Chapter Five
Bone
“Watch the fucking barrel.”
Munch froze. The rifle in his hands stopped half an inch from the edge of the coffin.
I stared at him.
He stared at me. “Sorry, Prez.”
“Don’t be sorry. Don’t fucking hit it.”
“I didn’t.”
“Because I stopped you,” I growled.
Munch pressed his lips together and nodded. Smart. The kid had only been prospecting for a few months, and he was learning. He worked hard, didn’t complain too damn much, and generally managed to follow directions.
Generally.
I stepped closer and held out my hand. “Give it to me.”
Munch passed me the rifle.
“This isn’t a fucking duffel bag you’re throwing shit into.
” I turned it slightly and lowered it into the compartment built into the bottom of the coffin.
“Everything has a place. You start tossing shit in however you want, it doesn’t fit right, it shifts during transport, and that’s when we’ve got a problem. ”
“Got it.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.”
“Then show me.” I handed him the next rifle.
Munch took his time with this one. He lowered it into the hidden compartment, lined it up beside the others, and made sure it was secured before looking at me. “Better?”
“Good.”
The coffin sitting in front of us looked like any other custom casket Grave Casket Co. built.
That was the point.
Solid oak. Hand-finished. Polished hardware. Cream-colored interior. Every inch of it built right here on Grave Prowlers property.
What nobody looking at it would know was that the bottom sat several inches higher than it needed to.
Plenty of room beneath it.
We didn’t use every coffin for transport. Hell, most of the caskets leaving the shop were exactly what they appeared to be. Somebody ordered one. We built it. It got shipped. Eventually somebody dead went inside.
Simple.
The ones with extras were different. Those were built specifically for runs.
Guns went into the false bottom, the compartment was sealed, and the interior fit over it. Unless somebody knew exactly what they were looking for, they’d never know the difference.
That was the way the Grave Prowlers had been doing business for decades, and it fucking worked.
Munch reached for the panel.
“Hold up.”
He stopped.
I leaned over and checked the weapons one more time.
Everything was secured. Nothing shifted. Nothing was touching anything it shouldn’t. “Now.”
Munch lowered the hidden panel into place.
I pressed down on one corner until it locked, then worked my way around it. Once the interior went over the top, there’d be nothing to see. “That’s how you do it.”
“Got it, Prez.”
“You said that before.”
He grinned. “Really got it this time.”
“Better.”
“Truck!” Bull shouted from across the warehouse. “Box truck’s rolling in!”
I straightened. The Grave Casket warehouse was built for exactly this kind of work.
Big. Private. And nowhere near prying eyes.
There were oversized garage doors on opposite ends of the building, high and wide enough that semis and box trucks could drive straight through. A truck entered on one side, got loaded or unloaded inside, then pulled out through the other.
Nobody had to back in.
Nobody had to turn around.
More importantly, nobody driving down the road could see what the fuck we were doing.
There wasn’t much traffic this far down anyway, but we’d been in business too long to rely on nobody happening by at the wrong time. The Grave Prowlers didn’t survive by being careless.
A diesel engine rumbled outside before the box truck slowly rolled through the open door.
Taco stepped into the aisle and started waving it forward. “Come on. Come on. Keep coming.” The truck crawled toward us. “Little more.”
The driver leaned out his window. “I know how to fucking drive, Taco.”
Taco grinned. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Fuck you.”
“Keep coming.”
The truck rolled another few feet.
“Good!” Taco slapped the side twice.
The truck stopped and I looked back at Munch. “Finish this.”
“On it.”
“Dealer, check the other two,” I ordered.
Dealer nodded from beside the next coffin.
I walked toward the truck as the driver’s door opened and Jackson climbed down.
“Hey, Jackson.”
He looked over. “Bone.”
I held out my hand. He clasped it, and we pulled each other in for a quick slap on the back. “How’s it going?”
“Can’t complain.”
“That’d be a fucking first,” Taco called.
Jackson flipped him off. “Nobody asked you.”
Taco pressed a hand to his chest. “And yet I still contribute.”
“That’s one word for it,” Dealer muttered.
Jackson laughed.
He’d been driving for us for years.
Not patched. Not a prospect. Just a guy who knew enough to do his job and not ask questions he didn’t need answers to. He handled legitimate Grave Casket loads along with some of the special ones.
Jackson knew there were things about certain shipments he didn’t need to understand. He got paid well for that lack of curiosity.
“How was Milwaukee?” I asked.
“Traffic sucked.”
“Always does.”
“Loading dock was backed up too. Took me damn near an hour to get out.”
“Anything we need to know about?”
“Nah.” He hooked his thumbs into his pockets. “Got your paperwork up front. Three going out.”
