Terminal Vendetta (A Diana Weick Thriller Book 3) by Cate Clarke (book suggestions .txt) 📕

the driveway, there was a clean black Ferrari, the sun bouncing off its every curve and dip like a shining diamond in the middle of a pile of garbage. Some dust picked up with the wind, sticking to its doors—Laird physically cringed at the sight of that beautiful car being tainted by the farm’s dirt.

The doorbell rang again.

Laird closed the door to his mother’s bedroom and slunk down the stairs, setting up his rifle trap along the doorway, just in case. With three flicks, he undid all of the locks and opened the front door. It let out a loud squeak.

There was a man standing on the front step wearing a two-piece suit with a T-shirt underneath the blazer, a baseball hat and a large black duffel bag in his one hand. He lifted his head, the cap casting a shadow over the top half of his pale face, but Laird recognized him.

“Is this a special delivery?” Laird asked, his eyes going toward the duffel bag. He stepped back to his set-up lawn chair at the base of the stairs but didn’t sit down, crossing his arms and looking Asher up and down.

Without saying anything, Asher stepped inside, setting off the trip wire. It seemed intentional or like he just didn’t care. As soon as his ankle hit the wire, he continued walking forward, the rifle shot grazing right behind him and hitting the wood of the doorframe. Splinters of old wood scattered into the air and littered the front step.

Asher walked around the trap that was now smoking. It hadn’t been used in a long time. Laird had never really expected anyone to boldly walk right through it—the bore must have gotten obstructed over time. It smelled like rotten eggs.

“Laird!” his mother called from upstairs.

“Stay up there, Ma!” Laird yelled, pushing at the trap and kicking it until it was outside the house so they wouldn’t all die from either it exploding or releasing cancerous fumes. Coughing and waving at the smoke in front of his face, Laird shoved the rifle trap off the front step—it rolled and crunched against the dirt.

“Bold move,” Laird hacked out as he re-entered the house and closed the door. Asher had set himself up on the fabric-covered couch in the middle of the room, facing the wall of wires and white brick fireplace.

Still without a word, Asher put the duffel bag on the coffee table in front of him. Laird rounded around the other side of the table, checking the back of his jeans for his pistol if he needed it.

A hard zip. Asher undid the bag and pulled at its sides so it would flop open, revealing piles and piles and piles of cash inside.

“Holy shit,” Laird muttered, peering over.

Asher took out a few of the bundles, counting and spreading them out across the table until he had a small mountain on the stone top. With one slightly trembling hand, he pushed the mountain toward Laird and said, “Your share.”

“My share?” Laird raised his eyebrows.

Asher nodded.

There was a moment. Something Laird hadn’t seen Asher do before and something his reputation didn’t call for. He leaned back on the couch, took off his hat, wiped at the sweat on his brow and relaxed. One arm spread out across the back of the couch as he let out a heavy sigh, taking another good look around the house.

“It’s a nice place,” Asher said, his accent strange and Americanized but with a slight foreign twinge. “I could live out here. Away from everyone, not that far from the Mexican border for a quick escape, plenty of technology to work with.”

“You want to be my roommate?” Laird scoffed, slowly grabbing at his share of the money, placing some in his pocket and the rest on the mantle of the fireplace. From behind his ear, he grabbed a fresh joint that he’d rolled this morning and lit it up with a Zippo lighter from the breast pocket of his open flannel shirt. He took a hit and passed it to Asher.

Surprising again, Asher took it and inhaled, squishing the filter with his gray lips. Coughing after the first hit, he passed it back. Laird sat down on the other end of the couch, testing the waters and his own confidence. Despite how in need he was of company outside of his mother, Asher was still a wanted terrorist and terrifying in his own right.

The joint moved between them, filling the living room with the smell and the smoke, covering up the smells from the misfired rifle.

It took more than a few moments but Asher finally spoke up again.

“Your mum upstairs…” he started, the joint scratching at the back of his throat. “You stay here to take care of her, right?”

Laird shrugged and said, “That and there’s nowhere else to go.”

“And what about now?” Asher asked, gesturing to the bundle of cash peeking out of Laird’s pocket.

“What? Will I stay?” Laird thought. “She can’t move.”

Asher gave a soft laugh and a shake of his head.

“It’s just that easy, I guess,” he said. “My mother couldn’t even bother to live in the same continent.”

Looking over at his profile, Asher was sitting almost completely still, staring at the wall. But when he lifted his hand to wipe at the sweat on his forehead again, his fingers were shaky.

“Bummer,” Laird replied. “I don’t mean to pry… I’m hoping this isn’t all just chicanery but, what the hell are you doing here, man?”

“Hiding,” Asher said. “Seemed like as good a place as any. Though your traps need work.”

Laird asked, “What are you hiding from?”

Asher looked at him, his eyes red and bloodshot—not a regular smoker like Laird, this weed was going to stick him to this couch for hours.

“It’d be easier to list the things I’m not hiding from,” Asher murmured.

“I mean I saw some of the stuff on the news with that MI6 broad and Zabójca…” Laird trailed off, hoping Asher would pick up the details.

He did.

“Mum and Dad,” Asher stated,