Page 4 of Dark ’N’ Deadly

“Eighteen.”

“Why’d you run from me?” Not having a license wasn’t enough to get someone arrested. Running from the police or federal agents was.

Jesse averted his gaze. “Like I told ya, I don’t got no license.”

Bullshit. Didn’t take a world-class detective to see the kid was lying his ass off.

“Don’t move,” he ordered Jesse, then to Tiger, “Bewaken,” commanding his K-9 to guard.

Tiger dipped his head and let out a low snort, as if saying, “Yes, sir.”

Eric went back to the pickup and searched the area around the driver’s seat. Since the truck would be impounded and all contents itemized, he didn’t plan on an in-depth search incident to arrest. As he viewed the contents of the truck, he was more and more convinced there was a boatload more going on here than just an unlicensed driver.

A backpack lay on the floorboard. More documents were strewn on the seat. He picked a few up, scanning them before tossing them aside. Every sheet contained rambling, twisted anti-government rhetoric declaring sovereignty from paying taxes, getting driver licenses, and any other fee the almighty system could drum up. It was all pseudo-legalese mumbo jumbo. He’d seen it before. In Alabama.

Carefully, and methodically, he looked around the cab’s interior for anything out of place within arm’s length of the driver seat. There. His pulse began to race.

Two seams in the plastic between the steering column and the radio portion of the dashboard were bowed slightly outward, creating a gap. This, too, he’d seen before.

He tugged a knife from his belt and stuck it in the seam, using it as a pry bar. One side of the plastic popped off and fell to the floor. Staring back at him was exactly what he expected—a pistol taped to the inside of the plastic. A 9mm Baretta, to be precise.

This is bad.

Too many things were adding up to be discounted as coincidence. Sovereign citizen documents, no license, registration, or insurance. Lastly, the hidden gun. When Eric had worked in Birmingham, he’d run into someone who liked to hide weapons in that exact spot next to the steering column.

Harley Gant.

The sovereign citizen leader who’d murdered his friends and gotten away with it.

Tiger barked, followed by a sharp whine.

His dog swung his head back and forth from where he guarded Jesse McTavish to the back of the truck. Eric ducked out of the pickup, noting the wind had shifted, doing a one-eighty and now blowing from the direction of the pickup directly at his K-9.

When his dog whined again, it wasn’t Tiger’s I-gotta-pee whine. This was his I-found-something-you-gotta-see yowl.

“Los,” he said, releasing the dog from his guard post over the boy.

Tiger whirled toward the truck, rising on his hind legs and resting his front paws on the tailgate. The dog’s black nostrils flared repeatedly as he took in scents coming off the drums. His tail whipped back and forth.

Tiger just hit on those drums.

When he turned to face Jesse McTavish, the boy swallowed hard, his eyes wild with panic.

The deep pile of shit the kid had stepped in just got a whole lot deeper. Eric couldn’t be absolutely certain what was in those drums, but he could guess. Explosive material. When sovereign citizens and explosives got together…

People died.

Chapter Two

Tess eased her beat-up Camry into a space on Mulberry Street. Her belly flip-flopped as she stared at the three-story gray courthouse that looked more like a mausoleum. Somewhere inside that building was her baby brother, the little boy she’d abandoned ten years ago.

He must hate me.

She’d thought about taking him with her, but without money to buy food and clothes and put a roof over their heads, it seemed more prudent at the time to leave him where he was until she could get settled and find a job. When that time had come, she found a discreet way to get money to him and make sure he had her cell phone and email address, but he never responded to any of her messages and never reached out to her. Until five hours ago.

Right before getting arrested.

A lump the size of a grapefruit lodged in her throat. Regardless of how much she’d tried making things right with him, the guilt still ate away like acid in the pit of her stomach.