Locke 2 (Blackwater Boys #4)

Eighteen

Locke

L ocke excelled at hunting.

If it bled, it could be tracked. He told himself this every time he began a hunt.

Locke was persistent and fast. He relished in the hunt. He enjoyed the bloodshed and the pain, both in himself and in his prey.

But to search for a little boy?

One had to wade through monsters. Monsters were easy to find, but they chatted in the dark, forming a network he had to be cautious tapping into.

This current network made his phone buzz.

Made him reach for it.

Made him read the words on the screen.

Words that made his teeth clench and eyes dot with indescribable feeling.

How does one describe the combination of rage and despair? The word wasn’t in the dictionary. No word measured against the feeling. He felt his chest tighten. Felt his hard heart soften as he realized very quickly that this was not going to be as easy as finding the mother in some motel, drunk off her ass with a neglected boy watching television on a dirty couch.

He looked at the words, then he pocketed the phone, and then he gritted out, “Alright. We go hunting.”

If it bled, it could be tracked.

He repeated this as he looked at his list, as he thought about that damn woman, as he yearned to steal her and keep her forever…