“We can’t bullshit around anymore. We need to find Lacy before they load anything.”
I motion to the paramedic station. Since everyone is busy inside the run-down retirement home, we should be able to investigate without much hassle. Miles picks up on my gesture and scouts ahead, darting from one shadowy location to the next as he heads to the emergency dispatch center.
I like the night, but the stillness isn’t my ally. I hobble along, my injured leg and ripped-up calf preventing me from perfect stealth. The hard click of my shoes gets my heart rate up. All it will take is one thug to spot me and we’ll lose any semblance of an advantage.
For a moment, I wonder why everyone is inside the retirement home. If the bodies are kept in the medical areas of the paramedic dispatch building, what is Jeremy doing one building over? I grind my teeth as I duck behind an overgrown tree on the opposite side of the parking lot—I know what they’re doing. They’re fuckin’ around with the merchandise before it’s shipped out. One last hurrah before it’s no longer theirs. They aren’t taking organs, obviously, not like some of the buyers, but I’m sure they’re not keeping their hands to themselves.
Miles runs across the street and slams his back against the dispatch building. He glances around before motioning me to join him. I follow after, taking twice as long, and stop only once I reach his side.
“Where has everyone gone?” Miles whispers.
“Inside.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I say, keeping my deductions to myself. He doesn’t need to hear any of my thoughts. It’s best not to think of Shannon and Lacy in the hands of men like Jeremy and his goons.
I hope to God they’re in the dispatch building, drugged and awaiting shipment or something. That’s better than every other scenario I can think of.
“One of us should go around to the back,” I say. “We enter both ways, get as much information as possible. If you think you’ll get caught, leave and we’ll meet up across the street.”
“All right,” he replies, an unsteadiness to his voice that betrays his fear. Still, he doesn’t show it. He has his gun, he holds himself ready, and he takes off around the building. I guess I get the front.
I move over to the glass front door and see the name of the dispatch unit, along with the address, has been scraped from the building. The inside is dark. Nothing to see and no movement. I try the door and find it open. I’d say I’m lucky, but I know that’s not the case. People are inside.
I enter.
Dust hangs on the air. I wrinkle my nose to stop a sneeze and continue forward. I didn’t bring a flashlight, and I wouldn’t use one, considering the situation, but I’d love to have the light. The reception desk is cast in shadow, the doors leading deeper standing ajar. I amble around and open the first one I come across, listening to the long creak as the door swings inward.
It’s impossible to see more than two feet down the darkened hallway at any point. I scoot along, hesitant, and keep my back close to the wall. Twice I crunch down on what I think is glass. Bottles, maybe? I try to avoid them.
I come to a T intersection at the end of the hallway, and I only know that thanks to the light emanating from under some of the doors.
A loud bang—metal on metal, not a gunshot—echoes throughout the building. Adrenaline dumps into my system. I grab my gun, hold my breath, and continue to listen, my heart beating so hard it’s difficult to distinguish the other sounds.
Men laughing.
I take a deep breath. Then exhale.
“Another, another!” someone yells.
One of the lit rooms erupts in a round of cheering. They’re playing a game? I don’t fucking know, and I don’t want to think about it. Instead I glance down the opposite end of the hall. There are some other doors, but it’s hard to make anything out.
The “party room” door opens, casting light into the hallway and destroying my dark-vision. I scoot back, hiding around the corner.
“One sec,” a man says with a grunt.
The door closes, taking the light with it, and some lowlife wearing tough reinforced clothing staggers down the hallway at an uneven pace. He passes by me—right by me—and I remain unmoving. He never turns to acknowledge me, and I suspect his vision is impaired, even if it’s not as bad as mine.
The thug bangs on a few doors down the other hall.
“Finish up,” he says. “Boss called. It’ll be time to move out in thirty minutes.”
He repeats this process three times more. I get my gun ready, half tempted to shoot him right now, but what would I do then? Instead I wait as he stumbles back into the party room. The people tell him to take a seat, and I imagine most of them aren’t drunk off their asses; it’s just him.
I take the hallway opposite the party room and trace the man’s steps. I have a choice of four doors—one secured shut with a chair posted under the handle. Keeping my handgun close, I shuffle over to the chair and push it aside. People stir behind the other three doors. They’re “finishing up” whatever it is they’re doing, and I know I need to hustle.
I enter the blocked room and find an unmoving body atop a medical table, though the silhouettes of shapes make it impossible to see detail. I flip the light switch, but nothing happens. Of course not. This place probably doesn’t have power—any light I’ve seen is emanating from outside stuff brought in. Flashlights and lanterns, perhaps.
Whoever is on the table isn’t Lacy or Shannon; that much I’m sure of, considering they’re an adult. I do spot paperwork, however, and I’m reminded of what Miles said about
