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

turning back to the wall, his eyes sadly fluttering down to his lap. Running a hand over his shaved head and leaning forward, he said, “I was born into this, you know? I never had a choice. And that’s what mum used to preach to me… that our choices defined us. So what do her choices say about her? What does the world think about my mother right now? They think that both of my parents are disreputable scum.

“And they’re not wrong. They’re both… fucking terrible…” He continued with a heartbroken laugh. “I did all of this just to spend time with them, to get to know them, and I shouldn’t have. You know how they say never meet your heroes? How about never meet your parents? Like actually meeting them. It’s disturbing.”

His voice jumped up and down. Despite his receding hairline and the wear on his face, Asher wasn’t that old and hearing him speak like this almost reminded Laird of Weick’s kid, Wesley. Just a bit older and a bit darker. Wesley was raised by ObiWan Kenobi while Asher was raised by Emperor Palpatine. The weed was forcing him to think of Star Wars analogies that this kid was probably too young for.

“But you can do anything now,” Laird said, gesturing to the wide-open duffel bag on the table.

“Sure I can.” Asher sighed, looking up and toward the piles of money. “I just don’t want to.”

There was another moment of silence, interrupted by Laird’s mom popping on the TV upstairs—the voices of blood-and-thunder actresses weaved through the thin walls of the house. Laird pulled out another joint from behind his other ear, lighting it up for himself, not offering it to Asher this time because he certainly didn’t need it.

“What about the other guy?” Laird asked. “Snowman?”

It still hurt to say that name out loud. After all these years of pushing it down, it could still come back up in an instant like a gag reflex. He watched Cameron Snowman’s father get shot down, protecting his fellow SEAL members, at Kushkin’s compound from behind a computer screen.

“Another one I’m hiding from,” Asher said, leaning back and stretching out his long torso.

“What does he want?”

“To kill me,” Asher said. “Also, the money.”

“Uh…” Laird’s eyes flashed between the duffel bag and Asher. “Is he coming here?”

Asher’s gaze slid over to him. “He might.”

“Well, does he know you’re here?”

“No, but…” Asher trailed off.

“But what?”

“Snowman and I never really got along that well. He was looking for a reason to kill me and now that he has one,” Asher explained, “he’s going to find me.”

“I can’t protect you from that one,” Laird muttered.

“I know,” he said. “That’s not why I came anyway. I just… yeah. I don’t know. What’s the fucking point, man?”

“What do you mean he has a reason to kill you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter!” Asher stood up. With one hand, he grabbed one of the straps of the duffel bag and tossed it, bundles of cash scattered everywhere, kicking up dust and leaving behind serpentine trails on the unwashed floors. Asher screamed, “Nothing fucking matters! Let him come and put that bullet in my head. God knows, I deserve it. God knows I don’t deserve this.”

With both of his palms up, he gestured to the piles of strewn money. It had to be in the thousands if not millions of dollars in cash spread out over his living-room floor. It was more money than this house had passed through it in his lifetime.

“What about the Ferrari outside?” Laird asked, sucking on the joint. Trying not to react to the tantrum, not because he didn’t think Asher’s volatile state was dangerous, but because he didn’t want to make it worse for him and Mom upstairs.

Asher looked over his shoulder and said, “It is a nice car.”

“The nicest.” Laird nodded, keeping his eyes moving between Asher and the window. There was a strong suspicion that Asher was right and Snowman would come for him, if not now then soon. The Ferrari wasn’t exactly the most subtle way to get through Texas, and the Roethlisbergers would gossip to anyone and everyone about who and what they saw go down their sleepy road.

“Listen, kid,” Laird said, taking another hit and holding it in for a good moment before exhaling. He ashed it on the edge of a glass tray on the coffee table “I’ve been there. I know what it feels like… to feel like there’s no fucking point. I’ve had the barrel in my mouth, man. I understand.”

In his peripherals, Asher turned all the way around to look at him but this time, Laird had his eyes fixed to the wall opposite him. The wires he’d strung up over the years buzzing and filling the pauses.

“Why don’t you stay here a couple of days?” Laird offered. “Figure out what you want to do. It ain’t much but the couch is pretty comfortable.”

Asher straightened up. “Really?”

Laird turned his eyes to him and said, “Yeah.”

The boy did a circle, starting to pick up the money he’d scattered and putting it back into the duffel bag. Just as he saw some of Wesley in him, he saw himself in Asher as well. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d been lost in his mid-twenties too. Longer than he’d like, but it didn’t feel that long ago. Asher was lost and alone—suddenly, an orphan.

What would Weick say? It crossed his mind—to write her another letter. But this time, it wasn’t the Readers, it wasn’t an organization. It was just a man coming to his home for help. Did Weick really need to know this? If he told her, there was a possibility, however small, that she might come and kill him herself, not letting Snowman get the chance. But how mad was she going to be if he didn’t tell her? The Readers were her enemies that she’d been fighting through for weeks and months. Maybe, she deserved to know.

“I’ll give you two days,”