It took
forty-five minutes to get there, the waterways growing narrower and more
heavily-shaded the farther they went. The moss hung in great curtains so dense
Mercy was forced to slow, and idle the boat while they swept them back with
poles.
“Christ,
man,” Devin said after the third such incident. “If you can’t get through how
do you expect your FBI wanker to make his way out here?” For once, he wasn’t
laughing, and when Mercy glanced over, he saw his forehead sheened with sweat,
his mouth curved downward. For the first time since meeting him, Mercy thought
he most resembled Walsh, of all his sons.
For a moment,
Mercy doubted his plan – but, no. This was the swamp, and that was what it did:
it turned even the most capable of men clammy and nervous-stomached. From
Toly’s motion sickness, to Devin’s skepticism, it was working its magic on the
outsiders.
But Mercy
wasn’t an outsider.
And that
clammy, nervous-stomached fear was going to work its magic on Boyle, too, and
work in Mercy’s favor.
As quick as it had come, doubt evaporated on a laugh. “Don’t you worry, mon cher. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s bait a hook.”
God I love that man and he isn't real, but God i wish he was. I m being patient
ReplyDelete#MercyMe #Anticipation #BigSon ❤️📖
ReplyDelete#WordWeaver ❤️
DeleteWaiting patiently
ReplyDelete