Only The Dead Don't Die | Book 4 | Finding Home Popovich, A.D. (any book recommendations txt) 📖

Cremmonty’s face, using his cocky charisma to make the prosecutor the laughingstock of the courtroom. Pandemonium had ensued.

The question remained: how had Cremmonty known about the powdery cure? It left only one possibility—Cremmonty worked for the Ancient Ones, just like his dream had foretold. But if they knew of Ella’s healing tea, why bother with this elaborate trial? Why not tail him until he led them straight to Ella? Perhaps, Cremmonty and his conniving cohorts presumed his friends were dead.

The cherry-picked jury had been deliberating his case for two days. With his ass nailed to the wall, Zac didn’t know how much more of the “not-knowing” he could withstand. At least it had given him time to sign-off on three annulments and sign the divorce papers for his remaining two wives. What a relief. Cruelly ironic to have all these wives, as if cosmically condemned to live without the one woman he truly desired. Loved. With every aching heartbeat.

Zac finally acknowledged his tour guide days across the Lost States had been that of predestined fate: rescuing women from the auction block. His numerous marriages had been in name only with the promise of annulments once they found suitable partners. Until then, he had merely offered the wives sanctuary in his fancy K-zone penthouse.

His buttocks stiffened when a pair of Enforcers unlocked his cell. They cuffed him and then escorted him to the courtroom without uttering a word. As he entered the courtroom, he searched for his attorney. For assurance. But the greedy son of a bitch refused eye contact.

Zac stood in the courtroom in front of the judge, jury, and Elite spectators, all eyes upon him. He strategically blocked his thoughts of Scarlett and her friends and sulked over living the rest of his life in a brutal work camp to throw off whoever might attempt eavesdropping into his thoughts.

He remained in such a state of cerebral focus until applause and the Not Guilty verdict registered. Whoa, not what I expected. He wanted to shout with vindication until his eyes met the gray-steel beady eyes of Ren Cremmonty.

Why am I getting this menacing feeling this ain’t over? The bastard would wait in the shadows for him to screw up. Well, Zac wasn’t hanging around Last State long enough to confirm Cremmonty’s suspicions.

Zac forced a smile and shook hands with his slimy attorney. The retainer had been one million LSCs. He had officially lost his status in the millionaire’s club. After reclaiming his personal effects, less his confiscated weapons, he indulged in a celebratory round of drinks with several Elite clients, already schmoozing for his next job. No luck there.

He checked into the Sheraton in the C-zone. Time to roll the dice. Bolstering his bravado, he called his handler on his newly purchased MeDevice. He’d be back on mission in a matter of days. An Elite always lusted over something left in the Lost States of America, a case of rare whisky, a famous piece of artwork, Cuban cigars, gold coins stashed in a safe . . .

“Hey, Marco. It’s me, Zac. I’m free and clear of all charges.”

A long silence . . .

“Marco, you there?”

“Hey, Zac. Must have been a bitch.”

“Ain’t no big,” Zac retorted. “Although, that slimy attorney set me back bigtime. I’ll take the first mission you can get me.”

A long silence . . .

“Marco?”

“You’re too hot. Try me in six months. After this fiasco fizzles out.” The MeDevice went dark.

Damn! Zac threw the MeDevice on the bed. He combatted the anger and fear threatening to take over by downing a bottle of Patrón from the room’s minibar.

He continued down his mental list of contacts. Everywhere he turned, the calls disconnected without so much as a goodbye. Someone was putting on the heat. Still, he knew his clientele—Elites would not shut him down. Not after everything he had acquired for them. And not with everything he knew about them.

Then it hit him. He was no longer an asset. But a liability. Would a hitman off him in the middle of the night?

He played it cool and ordered a bottle of the most expensive tequila on the menu in pretense of celebration. It was going to be a hell of a long night staring at that bottle. Waiting for the hit. That was the message coming to him from the cosmos.

Scarlett, my love, don’t give up on me . . .

Chapter 12

Scarlett Lewis stirred the simmering pot of pinto beans Luther had started this morning. They had set up the propane camping stove on the upstairs balcony of their new safehouse. Due to the increased horde activity, cooking on the back patio was no longer a safe option.

She leaned over to inhale the onions and garlic. Despite eating beans and rice for the past few days, the aroma sent her stomach growling with anticipation. They were down to two meals a day. As of yesterday, they had halted scavenging runs due to the hordes inundating the neighborhood. It was only a matter of time before the creepers found the two-story, four-bedroom house on Whippoorwill Way they had claimed.

Scarlett sat on the balcony’s rattan chair and panned the surrounding backyards for creeper activity, wondering if the undead noticed the enticing aroma? Dean had volunteered to stay with Twila for a while since she was no longer allowed to be by herself. Jeez, I’m a horrible mother. Twila, the precocious child that she was, thrived on constant stimulation; she was too ambitious for her own good.

She was still appalled by Twila’s selfish act. Ella and Justin had kept to themselves since the creeper-child event. Cooped inside the house, the tension mounted. Danger seemed to be inching in from every corner. Encapsulated in a forgotten part of the world left untouched since the pandemic’s onset—as if she and her friends existed in an alternate bubble