Chapter 82: An Unholy Alliance

The motel room smelled of stale cigarettes, cheap whiskey, and desperation. It clung to the threadbare carpet and the yellowed curtains, a fitting perfume for the man stewing in its confines. Brock Zimmerman paced the small space like a caged animal, his heavy footsteps a dull thud against the floor. He was a man running on fumes of rage and paranoia, seeing shadows in every corner, hearing accusations in the hum of the ice machine down the hall. His burner phone, a cheap piece of plastic he’d...