The resentment for Mackey had come easily and true, but there had been something in Cab, something in the discovered boy that mended itself to Packer. Brothers first, then friends. And now, that little shy boy all those years ago grown up only to find the other side of the ground because his woman had gotten him killed over a bad meth score. Money miscounted and weapons drawn and a poor, foolish life ripped out of a poor fool's body. "What you holding?" Mackey asked. Packer looked up and unsnapped the ankle holster, handing the pistol across. Mackey dandled the Smith and Wesson in one flat palm, then placed it to the other, weighing the handgun a moment before passing it back. "That should definitely get the job done. Kill the cunt good. I'll talk to people, make sure they saw you sitting in here when it gets done. Least I can do, I guess." "What about the tweaker? The one who pulled the trigger that put Cab in the ground?" "Been taken care of," Mackey answered, hacking into his hands, the deep chest rattle of cigarette smoke a painful voice inside him. "They didn't even bother dragging the river. Question is, is if you've got the stomach for killing her. She was your woman before she was his, after all." Packer holstered the snubnose and dropped his trouser cuff in place. Was this one of the necessary plagues on his own heart? To do this thing, to take Drema out of this world, but to do so with complete love. What could be left after that? "Lord, Mack. Why is it you think I'm the one what wants to do
.It. " Packer dropped Shirttail off at his trailer, refusing his company but taking the Bronco and bottle of bonded bourbon. "Shit, this can leave til tomorrow, Pack. You need to come on up with me to my Mama's place and drink some fucking strawberry wine.
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