“The gold spider,” Andres said in a resonant Spanish accent. “Her power will belong to me.”
The crisp mountain air washed over Ash like a torrent of cold water. It whispered across waves of tan grass, carrying the scent of old pines, making him feel alive again.
The porch boards creaked as the gunmen crowded in on either side of Ash. Behind, Andres’s leather shoes stepped onto the wooden threshold of the abandoned farmhouse. Then everything went quiet.
“Show me,” Andres said, his voice husky. “The gold spider. Where is she?”