Page 9 of Blood Moon

John cursed and made a slicing gesture. “Never mind. Let’s just scrub this whole damn day from memory. Don’t bring it up again. Okay?” Mutt closed his eyes. “All right then.”

He went down the short hallway into the bathroom and switched on the light fixture above the sink. He braced his hands on its rim as he leaned in and regarded his battered face in the mirror.

No permanent damage had been inflicted, but he wondered how he was going to explain to Barker the obvious drubbing he’d taken.

I got mugged. Can you believe it? Coming out of a 7-Eleven with a six-pack and a bag of chips.

Damn dog tripped me up. I stumbled into the edge of the closet door. About broke my neck, and it hurt like hell.

Or maybe he would avoid the encounter altogether and just call in sick.I feel like shit,hammeredshit, so I took a Covid test. Guess what?

Barker would smell those lies from a mile off. He decided to sleep on it, see how he looked in the morning, and decide then how he was going to explain.

He showered. The hot water eased his aches and pains, but he stayed in the stall until it ran cool. He dried, pulled on a loose pair of gym shorts, and was making his way back down the hall toward the living room when someone stepped into the connecting doorway, filling it with a menacing silhouette that said, “Hey, asshole!”

It was the matchstick guy.

Chapter 3

You dickhead,” John said. “Good thing my gun is in the bedroom. I could have shot you.”

The other man grinned through his scraggly mustache. “I knocked.”

“I was in the shower.”

“No lights on. Your front door unlocked. Useless dog. Anybody could’ve waltzed in here.”

“When I got home, I had other things on my mind, like getting painkillers into my bloodstream.”

“Hey, you started the fight.” He gave John’s face a closer look and grimaced. “Looks ugly. How’s it feel?”

“Throbs like a mofo.”

“I had to make the fight look authentic.”

“You made it look authentic enough,” John grumbled. “What’s with the matchstick?”

“I need to look like a creep with an attitude.”

John snorted, giving the other man a disparagingonce-over. “Well, you succeeded. In fact, you may have overshot it. How’s your belly?”

The guy raised the hem on his dirty t-shirt. Beneath his rib cage was a bruise the size of John’s fist. John whistled. “Landed it right where I was aiming. I feel better.” He smiled beatifically. Then they laughed, high-fived, and man-hugged, slapping each other on the back.

Mitch Haskell and John had been partner detectives before Mitch was recruited by the DEA to work undercover. He was a former Marine with a service record that included one deployment to Iraq and three to Afghanistan. He was whipcord lean and as tough as boot leather—a guy you didn’t mess with. But at heart, he wasallheart. John had seen him unashamedly cry over fallen service members and law officers of every stripe.

John looked down at Mitch’s raggedy jeans. They were wet up to his knees, his boots caked with mud. “You’re tracking up my floor.”

“Your fault. You live on the edge of a swamp. Muddied floors are the price you pay to have visitors.”

“You weren’t invited.”

Mitch only grinned. “I’m just glad I made it here without having a run-in with a gator or getting bit by a water moccasin.”

“You came by boat?”

“Less likelihood of being followed. Wouldn’t do to be seen making a house call on a cop, although it seems to get darker out here every time I come.”

“Which is why I like it.” The living room was still lighted only by the muted television, and John kept it that way. He gestured toward the kitchen. “There’s beer in the fridge.”