Uncanny Collateral

Начало книги

It was a cool spring evening as I sat in my truck in the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania, watching the parking lot of a run-down bikers’ bar gradually fill up with leather-chap-wearing skinheads. I lay with my head against the doorframe of the open driver’s-side window and my feet on the dashboard. A local ’80s station crackled through my radio, and an almost-empty bag of honey-roasted cashews rested in the crook of my arm. I kept my baseball cap pulled low. To the casual observer, I was just a drunk sleeping off an early bender.

I scratched at the tattoo of Mjolnir on the back of my right hand, trying to remember what the local cops had said about this place. As far as I could tell, it didn’t even have a proper name, just a generic white sign that said bar in large red letters. It was owned by a gang who called themselves the Dirty Imps. They ran a few rackets around town: meth, weed, and a little bit of protection. They weren’t terribly ambitious, though, and spent more of their time fishing at the local reservoir than getting up to petty crime.

Читать дальше →