off with it.”

“But how?!”

“Well…” He swallowed with difficulty. “I may have accidentally left the keys in the ignition, boss.”

Even more vituperation this time, not to mention personal insults. Mention was made of certain parts of Boyd’s anatomy being forcefully removed and inserted in other parts, and the entire experience was far from pleasant.

“You shouldn’t have called the cops,” said Teddy. “We deal with these things ourselves, Boyd. How many times have I told you?”

“I know, but I figured…”

“What did you tell them?”

“The same thing I’ve just told you. That two kids have stolen my bus and taken off with it and now I’m stranded with fifty Japanese tourists in the middle of Loveringem.”

“Mmm,” said the owner of Birt Travel. “I guess you can’t call them back and tell them you made a mistake? No, I guess not. That wouldn’t go over too well with our boys and girls in blue.” He sighed deeply. “Okay, fine. Just let them deal with it, and in the meantime, I’ll see what I can do on my end. And Boyd?”

“Yes, boss?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Not to mention a moron.”

“Yes, boss. I know, boss.”

The call disconnected and Boyd tucked away his phone, discovering that he suddenly felt a little nauseous.

 

Mohammad Elmaleh and Beni Idrissi, the two teenagers who had taken the bus, were having the time of their lives. It had been a great coincidence that they just happened to pass by, on their way from the bus stop, when they saw a flock of Japanese tourists snapping pictures of some stupid old castle. A bus stood parked by the side of the road, the engine idling, with not a soul in sight. No driver, no passengers—just a big, old empty bus, the engine running and the keys in the ignition.

It had been Beni’s idea to take advantage of this rare opportunity to have themselves an adventure.

“I’ve always wanted to drive a bus,” he confessed to Mohammed.

His eyes were twinkling mischievously, as they often did when he was up to no good. It was one of the reasons he and Mohammed had been friends since primary school. Mohammed had always been a shy kid—reticent and responsible—while Beni was the exact opposite. Maybe that’s why they had become such close friends. Mohammed had been seated next to Beni by their first-grade teacher, who thought Mohammed was too shy and quiet and could use a little livening up. Sitting next to Beni just might do the trick.

It had done the trick and more. The two youngsters had quickly become the bane of their teacher’s existence with their pranks and jokes. Even Mohammed’s parents had noticed the change in their son and weren’t happy about it, lamenting the bad influence Beni had on him. But by then it was too late. The two boys had become friends for life.

“Let’s go!” said Beni as he mounted the steps to the bus’s driver’s seat.

Mohammed hesitated. Stealing a bus was a different beast altogether from their usual shenanigans and could get them into a lot of trouble. Then again, where was the harm in taking a short drive? They’d take the bus for a spin and abandon it after twenty minutes.

And so, he had joined his friend as Beni took the wheel and put the massive vehicle in motion.

“Oh, this is great!” Beni cackled happily as he steered the bus down the leafy road.

Castle Coninxdonck was only one of the many castles, country houses and villas that dotted this part of the province. It was part of the chateau route, making it a tourist attraction for the many visitors hoping to catch a glimpse of how the rich had lived over a century ago. With its castle parks and charming villages, it was a popular destination.

This part of the province of East Flanders had once been home to the captains of industry who owned and operated factories in the provincial capital, Ghent. Most of the castles were still privately owned, but accessible to tourists. They were part of the city’s green belt, with municipalities that stretched along the river Scheldt, and comprised several nature reserves, lakes and even a moated fortress dating back to the middle ages.

As Beni stomped on the gas, the two friends zoomed underneath a canopy of trees and along the twisty roads that made up this part of the countryside.

“Let me drive,” said Mohammed.

“Not a chance!” said Beni. “You don’t even have your driver’s license yet. You’ll crash the bus.”

“No, I won’t. I mean, how difficult can it be?”

“Okay, fine,” said Beni, momentarily pulling over. Parking on the shoulder of the road, the two boys switched positions, and Mohammed felt like the captain of an airplane as he took control of the wheel. It was a lot harder than he thought, though, and nothing like driving a regular car, which he had done with his dad as the old man gave him driving lessons in the family Mercedes.

“Careful!” Beni warned as his friend almost hit a cyclist slowly creeping along the road. It was an old man, and he didn’t seem very steady on his bike.

Finally, they left the small country lane behind and merged onto a bigger road that cut through fields that stretched all around them. Sunflowers to the right and corn to the left.

