Strike Read Online Free Page B

point at the sleeping bag. “That’s our only one.”
    â€œSpare clothes?”
    â€œNot that would fit him.”
    Gabriela stares daggers at me like I’m totally useless and tries to prop the kid up. He whimpers like he’s having a bad dream.
    Which . . . I guess he basically is.
    â€œYo, Cianci—” Gabriela calls.
    â€œCall me Chance from now on. It’s cooler.”
    I can almost hear her roll her eyes. “How about you share your bounty?”
    Chance gets up and strolls to the door. Wyatt follows him, and their angry whispers carry down the hall in the still night. The slap of flesh suggests they’re bumping chests or something similarly apelike. I kind of wish I could see it. I’ve never seen Wyatt talk to anyone ourage except me, and everything about the way he walks and talks and acts changed the second he saw Chance. He’s gone full silverback.
    â€œDon’t fuck this up,” Wyatt finally says.
    Chance saunters back in and squats beside us, tossing a ratty duffel bag on the ground. When he unzips it, the inside rattles around. Dozens and dozens of pill bottles.
    â€œWhat the hell?” I say.
    He hunts through them, pulls out an orange bottle, and knocks two white pills into his palm. Gabriela hands the kid a half-full bottle of water and helps him swallow the meds.
    â€œYou’re a drug dealer?” I ask.
    His stare is flat and judgmental. “I’m a businessman. The kid’s in pain. I can help him. The insurance system is effed up. I help people, connect them with what they need. This isn’t meth and crack. It’s all real. I’m like . . . the Robin Hood of Big Pharma. What if your mom couldn’t afford insurance to get her meds?”
    My mouth drops open and I choke. My eyes are swimmy, and I’m hot and cold all over, and Wyatt hurries to me, his arm heavy on my shoulder.
    â€œGuess I’m a telepath, too,” Chance murmurs, zipping up his pack. “Your folks dead? Natural orphan or Valor?”
    â€œShe told you. She hasn’t been back to find out,” Wyatt growls.
    The old house goes eerily silent, as if all our ghosts rushed in at once to haunt us.
    â€œHow long does it take until it stops hurting?” the kid asks.
    â€œI’ll tell you when I find out,” I say.
    That’s not what he meant, but it’s what we all want to know, really.

    Wyatt’s in the corner, filling Chance in on the Citizens for Freedom, or whatever Alistair and his group are calling themselves. I don’t know what was said in the hall, but they seem to have an uneasy truce now. I scoot back against an armchair and slide bullets into the clip of Chance’s gun. My vision is wavering, and I almost nod off before I’m done. The kid—I still don’t know his name and haven’t asked—his meds kicked in, and he’s on his back, snoring hard, his glasses askew. His leg stopped bleeding and crusted up, so I guess it’s fine for now. Matty is stretched out by his side, paws twitching as she dreams. Whenever the kid tries to move and cries out, I flinch and swallow down the guilt. Gabriela’s on the squashy couch, perched over him like an awkward angel.
    Chance looms over me, his stare hard. “I sleep light,” he says.
    â€œCongratulations.”
    â€œYou try to take my gun or hurt Gabriela or that kid, and you die. And so does Beard. And that dog.”
    But I don’t believe him anymore, not really. At least he wouldn’t hurt Matty.
    â€œI’m too tired to care,” I say.
    Wyatt returns from whatever he was doing outside and stretches out on the least nasty part of the carpet. Strong arms pull me close.
    â€œIt’s okay,” he says. “It’s going to be okay.”
    Which is a lie.
    My eyes don’t want to close, and my fingers are clenched around Chance’s gun. I can see my gun, likewise clamped in his hand.