I fold up some of the paperwork and jam it down into my pants pocket.
Doors in the hall open and close, and I shuffle back to catch the shadowy shapes of individuals heading for the party room. Leaving the poor schmoe on the table, I return to the hallway and try another door. It’s locked from my side with a chain, and I know it’s a fixture added to the building long after it was closed down.
I unlock the door and step in.
“Get back!”
I catch my breath, caught off guard by the sudden command, and I lift my gun to answer. There’s a portable lamp at the back of the room, shining bright behind the speaker. It doesn’t take me long to piece together their identity, however, and I thank whatever God above is watching.
Lacy stands in front of Shannon, a syringe in her hand like a knife. She’s dressed in a long white T-shirt—a man’s shirt, hanging far enough to act as a short dress—and nothing else. No shoes, no socks. She glares at me with a determined passion I’ve seen in a few rare men, like she’s ready to kill me if needed. Shannon, on the other hand, huddles near the wall, her long brown hair draped over her face as she hugs her knees to her chest. She too wears a long men’s T-shirt.
“I said, get back!” Lacy says, holding the syringe high, her fingers tight around the glass and her thumb on the plunger.
I guess she doesn’t recognize me in the shadows of the doorframe. I step up into the light and lower my weapon.
“Lacy, keep quiet.”
Her eyes go wide, and her mouth hangs open. “Pierce?” she whispers. “How did you—”
“Shh,” I hiss.
I walk over to her, and she hesitates. After fidgeting with her long black hair, she hands over the medical instrument. I pocket the thing in my jacket, keeping the needle tucked into the corner, unsure of where she got it. I flinch as Lacy throws her arms around my torso in a tight hug.
I don’t think she’s ever touched me before, let alone embraced me. I pat her shoulder, awkward about the whole situation. I feel her hands twist into my jacket, like she doesn’t want to let go.
My gut hurts. I’d push her away, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead I wait.
Finally Lacy releases me, her expression one of mixed emotions, unlike a few seconds ago. I kneel down and rest my weight on one knee.
“Are you hurt?” I ask in a hushed voice, glancing from Lacy to Shannon. “Can you both… walk?”
I don’t know what to ask them, or even say. I swear I’ll kill the son of a bitch who hurt them, but that won’t change whatever’s happened.
Lacy grabs my jacket sleeve, her grip tight. “There were police officers. They got in their car. They took us here, all the way from Joliet. They wouldn’t talk to us. I thought we were in trouble.”
She speaks fast and takes quick breaths between short sentences. I listen, keeping my attention on her, but she won’t meet my gaze. She stares off to the side.
“They said we had to wait here,” Lacy continues. “And then other people came to see us. They had guns. They told us to take off our clothes. I told them no. Shannon did too. But they didn’t listen. They had guns. We didn’t want to. We told them no.”
“I understand.”
“We didn’t want to,” Lacy repeats, this time staring at me with glassy eyes.
“I believe you,” I say.
“Shannon cried, and… and then they gave us shirts. And then a man asked us a bunch of questions. He had so many needles. He took our blood.”
I grit my teeth. At least these assholes had some humanity. When two little girls started crying, they handed over shirts.
Shit like this never happened when I worked for Big Man Vice. Jeremy’s brought the bar down a few notches if I’m thanking his men for showing shreds of decency.
I know we were all criminals—it’s not like we were good guys worth emulating—but we fought and killed other criminals back in my day. Decency meant keeping hardworking stiffs out of the equation, and Big Man Vice never targeted children. He was a church man and thought God wouldn’t forgive certain acts of violence, no matter how much you pleaded.
“They didn’t hurt you?” I ask.
Lacy shows me the crux of her arm. The red spot, illuminated poorly by the sole lamp, indicates where they drew blood. “He just left.”
As though talking about this thug brought him back, I hear movement in the hall. I stand, tense, and glance around. It’s a square room with counters lining two walls, but otherwise barren. No windows. Nothing in here to hide behind. Nothing in here to use as a silent weapon.
Except the lamp. It’s made of three metal rods attached to a thick metal base.
I motion for Lacy to give it to me, and she complies with my nonverbal command. Once it’s unplugged, the room goes black, but at least that adds the fun element of surprise.
The door opens. I step forward, not giving a shit about my limp, and the man in the doorframe takes a step back.
“The fuck’s going on here?” he asks, squinting.
I bash his face in with the base of the lamp. It’s dark, even in the hallway, but the wet crunch of teeth is distinct. He hits the floor and I stomp down on his nose, busting up what’s left of his mug. He lies motionless. He could be dead, but I doubt it. The scrape of glass draws my attention away from his body.
“Juan? The fuck?”
Another thug stands at the T intersection. He points his