Now the trouble wasn’t old men on bikes but other cars.

“Try not to hit anything, Mo,” said Beni. “I’m begging you, bro.”

Mohammed discovered that he was sweating. “Jesus, this thing steers hard!” he cried, struggling to keep the massive vehicle on the road and not drifting into a ditch.

And then, all of a sudden, it happened. A car came zooming up from the opposite direction, and because Mohammed couldn’t confidently gauge the distance between the bus and the car, he oversteered as he frantically tried to keep the bus under control.

“Hey, what are you doing!” Beni yelled as he shot up from his seat and tried to take over the wheel.

But it was too late. The bus had been going at a pretty steady clip and they headed straight for a ditch. There was a swaying motion as the massive vehicle tilted sideways, and then they were going down, the bus sliding a couple of meters into the ditch, the world spinning around them. Both kids were thrown from their positions behind the wheel, and as the bus shuddered to a full stop, they broke out into hysterical laughter.

“Oh, my God!” Beni screamed. “You crashed the bus, bro!”

“Let’s go!” said Mohammed.

Both kids climbed through the driver’s side window, clambered over the side of the bus, and down to the shoulder of the road. As they ran off, Mohammed glanced back at the vehicle: it was lying on its side in the ditch, like a giant beast that had been felled.

What an adventure—what a rush!

Chapter Three

Tim had actually jumped at the chance. Chasing a couple of kids who had stolen a bus? It seemed like a pretty easy job compared to some of the other assignments he’d been tasked with over the years. As luck would have it, he’d been in the vicinity of Castle Coninxdonck when the call came in, dropping off a package. He wasn’t the kind of person typically called in to make deliveries, but this was a special client, and the package had been a particularly large one. Since the pay was good, he didn’t mind.

And so he’d jumped on his Kawasaki Ninja H2 and gone in pursuit of the bus. Good thing it was equipped with a tracker, so whoever had taken it wouldn’t get very far.

His bosses had supplied him with the coordinates, and now all he had to do was track them on the head-up display built into his helmet. State-of-the-art tech that had set him back quite a tidy sum, but had served him well over the years.

It wasn’t long before he caught up with his target, and he wasn’t surprised to find that the bus was lying in a ditch. Like a beached whale, it was lying with its belly fully exposed where those kids had presumably left it.

He tapped a button on his helmet and connected with his bosses.

“Yeah, I found the bus,” he said. “Crashed in a ditch. No sign of the thieves.”

“Find them,” the voice said. “And take care of them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Nobody steals from us. Time to send a message. Is that understood?”

“Loud and clear,” he said, getting more and more excited about the job by the minute.

He scanned his surroundings. The road was clear in both directions—no sign of those kids. Looked like they had escaped by taking a shortcut through the fields.

He thought for a moment. Chances were that the cops would arrive soon, and the last thing he needed was to be seen at the scene. So he resolutely steered his bike in the opposite direction. A couple hundred meters beyond where the bus lay stranded, a dirt path forked off the main road, leading straight into a wooded area. He quickly parked his bike behind a thicket of bushes and dismounted. Time to get to work.

 

Mohammed and Beni were crazy, but not so crazy they’d risk walking down the main road. Instead, they had decided to head into the fields and make their way to the next bus stop, then hop on a bus—without paying, of course—and head home to Ghent, where they both lived in the Ekkergem neighborhood. Both of them were high-school dropouts and still lived with their parents. Not for long, though. Mohammed was making so much dough lately that soon he’d be able to afford a down payment on an apartment of his own, and the same went for Beni. The two friends had considered moving in together, which would save them some money, especially now that the real estate market in Ghent was so saturated that rental prices were skyrocketing. But since the money was rolling in at a steady clip, that wasn’t even necessary. In fact, things were so good that pretty soon Mohammed might be able to afford an actual loft in one of the swankiest parts of town.

The two teenagers were traipsing along when, all of a sudden, Mohammed had a feeling they were being followed. When he looked back, he didn’t see anything apart from a herd of cows, looking at them with their typical inscrutable and bored expressions.

“What’s wrong?” asked Beni.

“Nothing,” he said. “I thought we were being followed.”

“Never seen a cow before, city boy?” said Beni as he clapped him on the shoulder.

Mo smiled and hurried after his friend. His New Balance sneakers were already wet from the soggy soil, and streaked with green. It had been raining a lot these past couple of weeks and he had to watch his step. He didn’t mind. He’d buy himself a new pair—or a dozen. He could afford that now. As a self-confessed sneaker freak he owned lots of them. He’d even found a site where they sold exclusive sneakers at exorbitant prices. Heaven.

