Chapter Eighteen
T he place was airtight.
Not even the cops had been privy to what had gone down inside.
Justice found the key in the old Ford fender just like Wrath had said. He opened the door and stepped inside.
The smell punched him in the gut. He pressed his hand over his nose and mouth, trying to overcome the smell of feces and mold that almost had him throwing up. It was a good damned thing he’d skipped breakfast.
Axel whined at him and Justice sympathized.
“Come on, we’ll get used to it,” he told his dog.
He left the door open and snapped on the light from the switch on the wall to his right. The fluorescent lights flickered on and hummed, illuminating the inside of the cluttered warehouse.
Axel stayed glued to his side until Justice gave a silent command to search the place and the dog shot off like a rocket.
Gazing around, Justice was faced with boxes, crates, and numerous pallets holding shit stacked to the ceiling. It looked like an old electronics warehouse, but the pictures on the side of the boxes looked like it dated back to the eighties.
One pile of boxes held photos of old-fashioned computer screens with their protruding backs, looking like grotesque monstrosities. Those suckers definitely worked on dial-up internet.
What he couldn’t fathom was why all the crap? It could have been left over from when Solomon had bought the place. Had Solomon wanted to take a crack at the computer business but then saw a more lucrative opportunity of kidnapping boys from the streets for profit?
That question may never be answered because the fucker was dead.
Walking along the stacked pallets, Justice came to an opening at the end.
He stepped out and for a split second, he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. Bile coated his tongue at his first glimpse of the open space.
He stared in horror as his mind raced.
Here the smell grew even more sickening and Justice dropped his hand from covering his nose.
He deserved to breathe in every fucking bit of this stench.
Kit’s house was dark except for the one yellow front porch light and Fisher spotted movement behind the blinds that covered the dirty front windows.
Music pumped through the house and the sound escaped the walls, but not too loud to alert the neighbors. Not that it would matter because the neighbors were just as sketchy as Kit.
Everyone who knew Kit came in through the back door. Those stopping by for drugs usually called ahead and Kit would send a runner out to meet the cars. It was a sign of drug trafficking to the cops if they had bothered to look, but law enforcement steered clear of this neighborhood.
A couple of guys were sitting on the back porch beneath a yellow bulb and gave him an up-nod when he came around the side.
“Fisher, my man.” A guy he’d met a few times and knew only as Scotty held out his fist. Fisher gave Scotty a fist bump and let himself in through the back door.
The laundry room was piled high with clothes that carried the smell of grime and body odor and he walked through the small path someone had carved.
“Hey, Fish,” another guy he’d met a few times but didn’t recall his name called out, drawing the attention of most of the people in the dingy living room.
Kit, who was sitting on the couch along with four other people, smiled and waved him over. In front of the couch was a low coffee table filled with beer bottles and cans along with two broken pieces of a mirror. A rolled-up dollar bill sat resting on white residue.
Fisher’s foot hit an empty beer can, sending it rolling across the dirty carpet. Reaching the broken-down couch, Kit shoved and pushed people until there was a small spot for him.
“Boston! Get Fisher a beer,” Kit yelled and a beautiful young man unfolded from the carpet in front of the television and disappeared into the kitchen.
Fisher dropped down and took the joint Kit handed to him. He sucked in a lungful to hold and held the bud back out. Kit took the joint to his lips and pulled on it.
Boston came back into the room and handed him a can of beer before shooting him a shy smile and going back to the television.
“One of Solomon’s?” Fisher asked Kit, jerking his chin at Boston.
“No.”
Fisher’s gut tightened with a sick feeling. Something niggled at the back of his mind.
What brings you here?” Kit asked with a release of white smoke.
“I’m looking for some of the guys. Beck specifically.”
Kit’s hand froze for a split second before his eyes landed on Boston and then back to him.
Their conversation was pretty much swallowed up by the music, television, and conversations going on.
“Thought you gave up rescuing everyone,” Kit whispered and passed the joint to the person on his right.
“Nope.” Fisher leaned his head against the back of the couch and stared up at the yellow stained ceiling.
He wasn’t sure when he’d taken on the task of locating young assassins after Solomon’s death, but the idea had taken root and he couldn’t shake it. He wanted to find as many of them as possible. They needed to have a fucking chance, a choice about life, and he aimed to give them that. Starting with Beck.
“A few of the guys have come around. Mouse was asking for you,” Kit whispered, rubbing at his mouth and then picking at a red mark on his cheek.
Fisher nodded, but didn’t tell Kit about Mouse. He didn’t want Beck to find out about what had happened from anyone other than him.
Kit’s face was worn and he worried about the guy. He wondered if Kit would ever get clean.
This had been his own life for years after the service. Fisher was sure he would have ended up becoming a drug dealer like Kit if he hadn’t gone into the Navy.
It had been his military years that had kept him from a life of crime.
After the Navy, the nightmares had returned. And he’d tried to escape them by using any drug out there along with alcohol. It had worked for a while, but then…it didn’t.
Instead of going down the substance abuse rabbit hole to a quick death, Fisher had decided to come back to Erebus and report to Solomon. It sure the hell didn’t surprise him that Solomon had been into the same fucking shit as before, but being with Rogue and Echo kept him somewhat sober.
“Drink up, my man,” Kit said, tapping his beer can against his. “I know you’re broke.”
Fisher gulped hastily at his beer.
“There’s only one fly remaining in the ointment,” Kit murmured.
“Who?”
“Tanis.”
“What?” Fisher stopped breathing, shaking his head. “Tanis is dead.”
“No, he’s not.”
His mouth was so dry, he couldn’t even swallow.