“That’s right.”
“And one coming back.”
I stopped. “Coming back?”
Jackson nodded. “Yeah.”
My eyes moved to Myth.
He’d been standing a few feet away, talking to Breaker. His attention immediately shifted to us.
“You know about a return?” I asked.
Myth shook his head. “No.”
I looked back at Jackson. “What return?”
“Casket from Milwaukee.”
“Why?”
“They said damaged.”
“Who said?”
“The guys at the loading dock.”
I frowned. Grave Casket didn’t get many returns. Not because we were fucking perfect, though we were pretty damn close. If something left our shop damaged, somebody knew about it before it came back.
A funeral home called. The transfer dock called. Somebody called. Nobody just tossed one of our caskets onto a truck and sent it home without a word.
“Nobody contacted us.”
Jackson shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you. It was sitting there when I got in. Guy told me it was coming back here.”
I looked toward Bull. “Anything come through?”
Bull shook his head. “No calls. No emails. Nothing about a return.”
I glanced at Myth again.
He was frowning now too. “Weird,” he muttered.
“Yeah.”
Not necessarily bad, but weird. Somebody could’ve dropped the ball. Wouldn’t be the first time.
The transfer yard in Milwaukee dealt with a shitload of freight every day. Caskets came through from us and plenty of other companies. One employee forgetting to send an email wasn’t exactly enough for me to sound an alarm.
I still didn’t like it, though.
“Let’s see it.”
Jackson walked to the back of the truck.
Myth and I followed.
Taco, naturally, followed us because he couldn’t stand knowing something was happening without being part of it.
Jackson grabbed the latch and opened the back. He rolled the door up, and the returned coffin sat closest to us.
I frowned. “Where’s the damage?”
Jackson shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
From where I stood, it looked fine.
Dark, polished wood with no obvious cracks. No smashed corner and nothing broken.
Myth stepped up beside me. “That’s not one with extras.”
I glanced at him. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Remember this one. Standard order.” That took one concern off my list. Whatever the hell had happened, at least we didn’t have a loaded coffin unexpectedly coming back.
“We’ll figure out where it came from and get it squared away,” Myth said.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
There’d be a serial number on it because every custom coffin we built was tracked. We’d figure out who ordered it, where it was supposed to go, and why the hell it ended up back here.
“Munch,” I called.
He came jogging over. “Yeah, Prez?”
“Grab a cart.”
“Got it.”
Bull climbed into the truck with Jackson while Munch rolled one of the heavy-duty carts over.
The four of them carefully worked the coffin out and lowered it onto the cart.
I walked around it once and still didn’t see anything.
“No scratches,” Taco said.
“Maybe it’s underneath,” Bull suggested.
“Or inside.” Taco leaned closer. “Could be the lining.”
Dealer walked over. “Who the hell cares? We’ll check the number later. Let’s get the other coffins loaded.”
“Give me ten seconds.”
“Taco.”
“Ten fucking seconds.”
Dealer rolled his eyes.
Taco reached for the lid. “Maybe somebody ripped—” He flipped it open and stopped. His whole body went still and his eyes bugged out.
I waited. “Taco?”
The fucker went pale and Munch leaned around him. “Oh, fuck,” he gasped. He immediately stumbled backward, clapped a hand over his mouth, and gagged.
I frowned. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Munch waved his free hand frantically in front of his face. “Oh my fucking God.”
“What?”
“The smell.”
Taco still hadn’t moved.
Myth walked toward them. “What the fuck are you two going on about?”
He reached the coffin and looked inside. “Jesus fucking Christ. What the fucking fuck?”
That got me moving. “What?”
Myth looked at me, then back into the coffin. “You’re gonna want to see this.”
I stepped beside him and the smell hit me first.
Jesus.
Rotten didn’t begin to describe it. It was thick. Sweet and sour at the same time. The kind of smell that seemed to coat the inside of my nose the second I breathed it in.
I pulled my shirt over my nose and looked inside. “Fuck me.”
There was a body in the coffin. A man. Or what was left of one.
He was lying on his back with his arms down at his sides.
His skin had changed color in patches, darkening in some places while taking on a sick, gray-green cast in others.
His face was swollen enough that I wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a lineup if somebody had shown me a picture of him alive.
His stomach was bloated and his clothes were stained.
The smell rolling out of the coffin was enough to make my eyes water.
Behind me, Munch gagged again.
Taco turned his head. “If you fucking puke on me, I’ll kill you.”
“I’m trying not to,” Munch wheezed.
“Try harder,” Taco growled.
Munch closed his eyes. “I can taste the smell.”
“Why the fuck would you say that?” Bull demanded.