Chapter 47
Chapter Forty-Seven
“Any luck?” Shawn’s voice crackles through my phone.
“I’m at one of her warehouses now.” Frustration ripples through my body, increasing my grip on my phone until the plastic creaks. “I’ve hit three of her businesses already and no one had any fucking answers.”
“Shit,” he breathes. “Okay, that’s okay. Those were her customer-facing businesses, right? Brothels and stuff? It makes sense that no one would know much there. Did you, uh…dispose of the clientele?”
“They’re all dead.”
Shawn sucks in a heavy breath. “Right, right, of course they are. Just, you know, do what you have to do to get her back safely.”
“I am,” I seethe into the speaker before cutting off the call.
Dim, evening light peeks between the buildings at the edge of the city, the fading sun casting a red glow over the old bricks.
Bits of gravel scatter beneath my boots as I walk through the alley.
I watch them skitter across the ground, lodging themselves in the cracks in the concrete.
Within those cracks, tiny tufts of green peek out.
Maybe weeds are the only things that survive in this shithole.
As I round the corner, my eyes crawl along the warehouse, marking points of entry.
The crumbling bricks wouldn’t be hard to get through with the pipe bomb in my pocket, but that’s not ideal.
Looking further along the building, I notice a small side door.
It looks weak, its edges rusted and worn. That’s how I’ll get inside.
A cold wind lashes at my face, assaulting me with frigid air and the stench of the city. I tug my hood over my head and stuff my hands into my jacket pockets.
Is she cold? The thought whispers through my mind, slicing into the soft tissue like a razor.
The organ in my chest pounds against my ribcage as if it could bust free and find her itself.
It’s almost winter and the near-freezing air has a sharp bite.
Her bare legs flash through my mind, bitten red by wind and frost. She must be cold. I have to bring her home.
The thought of bringing my little bird back to me propels me forward.
It’s the only thing that allows me to ignore the pounding in my head and the ache in my bones.
My boots pound against the pavement, my limbs moving me even while my mind is stuck on the image of her.
Her mossy-green eyes swim in my vision as my body reaches the door.
The soft curves of her hips dance before me as I pull the bomb from my pocket and duct tape it to the rusted door hinges.
I light a match and watch the flame sparkle like the gold collar I locked around her shapely neck.
The fuse sparks and sizzles, shooting tiny embers into my hand.
I pivot quickly and dive behind a nearby dumpster, hoping it will shield me from the majority of the blast. The explosion rings out through the alley.
The sound smashes into my ears and floods my head with a dizzy haze.
Chunks of metal and stone whistle through the air, some embedding themselves into the brick while others crash to the ground.
I press my body into the side of the dumpster, letting the ringing in my ears quiet.
The next sound that reaches my ears stretches my mouth into a grin.
The screams of injured men echo through the alley, their agonized wails dancing in my ears like a symphony.
I stand, stepping through the cloud of smoke that billows from the doorway.
The stench of burning flesh and metal clings to my nostrils.
The heat of a small fire warms my face. Moving forward, metal and debris crunch under my feet.
I walk through the haze until my boot bumps into something soft.
I look down at the floor, blinking against the smoke that blurs my vision.
The two guards once stationed at the doorway have been thrown back several feet.
Their bodies lay crumbled on the floor, limbs dangling at odd angles.
Their blood pools on the floor from the shards of metal that pierce their skin.
One of them is silent, either dead or in shock, but the other is screaming.
Pulling a handgun from my waistband, I aim it between his eyes. The man looks up at me, his face tear-stained and bloody, before he rattles out a shaky sigh. Something that looks like relief crosses his face, slackening his features and quieting his screams.
“A quick death is too kind for you,” I fume, releasing my grip on the trigger.
I move forward into the warehouse, stepping over his mangled body and leaving him to bleed out from his wounds.
He deserves an agonizing death. They all do for taking what’s mine.
His fingers crack under my weight and his screaming renews, the sound roaring through the building.
I hope they’re all listening, suffering with the knowledge that death is coming for them.
The smoke begins to clear and two things become immediately apparent: I’ve got everyone’s attention and I’m severely outgunned.
Nearly a dozen men snap to attention, their eyes and guns trained on me.
I throw myself behind a metal barrel as the bullets start to fly.
My body crashes to the floor with a thud that reverberates through my bones, but at least I’m not dead.
Gunfire pummels the barrel, each shot pushing the metal to its breaking point.
With my fingers pressed against my seemingly single-use barrier, I will the rusted metal to hold on until they need to reload.
Seconds drag by as bullets spray overhead, crashing into walls and sending objects tumbling across the floor.