That changed everything.
He rubbed at his forehead and then the pounding that had started behind his temples. “Fucking tell me you’re lying.”
“I’m not. A few months ago, I found out that Tanis is still in play.”
“And you’re just telling me this now?”
“You haven’t been around.” Kit shrugged as if it were no big deal that the man who’d molested him was still alive.
“Do you know if Tanis was still partnering with Solomon?”
“I don’t know.”
Fuck.
Fisher couldn’t seem to swallow past the sick feeling in his stomach. He’d bet his fucking life that Solomon had had Tanis as his partner all these years.
He glanced wildly around the room.
Across the short space, his eyes landed on Boston. The teenager was engrossed in the TV.
“Boston?” When the boy glanced over, Fisher crooked his finger. He took a few moments to regulate his breathing.
His mind raced, his past came up, but he shoved it down.
Boston crawled across the floor instead of standing and when the boy came close enough, Fisher caught him by the back of the neck in a firm grip. Boston froze and Fisher leaned in next to the kid’s ear.
“Who was your handler?” Fisher whispered.
Boston drew back with a confused look and darted a glance at Kit.
“Answer the man,” Kit said, even though he had no idea of the question.
Boston bit his bottom lip and then squeezed his hands together and whispered something so quietly, Fisher had to lean forward to hear.
“Tanis,” Boston whispered again.
The room upended so it was a good thing Fisher was sitting.
Tanis was back in play.
It was hard not to miss the terror lingering in Boston’s big eyes and Fisher got why—Tanis was one sick motherfucker.
Fisher released Boston and the teenager scooted back to watch the television.
“You’re not going to save them all,” Kit murmured with his eyes on Boston.
The vision of Mouse’s crumpled body swam up.
“I can fuckin’ try,” Fisher mumbled and chugged more of the beer.
Now that he knew Tanis wasn’t dead, his plan to kill Blue changed. He began to create a cold methodical plan to follow Blue until he led him to Tanis.
He would kill Tanis after he peeled the skin from the fucker’s flesh.
What he needed to do right then was talk to Rogue.
Kit snorted at him and Fisher glanced over at his friend. The man was a stark reminder of what waited for him if he didn’t get his shit together.
And he would.
Eventually, he would.
Fisher waved a declining hand when the weed was passed his way again and leaned closer to whisper to Kit.
“Have you seen Beck? Is anyone other than Boston here right now?”
“Not right now, but Mouse and Beck usually show up around the weekend.”
Fisher swallowed, Beck would show up alone if at all. He would bet money Tanis was back running them.
Both Mouse and Beck had been boys of Tanis. Each had been shipped to Solomon to work off the books and like him, they’d been denied full pay.
Something kept bugging him about the whole thing and Justice’s face kept flickering through his dazed mind before flashing back to Tanis.
Was Tanis now dabbling in the assassin side of things? If so, the fucker would need more help than just Blue to do the job.
“You seen Blue?”
“Once a few months back. He was with Crow,” Kit said.
Crow and Blue were Tanis’ right-hand men and the three of them might be able to pull off taking over where Solomon had left off.
“Stay and hang out until they show up,” Kit suggested after a minute and puffed on the joint.
Fisher gulped half the can of beer and then wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.
Yeah, maybe he would stay. Alcohol wasn’t doing the job, so maybe something stronger would work and then he’d look for Beck.
Several hours later, he was flying high on weed and beer and most of the people had gone from the small house.
Kit was crashed out on the couch, so Fisher stumbled his way down the hall and into the back bedroom.
Three half-dressed men were on the bed and Boston was sleeping curled up in the corner on the floor.
“Fuckers.” Fisher didn’t even think twice, he walked over to the bed and kicked the first guy in the head. The man rolled off the bed with a yell. The next one, Fisher kicked in the junk and the guy howled, waking up the third one.
“What the fuck, man!”
“You fucking asshole!”
The yelling came loudly from all the men except the one still holding his balls and rolling around.
Fisher pulled his weapon and pointed it at the loudest one.
“Get the fuck out.”
They stumbled away from the bed, yanking up unbuttoned pants. One grabbed a shirt from the ground and then the arm of the man still reeling from the blow to his balls.
The door slammed and Fisher dropped to the side of the bed. After a long moment, he moved his eyes to the corner.
Boston looked like a deer caught in headlights. The boy was just the age that Tanis liked. How the hell had Boston gotten away from him?
He’d get the answer tomorrow because right now, he couldn’t even think straight.
“You can stay there in that corner or crash on the bed, I don’t give a shit. But nobody is going to touch you again.”
The words lost some of their impact when he slurred like a bitch, but fuck it. He’d blow their fucking brains out if anyone touched the kid.
There were two types of animals in this world—fight or flight. Boston was a flight animal and he stayed frozen in his corner. A long time ago, Fisher had been one of those flight animals…once upon a time.
Now? He was a fucking fighter, but he still had doubts. Right at that moment, he felt like a fucking flight animal and he hated that Justice had done that to him.
He hated that Justice had fucked him over.
His eyes prickled. It must have been the weed and booze, and he flopped back on the bed and tossed his arm over his eyes.
He couldn’t stop the lump from growing in his throat when he finally recalled what he’d thought was a beautiful morning.
No! Not beautiful.
Something inside of him fought the mush of his brain.
He didn’t want to remember!
Because on the heels of anything good in his life were the memories of horror.
The fog in his brain parted like the Red Sea and he was faced with memories that he didn’t want.
And as much as he tried, he couldn’t stop the sudden influx of what had happened from slamming through…
Caught and held, his mind trapped him and he was sent spiraling into the past, back to that time…