The town of Pine Ridge wasn't a place people visited; it was a place people ended up.
It consisted of a single main street, a post office that doubled as a bait shop, and a general store called Miller's that smelled of floor wax and over-ripe apples. To the locals, it was just home. To me, it was the farthest point on the map from the 90th floor of the Shard.
"Are you sure about this?" Reid asked, his hand tightening slightly on the steering wheel of the weathered pickup truck he'd bought off a local farmer. "We have enough supplies for another week. We don't have to go in."
I looked at him, suppressed a smile. He was wearing an old baseball cap pulled low over his silver eyes and a charcoal work jacket. He looked rugged, dangerous, and entirely out of place in a way that had nothing to do with money.