A mist of brick dust fills the air, clogging my nose and coating my tongue.
The sound of gunfire pounds in my ears, reigniting the fiery pain behind my eyes.
Until now, I had almost forgotten about the head wound.
Women love scars, the creepy creature inside of me purrs.
Ava will know how hard you fought for her.
All of this, everything I do, is for her.
I’d lay their corpses at her feet if I didn’t think it’d make her sick.
Click, click, click.
My lips twitch into a smile at the telltale clicking of their spent weapons. It’s my turn now.
I spring up from the floor, sending the barrel crashing against the concrete.
I have less than two seconds while they reload to assess the situation.
My eyes scan the room, making a mental note of its layout and exit points.
There’s a back door, but it’s mostly blocked by crates and boxes.
High on the walls, a few small windows light the space, but they can only be accessed by a ladder.
The warehouse itself is large, but sparsely packed.
That means a couple of things: Bianca doesn’t give a shit about OSHA regulations, and more importantly, there’s nowhere to hide.
My eyes pan over the faces of ten men who are rapidly loading their weapons.
Actually, eight men. Two of them would barely fit the description of the word.
Their faces twitch with panic and sweat trickles down their foreheads.
Those are my targets. The rest of them have been in the game a long time, at least as long as I have.
They won’t give me the information I need like the younger ones will.
I draw my arm in a line in front of me, placing a bullet between the eyes of everyone except those two.
I hate to make their deaths so quick, but it can’t be helped.
The two twenty-something-year-olds hands fidget in their pockets, their fingers frantically searching for fresh clips while they try to keep their eyes on me.
Springing forward, I eat up the distance between us in seconds.
The shorter of the two twists his baseball cap around on his head and races for the back door.
Wood cracks against the floor as he topples crates and climbs over boxes.
Splinters of wood crackle under my boots as I step toward him, but he doesn’t look back.
I slam the butt of my gun into the back of his head and his body hits the floor with a muted thunk.
I pivot on my heels, turning back to face the second one.
His shaky hands have moved from the pockets of his cargo pants to the one in his sweatshirt.
Does he even have another clip? Our eyes meet and a tear dribbles down his pinkened face.
I move toward him, watching his clumsy feet fumble backwards until his back meets a brick wall.
His eyes widen, more tears streaking his cheeks, as I approach him.
My fist collides with his nose and his head cracks against the wall before his body crashes to the floor.
* * *
Groans fill the room as Baseball Cap and Sweatshirt come to.
“What the fuck, man?” Baseball Cap yells. He wriggles in his chair, yanking his arms against the rope I’ve used to bind him. “Do you even know who you’re messing with?”
A sigh rolls out of my mouth and I tap my gun against his shoulder. “Have you ever been to Bianca’s compound?”
“Fuck you,” he seethes before snapping his quivering lips shut.
I press my gun into the soft part of his shoulder and squeeze the trigger. His howl echoes through the room, followed by a trickling of liquid. The scent of urine wafts up from his body and I step around the puddle that’s formed beneath his chair.
“Have you been to Bianca’s compound?”
“N-no! No!” he sobs. “I-I’ve never been there.”
I tap my gun against his forehead. “Last chance. Have you ever been to Bianca’s compound?”
“I swear,” he screams, “I haven’t! I haven’t!” Tears stream down his face, dripping onto his bloodied shirt.
“You’re of no use to me then.” I pull the trigger, sending chunks of his skull and brain matter splattering against the wall and the face of the guy next to him.
Sweatshirt sobs as I approach him, his face streaked with blood and tears.
“Please, please, please,” he whispers.
“Have you ever been to Bianca’s compound?” I ask, tapping my gun against his kneecap.
A glob of spit trickles from his mouth as he sucks in a breath. “I-I don’t know. I don’t know.”
He screams as the bullet shatters his knee, spraying the chair and floor with blood and bone.
I shove my gun into his stomach. “Have you ever been to Bianca’s compound?”
“I th-think I d-dropped someone off there one time. I don’t…” He retches, turning his head to vomit on the concrete. “I don’t kn-know the address.”
“Explain to me where it is,” I demand, digging the hard metal into his gut.
His breath whistles a choppy tune through his gritted teeth and sucks the snot back from his nose. “I-it’s outside the city. N-north. It’s north. B-big white house. Lot of land. I-think it’s on…umm…”
My hand creeps lower, the gun moving from his gut to his one good knee.
“Fitz!” he yells. “Fitzgerald Road!”
“Good,” I breathe. “That’s very good.”
I lift my arm and fire, putting a bullet between his eyes.