He reached his gray Tundra. Breathing heavily, he put the rifle in a seabag in the bed of the truck, covered it with a tarp and got into the cab. His hands shook as he raced away from the scene.
Sonny reached the ridge just as the Tundra rounded a corner. Behind him, in the rundown building, lay his boss, Terry O’Brady, dead, a large hole where his face used to be.
A few feet away, on a rock, lay a half-done coloring page speckled with drops of red. In bold black Sharpie were the words, “For Alli.”