Chapter 7: The Lot

I watched a line of bikes roll past before Ronan let the curtain fall.

"Cyrus didn't send them," he said.

"How do you know?"

"Cyrus doesn't hunt in the dark. He would knock on the door in daylight."

He pulled on his boots and checked the knife on his belt.

I was already off the bed.

"Stay inside," he said.

"It's my father they want."

"They want the urn, and you're holding the urn. Stay inside."

I picked up the tire iron I had carried in from my bike.

"No."

He looked at the tire iron, then at me, and gave one short nod.

We went out the door together into the cold rain.

The men were waiting under the sodium lights, a loose half-circle of leather and wet beards.

I knew every one of them.

The prospect who had carried the urn in the quarry.

A heavy man with a gray ponytail who had taught me to play pool when I was sixteen.

Two others who had drunk beers at my father's wake.

None of them looked at me.

"Where's Bronco?" I said.

"Home, suspended," the heavy man said. "He doesn't know we're here."

"Sure he doesn't."

"We just want what's his."

"The urn is mine."

"Roz, it's the club's. Bring it out and nobody gets hurt."

I held the tire iron up in front of me.

"Come and take it."

He sighed, and for a second he looked sorry.

Then four men moved at once.

A fist caught me across the cheek before I had time to swing.

My head snapped sideways, and I tasted blood.

I swung back blind and felt the iron connect with something that cracked.

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