Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3), Brett Battles [best books to read in your 20s TXT] 📗

A keypad is mounted to the wall next to the door, which I’m guessing allows people with stuff stored inside to enter whenever they need to. Apparently no one is interested in doing so at the moment, because the main parking lot is empty.

I take us to the west side and stop at an angle facing where Chuckie pulled off the road. Though there are several vehicles parked over there, the Mustang’s orange paint job sticks out from the crowd.

“What is that place?” I ask. “A bar?”

“It is not a bar.”

Jar hands me the binoculars and removes the drone from its bag.

I adjust the focus and take a look at the building. It’s square with a metal roof and a glass door entrance. Definitely a business, but I see no signs identifying what type it is.

Windows on either side of the door are large enough for me to see some clothing racks and shelves inside the building. A retail space. What kind, I’m still not sure. Even at max magnification, I can’t narrow things down further.

One thing I can see is Chuckie. He’s inside talking to a man behind a counter. The store appears to be otherwise deserted. Which begs the question, where are the people from the other parked cars?

With what appears to be a laugh, Chuckie turns from the counter and heads for the door.

I glance at Jar. She’s about to open her window to send the drone aloft.

“Forget that,” I say. “He’s leaving.”

I reach out to shift the truck into reverse, but before I can, Jar says, “Are you sure?”

“He’s leaving the store right now.”

“Look again.”

I frown and narrow my eyes. She seems to know something I don’t. I raise the binoculars.

“Yes, he’s leaving. He’s walking back to his car.” I probably say this with a little more sass than I should.

“Just wait.”

“For what? He’s leav—”

I stop myself. While Chuckie has indeed returned to the Mustang, he’s opening the trunk. From inside, he withdraws a golf bag. I switch my view back to the building, this time focusing on the area beyond it. The land is so flat here, it’s hard to see much of anything.

“Is he at a golf course?” I ask.

“Driving range,” Jar says.

“You could have told me that at the beginning.”

“I take it he is not leaving?”

I look at Chuckie again. He’s walking toward the building, the bag strapped over his shoulder. “Not leaving,” I say through gritted teeth.

She’s gracious enough not to look too smug as she opens her window and holds the drone outside. With a few taps on her phone, the device lifts into the air and disappears.

For the next twenty minutes, we watch from above as Chuckie hits balls on the driving range. On occasion, he shares a word or two with one of the other golfers, but mostly he seems to stick to himself. Twice, a guy who works for the range brings Chuckie baskets of balls and removes the empty baskets.

When the employee starts to bring over a fourth basket, Chuckie checks his phone, waves the guy off, and works on the few balls left in the current basket.

“I think he’s finishing up,” I say.

I start the truck. There’s one more thing we need to do, and it involves getting as close to Chuckie as possible.

As I pull back onto Schoolhouse Drive, Jar, who’s been monitoring the drone feed, says, “He has hit the last ball.”

I speed down the road and turn into the driving range parking lot. Two cars from the Mustang a slot has opened up. I pull into it, turn off the engine, and Jar and I lean our seats back into the crew cab section so that we’re below window level. Jar then transfers control of the drone to my phone.

I watch as Chuckie reaches the building and starts to walk past it. “Here he comes. Anything?”

Jar has opened a new app on her phone. “Not yet.”

Chuckie pauses at one of the shop’s windows, waves to the man inside, and continues on.

When he’s about three vehicles away from us, Jar says, “Contact. They’re both on.”

I let out a relieved breath. We’ve both been worried he’s turned off his secret phone, but Jar has picked up signals from both the phones he’s carrying.

She taps her device several times and watches a progress bar on the screen.

Chuckie walks past the back of our truck, without so much as a glance in our direction. When he reaches the Mustang, another car pulls into the lot and parks a few vehicles away on the other side. Chuckie opens the trunk of the Mustang and places his bag carefully inside. As he shuts it again, the driver of the other car gets out of his vehicle and says loudly, “Morning, Charles.”

“Hey, Robert. Good morning. How are you?”

On the drone feed, I watch them meet up halfway between their vehicles and shake hands. They talk—maskless—for a few minutes. They’re far enough away from us, and from the bugs in the Mustang, that we can’t hear what’s being said. The conversation appears jovial, like a couple of old friends shooting the breeze. Soon enough, they’re saying their goodbyes and Chuckie heads back to the Mustang, while Robert returns to his car and pulls out his clubs.

“You’re almost out of time,” I say.

“I need forty-five seconds.”

Chuckie will be gone before then.

Which means it’s up to me to buy more time.

I start the engine, back out of our space, and pull in behind the Mustang a second before its reverse lights come on.

Chuckie slams on his brakes and I slam on mine, like I’m as surprised as he is about how close we came to hitting each other.

He can’t see our cab from where he is, but he can see that our truck bed is still partially behind him. He honks his horn twice.

“Have you got it?” I ask.

“Almost.”

“I can’t stay here.”

“Hang on.”

Another honk, this one longer, more irritated.

“Jar.”

A third honk, which I’m sure is about to be followed by Chuckie getting out