“I’ll bet it will be all over the news tonight,” said Beni.

“Yeah, right. It’s just a bus,” said Mohammed. “Nobody cares.”

“You’re forgetting where we are, buddy,” said his friend. “This is where the rich and famous live. They’re not used to crime like we are. When a bus gets stolen it’s big news.”

He smiled. “Pretty soon we’ll both be living here. We could buy neighboring villas.”

“No way am I moving to Loveringem. I want to be where the action is. I’m getting one of those fancy new lofts in the center of town. You know, like that former prime minister.”

“How much will that set you back, you think?”

“A million, easy. But that’s only if you take one of the lofts right at the top. Imagine looking out across the skyline of Ghent, bro. It’s the best.”

“Yeah, I guess nothing can beat that view,” he agreed. And then maybe, when he was settled in, he could arrange a similar setup for his mom and dad. They’d ask him where the money was coming from, but in the end they’d be too happy to ask a lot of questions.

A twig snapped behind them, and he whipped his head around so fast that he felt a crick in his neck. That’s when he saw him: a man dressed in black leather from head to toe, black motorcycle helmet covering his face. He stared at the man, who’d approached so fast he was standing right in front of him. As he opened his mouth to speak, something flashed in the man’s gloved hand. An arm was thrust forward, and a sharp pain sliced across his chest. He looked down only to see a knife buried deeply into his chest.

He wanted to scream but found that he had suddenly lost control of his voice.

He staggered back as the man pulled the knife from his chest. Casting about, he caught a glimpse of Beni running away as fast as his legs could carry him, the man giving chase.

He collapsed onto the wet grass, next to a pile of cow dung. As darkness closed in on his field of vision, the last thought that entered his mind was that he was cold—so cold.

 

Tim looked around and cursed. He should have been quicker off the mark. Somehow, the second kid had managed to make his getaway. But not to worry. He’d been filming the scene from the moment he caught up with the two kids and would watch the footage later on to see if he couldn’t identify him. He may have gotten away this time, but he wouldn’t be able to elude him for long, and the same fate that had befallen his friend would come to him.

He wiped the knife on a clump of grass and retraced his steps. When he reached the fallen kid, he took off his glove, knelt down, and pressed a hand to his throat, feeling for a pulse. When there was none, he grunted with approval. One down, one more to go. But not now. First, he needed to get away from here before all hell broke loose.

He searched the kid’s pockets until he found his wallet. He studied it for a moment. Mohammed Elmaleh. He turned around the card. Place of issue: Ghent. He made sure that the camera got a good look at the identification number of the National Register. That should suffice to get a bead on Mohammed’s cowardly friend who’d left his buddy to die.

He wiped any possible prints off the ID card and put the wallet back where he had found it, then glanced around to make sure there were no unwanted witnesses. Apart from those stupid cows, there were none.

He broke into a light trot in the direction of the main road and the location where he had stashed his bike. Moments later, he was mounting his noble steed, and before long was racing away from the scene. As he gave his boss an update on the state of affairs, he could tell that the man wasn’t happy.

“I’ll get him,” he assured him. “Don’t worry, boss.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” said the icy voice on the other end of the call. “I know you’ll get him. And if not…”

Tim grimaced. He knew that if he didn’t do a proper job, it was his ass on the line.

“I’ll finish him soon,” he promised.

“You’d better.”

The call cut out, and he tapped another button on his helmet, connecting with one of his associates. Before long, he had transmitted the National Register number of the kid.

For a moment, no information was forthcoming, but then suddenly the voice returned. “Mohammed Elmaleh? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, why?”

“He’s Green Valley.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Low-level street dealer.”

He grimaced. “Is that a fact?”

“And you’re telling me he took a bus?”

“He did. Him and his little buddy.”

A low whistle sounded in his ears. “The boss know?”

“He does. He’s the one who told me to finish them off—both of them.”

“Muscling in on Phoenix territory, huh? They’ve got balls, those kids.”

“All the more reason to get rid of them.”

“I should be able to get you the information on his friend soon,” his associate assured him.

“Good,” he said. “Make it snappy.”

He disconnected and took the onramp, then sped up and raced off in the direction of Ghent. Life had suddenly become a whole lot more interesting.

Which was exactly the way he liked it.