And Harlan won’t turn his face from the windshield to explain why. “Get in here,” Joe snaps, his eyes lighting on Huddy. “You said we were telling no one!” Yelling before Huddy’s inside the entryway, the argument without the security of a room, the door slamming behind him, and Huddy figures nobody’s home. “Yeah. Wives. And Harlan is—” “Is what?” Joe’s neck wrenching. “We need three sets of hands.” Huddy’s voice as quiet as Joe’s is explosive, hoping to meet up in some calm loud middle. “Three sets of hands,” Joe says, shaking his two. “This is a two-way deal. You got the math wrong. You’re already fucking up numbers.” “You wanna carry two hundred guns?” “Why can’t you carry them?” His teeth grit, his mouth champing down. “Because. I’m in the gun room. And you’re guarding the truck. Harlan’s doing the lifting.” Joe shakes his head at the last name. “You got someone you trust better? Maybe one of your ex-wives? Or maybe you wanna ask Lorie for a little help with a couple thousand pounds.
