Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3) by Brett Battles (most inspirational books of all time TXT) 📗

glances intermittently at his brother, I get the impression Evan is helping his brother with some schoolwork.

I think back to when I was a sophomore in high school. My little brother is only three years younger than me, so the gap between us is less than that of the Price boys. If I’d been told to help him with his homework, I wouldn’t have been happy about it. I wasn’t a jerk or anything. It’s just the age. I’d have done it but would have been annoyed the whole time.

Evan does not look annoyed. If anything, he looks encouraging. He even smiles and nods occasionally.

Huh, maybe I was kind of a jerk. Does this mean I have to apologize to my brother for crimes not committed?

Jar hands me her phone, giving me temporary control of the drone, then pulls out two sets of comm gear from the backpack. After she dons hers, she hands me mine and takes her phone back.

I push the earpiece in and say, “I won’t be long.”

Sticking to the shadows, I work my way to the street that runs along the back of the Baccas’ house.

When Jar flew the drone around the property, I looked for signs that the Baccas have dogs and saw none. But the lack of proof is not proof itself, so it’s still possible one is roaming around somewhere. If so, I’m prepared. One of the things we purchased at Walmart was a bag of doggie treats, and I have several tasty Snausages in my pocket.

When I reach the Baccas’ wall, I whisper into my comm, “Ready.”

“You’re clear,” Jar replies.

“Copy.”

I pull myself over the barrier and drop into a crouch on the other side. I hold still for an entire minute, waiting for any reactions to my arrival.

The night remains undisturbed.

I creep along the back until I reach the southwest corner, then head along the west wall toward the front of the property. As I get closer to the house, I start to hear muffled voices and laughter coming from inside. I could easily sneak over to the swimming pool and get close enough to hear what’s being said, but I’m not interested in Chuckie’s stories.

The gap between the wall and the three-car garage is only two people wide. Unfortunately for me, the Baccas have chosen to use the space to store old pieces of wood and a few discarded chairs. This makes my way forward more like a Ninja Warrior obstacle course than a simple path through. I’m able to negotiate most of it with some twists and turns, but about three-quarters of the way through, I come to an obstacle I can’t just scoot around. I could move one of the chairs blocking my progress, but since there’s nowhere to put it, I’d be forced to carry it all the way to the end of the passageway. Instead, I suspend myself between the fence and the garage wall like a human arch, and move up until I’m high enough to shuffle over the chairs. After I clear the hazard, I work my way down until I can drop back onto my feet.

I pause in the darkness at the front corner of the garage and study the Winnebago. It’ll only take me a few seconds to reach it, but I need to make sure Evan and Sawyer won’t see me.

Let’s be honest. I’ve been in infinitely more dangerous situations than this. Ones where crossing a similar stretch of ground could have cost me my life. What I am doing right now is like getting up for a glass of water in the middle of the night. Sure, I could stub a toe or trip over something on the floor, but for the most part it’s something I should be able to accomplish with my eyes closed.

Neither of the boys is looking through the RV’s windshield, nor has anyone come out of the house. Staying low, I make my way to the side of the Winnebago that faces the fence, and stop under the window directly across from where Evan and Sawyer are sitting.

“That’s right, keep going,” Evan says, his voice barely muffled by the wall of the RV.

I hear Sawyer next, his young voice speaking with the cadence of someone who is still learning to read. “‘The…baaa-ker…took the…man’s…order…and…’” He goes on like this for several more sentences.

When he stops, Evan says, “Very good. You understand what’s going on?”

A pause. “The baker is making a cake for the party.”

“That’s right. Let’s find out what’s next.”

Sawyer begins reading again.

I would like to note two things. First, Sawyer has a way of talking that is…different. I don’t mean when he’s reading, I mean his normal voice. It’s not really monotone but it’s monotone adjacent. I’m not saying he sounds disinterested, because I think he’s enjoying what he’s reading. I’m just noting the fact, that’s all.

Second, Evan is a great kid, and you will not convince me otherwise.

I don’t just want to help him now. I have to help him.

In case it isn’t clear, I’ve returned to the Prices’ Winnebago to rectify my previous error. From my pocket I withdraw one of the four listening bugs I’ve brought. They’re small, thin, square pieces of plastic that have an adhesive on the back to hold them in place. But even with their tiny size, they’d be noticed if I am not careful about placement.

Ideally, it would be great to hide them inside the RV, but for obvious reasons that’s not an option at this time. But they’re powerful enough to pick up conversations inside the Winnebago even if they’re placed on the outside.

I don’t know how familiar you are with big motorhomes these days, but most have sections called slideouts that, um, slide out when an RV is stopped for the night, to give the occupants more room inside. The Prices’ Winnebago has three of them. One next to the side door by which I am standing, and two on the other side—one at the back