Secrets of the Dead Read Online Free
Author: Kylie Brant
get another chance.
Spotting a group of young men loitering in the middle of a sidewalk, Royce put on a burst of speed and barreled through them. Heard their shouts and calls behind him as he darted into a small market. They’d hassle Hobart when he followed. Maybe slow him down long enough.
The man behind the counter was waiting on a customer. Royce ran to the desk, his words coming in short choppy spurts. “Help me. Please, help. Call 9-1-1.”
“No kids! You come back with your mama. No kids allowed in here alone.” He jerked a thumb at a sign tacked up on the wall behind him.
Royce risked a glance outside. Hobart had taken the street around the guys on the walk and was angling back toward the sidewalk. “Please. Please help,” he implored the man. “Call 9-1-1. He’s trying to kill me!”
“Go off with your games!” the man thundered, looking up from the change he was counting to glower at Royce. “Or I’ll call the police.”
“Call them!” He dropped to the floor and crawled frantically around the counter, crouching at the man’s feet as the door burst open.
“A boy came in here.” Hobart’s voice was breathless. But there was an edge of mean to it that had Royce shuddering. “He stole from me. Did you see him?”
The next seconds stretched interminably as Royce trembled near the shop owner’s ankles. One. Two. Another. Then, “Out the back. The little thief ran in, then out.”
There was the sound of running footsteps. Then a hand gripped him by the shoulder and pulled him up, not ungently. “I will call the police,” the old man declared, keeping a death grip on Royce’s shoulder. “They can figure it out.”
“Call them.” Hadn’t he been pleading with the man to do just that? “But first hide me. Because he’ll be back. And maybe his friend, too.”
The shopkeeper bent low to look into Royce’s eyes. The man was old. Way older than Royce’s grandma, with a beak nose protruding from the folds and creases in his skin. Finally he gave a short nod and looked at his customer. “Enrico, lock the back door. Then the front. You, with me.” He marched Royce through a curtain into a tiny room with an overflowing desk.
An old fashioned square phone sat in the midst of the clutter and he snatched up the receiver now, his gnarled fingers going to the dial pad. “And what should I tell the police, hmm? That I have a boy here. A runaway? A thief?”
Royce tried to answer, but his teeth were chattering too loudly. He was shaking all over, although he didn’t feel cold. He wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed to make it stop. Fearfully he threw a glance over his shoulder, half expecting to hear the outside door break open. Fearing that in the next instant he’d see Hobart standing there. “Tell them…tell them to call Adam Raiker.”
Chapter 2
TEN WEEKS LATER
Declan Gallagher had the blood of warriors pulsing through his veins. Seven centuries earlier his ancestors had fought to the death beside William Wallace. In more recent times his relatives did their fighting in the Scottish Parliament, where the lack of bloodletting didn’t equate to less carnage. He was second generation American, but had been raised to believe that a person’s worth was measured by love of family and unfailing commitment to a righteous cause. In a manner of speaking, the man before him epitomized both.
The similarities between him and Adam Raiker had nothing to do with bloodline and everything to do with priorities. In Raiker Declan recognized a kindred spirit who mirrored his own strict code of honor. Which was why his agreement to the man’s request—whatever it was—would be immediate and sincere.
“I invited you here because I’ve developed a strategy. And I want you to carry it out.”
Declan straightened in his chair, adrenaline spiking. The family code that had been drilled into him as a child was coupled with an unflagging sense of adventure. When he’d been called to
Spotting a group of young men loitering in the middle of a sidewalk, Royce put on a burst of speed and barreled through them. Heard their shouts and calls behind him as he darted into a small market. They’d hassle Hobart when he followed. Maybe slow him down long enough.
The man behind the counter was waiting on a customer. Royce ran to the desk, his words coming in short choppy spurts. “Help me. Please, help. Call 9-1-1.”
“No kids! You come back with your mama. No kids allowed in here alone.” He jerked a thumb at a sign tacked up on the wall behind him.
Royce risked a glance outside. Hobart had taken the street around the guys on the walk and was angling back toward the sidewalk. “Please. Please help,” he implored the man. “Call 9-1-1. He’s trying to kill me!”
“Go off with your games!” the man thundered, looking up from the change he was counting to glower at Royce. “Or I’ll call the police.”
“Call them!” He dropped to the floor and crawled frantically around the counter, crouching at the man’s feet as the door burst open.
“A boy came in here.” Hobart’s voice was breathless. But there was an edge of mean to it that had Royce shuddering. “He stole from me. Did you see him?”
The next seconds stretched interminably as Royce trembled near the shop owner’s ankles. One. Two. Another. Then, “Out the back. The little thief ran in, then out.”
There was the sound of running footsteps. Then a hand gripped him by the shoulder and pulled him up, not ungently. “I will call the police,” the old man declared, keeping a death grip on Royce’s shoulder. “They can figure it out.”
“Call them.” Hadn’t he been pleading with the man to do just that? “But first hide me. Because he’ll be back. And maybe his friend, too.”
The shopkeeper bent low to look into Royce’s eyes. The man was old. Way older than Royce’s grandma, with a beak nose protruding from the folds and creases in his skin. Finally he gave a short nod and looked at his customer. “Enrico, lock the back door. Then the front. You, with me.” He marched Royce through a curtain into a tiny room with an overflowing desk.
An old fashioned square phone sat in the midst of the clutter and he snatched up the receiver now, his gnarled fingers going to the dial pad. “And what should I tell the police, hmm? That I have a boy here. A runaway? A thief?”
Royce tried to answer, but his teeth were chattering too loudly. He was shaking all over, although he didn’t feel cold. He wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed to make it stop. Fearfully he threw a glance over his shoulder, half expecting to hear the outside door break open. Fearing that in the next instant he’d see Hobart standing there. “Tell them…tell them to call Adam Raiker.”
Chapter 2
TEN WEEKS LATER
Declan Gallagher had the blood of warriors pulsing through his veins. Seven centuries earlier his ancestors had fought to the death beside William Wallace. In more recent times his relatives did their fighting in the Scottish Parliament, where the lack of bloodletting didn’t equate to less carnage. He was second generation American, but had been raised to believe that a person’s worth was measured by love of family and unfailing commitment to a righteous cause. In a manner of speaking, the man before him epitomized both.
The similarities between him and Adam Raiker had nothing to do with bloodline and everything to do with priorities. In Raiker Declan recognized a kindred spirit who mirrored his own strict code of honor. Which was why his agreement to the man’s request—whatever it was—would be immediate and sincere.
“I invited you here because I’ve developed a strategy. And I want you to carry it out.”
Declan straightened in his chair, adrenaline spiking. The family code that had been drilled into him as a child was coupled with an unflagging sense of adventure. When he’d been called to
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