Page 136 of Lost Lyrebird

I sneak another look around the corner.The bag is gone, and I see two figures—one large, one small—darting into the night.

God, he was just a kid.

I’m fucking thankful I didn’t throw the knife.Because that’s the last thing I need, to add another shadow to the ones that already haunt me.

Uncertainty and anger war within me.Part of me wants to chase them down, but another part of me wants to be smarter about this.What drives me forward is the kid.

Rivers’ mantra flashes through my mind.“Always go with option C.”His reckless, kamikaze attitude keeps our team on edge, and sometimes it means we have to pull his crazy ass out of dangerous situations because he won’t hold back.A mix of options A and B—that’s option C.The best of both.

The first thing I do is grab the fire extinguisher and put out the flames.Then I grab my dad’s old firearm from the safe in the garage, slipping it into the waistband at my back.I’m not planning to shoot anyone unless it comes down to me or them.Along with the gun, I grab a tire iron, a hunting knife, and duct tape.

As I dart through the backyard, I clear every shadow, using what little I can for cover.Every step is taken with care.

When I reach the back fence, I hear an engine rev, the RPMs higher than normal.My footsteps quicken.After scaling the fence, I head toward the noise, east and a half block up the road.Each car becomes my shield.Not foolproof, but it’s all I’ve got.

There’s music blaring from a vehicle, tires screeching, and more words shouted in Spanish.This time, I do my best to pick out the words so I can figure out their meaning later.

“¡Levántalo!¡Levántalo!¡Rápido!”

Lift it up!Lift it up!Quick!

A younger voice responds, “Estoy tratando, papá.”

I’m trying, Dad.

I shrug out of my leather jacket, needing to move freely.Fortunately, I’d worn an old, threadbare grey t-shirt underneath.

“No puedo.Es muy pesado.”

I can’t.It’s too heavy.

I hear a sob, followed by a cry of pain, then more cursing.

The engine revs again, echoing through the neighborhood.I peek around the front of the car I’m crouched behind and measure the distance from where I stand to their car, judging by the light spilling on the pavement.I sprint in a crouch from one car to the next.If I get close enough, I might catch some identifying info for Joey when I call this in.

What I see next is a boxy, blue Chevy with fresh paint and chromed-out wheels.It’s riding low, and I can just make out the driver, mostly in shadow.

“Vamos, mueve el culo.¿Qué carajo pasó?Explicar.¿Alguien rompió la puerta?¿Policías?

Come on, move your ass.What the hell happened?Explain.Did someone break the door down?Was it the cops?

Multiple voices come in rapid-fire succession.

The driver, one hand on the wheel, the other hanging out the open window, looks back at the people in the backseat.I focus on the bigger guy next to him—buzzed short hair, thick rings on his fingers, and a horrible scar running from his mouth to his ear.When the driver turns back to face the front, I take him in.He’s bald with a thick, dark mustache.A black and white bandana is folded and sits low on his forehead.There’s a massive tattoo covering his forearm—a large black scorpion is on top of another with its tail poised to strike the scorpion below.He also has three small teardrops tattooed beneath the corner of his eye, and the same image on my garage is tattooed on his neck as well as his hand that’s on the steering wheel.

It’s got to be enough.

I duck back behind the car and wait until they speed off down the road.

Back inside through the smashed door, I grab a notebook and write down everything I can remember.Then I grab the wall phone and call Joey.He sounds groggy but promises he’ll be here in twenty minutes.

My gaze zeroes in on a metal pot lying on its side on the floor.Brownish-yellow liquid is leaking out.There’s a massive puddle on the kitchen floor, spreading, now even creeping toward the carpet.I don’t know why I focus on it—it’s just that it makes everything worse.

Looking around the house, I realize there’s no fixing this, and even if I could, it’ll never be the same.

Anger burns through me, a violent itch under my skin, demanding action.More action than just reporting it to the cops.The hell if I’m going to wait for them to figure out who these assholes are and eventually catch them.I trust Joey—he’s a damn good detective—but this is personal.The need to exact my own revenge is riding me hard.

CHAPTER 39