The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) by Domino Finn Page B

extra firepower there and continue on to New Mexico."
    Curtis ran his hand over his bald head and lifted his duffel bag. "I don't like rolling into the city with this kind of weight." Because of their unusual resilience, the Seventh Sons were usually very careful about the hardware they carried. One traffic stop could lead to years in prison if they had anything illegal. Unless there was a real threat, it was better just to get shot and heal.
    "It can't be helped," said West. "If the Pistolas are coming after us, we need to be ready."
    Curtis just gritted his teeth and exchanged a look with Trent.

 
     
    Chapter 10

     
     

    Marshal Boyd held a finger in the air as he continued speaking into his cell phone. He was grinning from ear to ear like a politician even though whoever he was talking to couldn't see it. But the words could be clearly heard. They were strong words. Action words. "Mobilizing." "Command post." "Top priority." They were words meant to inspire confidence in the listener. Maxim wondered if Boyd was talking to his father, the mayor of Sanctuary.

    The detective closed the door silently and sat across from his boss. He'd been in this office many times. It was the place where he talked through his cases. The first time he was required to vocalize his theories. It was also the first time that outside pressure crept into his investigation. The marshal wasn't a real police officer—he had been appointed to his position by his powerful family without ever having patrolled the streets—but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. For the most part, Boyd left the police work to the officers. Despite Maxim's initial fears when Boyd took over, the man hadn't overstepped his bounds. He supervised at a macro level, choosing to place more emphasis on his role as a civic leader and the public image of the marshal's office. It was an arrangement that worked well for Maxim—and Marshal Boyd was an expert at managing expectations—but judging from the phone call he was finishing up, it didn't look like this case could afford free reign.
    "Did he do it?" asked the marshal, suddenly tossing the phone to his desk and shifting his full attention to Maxim. Boyd's cold blue eyes engaged the detective. They worked on many levels. Now all they were seeking was gratification.
    Maxim almost winced under the glare. "It's not looking solid."
    "I don't want to hear that, Detective Dwyer. Did Clint James string that man up next to Sanctuary High School or not?"
    Maxim cleared his throat. "No, Marshal. It doesn't work for me so far."
    The blue eyes searched the ceiling. "I've been on the phone all afternoon saying we had a suspect in custody."
    "And that's true. I did put him in custody, and that's where he's gonna stay for now. But I don't think he was involved."
    The marshal took a few moments to process the news. It was unwelcome. It meant that they were further behind than he had thought. He slowly leaned back into his leather chair and waved his fingers towards him, wordlessly asking for Maxim to continue.
    "This is what I've got so far," said the detective. "The vic was killed early this morning, off site. He was suspended upside down and killed with a single gunshot wound to the head. Then he was skinned and bled dry. We have the knife but not the gun yet. Hitchens has his guys searching the school grounds as well as local dumpsters and drains, but I don't think we're going to find anything. Furthermore, we don't have a definite ID on the body. But I have a feeling. I think the vic is Carlos Doka."
    Marshal Boyd immediately sat forward. A manhunt the year before hadn't been able to find the fugitive. Maxim could see the wheels turning on the man's face.
    "You know this for sure?"
    "Like I said, it's my theory. There are some indicators. An old wound matches up. He's a Native American. A single long hair that was embedded into the skull when it cracked survived the skinning, and it's long and black, like Doka's. There's enough