“Thanks,” I mutter, but there's no feeling in it.
Everything in me says to go to her, to Maria, in the Ninth Ward. Cover her back and wait for Freddy to do his thing. What do I care if Freddy's back is covered? Except there's a dark notion nagging at the edges of my mind. Maria will be nestled on a rooftop of an empty building, no one will have a clue she's there. Frederick, he's walking into enemy territory, trusting the enemy to not pull some shady shit. It's so fucking stupid I wonder why Maria would agree to it. We never go alone, never leave our backs open. It's the first lesson Charlie ever taught me.
“Goddammit,” I sigh as I pull my shirt over my body and make sure it's covering my piece.
Freddy will reach the garage a little after one. It's not quite midnight. I have plenty of time, no need to rush this. The Mustang will get me across town quickly and it's a bit more my style than an old Caddy.
As we leave the building, the muggy night wraps around me like a wet blanket. I suddenly miss the artificial chill and careless sheets of Eva's inner sanctuary. I miss fucking a girl because I want to, no strings, just humans doing what we do. And the innocence in those first few days of meeting someone fun. I knew it wouldn't last, knew the beer taps and food business aren't my home, but wasn't it kind of nice to pretend for a while?
Who am I kidding? What kind of bartender bachelor packs a .40 to a sleepover?
Neither of us speaks as we climb into Eva's car and I catch a glimpse of myself in the side mirror: hair everywhere, a hard line across my brow, and a hickey on my throat.
Chapter 29 Jumping the Gun
Frederick
I roll the Caddy to a quiet stop in the dark lot behind the garage. Two dirty bay doors stare at me like crazy, filthy eyes. I slip the stick into first and the Caddy just purrs. Outwardly, I'm a rock, steady and precise, always thinking three steps ahead. My insides, though, are a pent up, painful mass of nerves and determination.
In the trunk of the car are enough explosive materials to sink the Titanic. Strapped across my lower back is my Desert Eagle. The silencer is in the pocket of my cargo pants, along with a few tools that I could need. There's a buck knife holstered against my left calf.
I slip the phone from my pocket and send a text to the man inside. Impatience claws at my nerves. It's risky bringing the Caddy here, even if it's still covered in dirt. I could only secure one car and I'll be damned before I send Maria into the heart of Gram's empire in this car. The black economy Taurus will suit her much better.
Finally the garage door on the right starts to slowly rise. I shove thoughts of her away. I can't afford to get distracted by the ways she'll be in danger. She's as street savvy as I am, almost as hard. If she'll do anything, she'll survive. I'd bet my Dragon on it.
I roll forward into the garage. I'm scanning the room as soon as it's in view, checking for a set-up, for men with guns just waiting for me to fall into the trap. All I see are tools and dirt and grease in a fluorescent glare and a skinny white kid waving awkwardly as he punches the button to bring the door down.
He's about nineteen, gangly, and wears a permanent expression of confusion. He doesn't seem to have a lot going on upstairs, and his clothes are the color of an engine. I bet he can tear apart a motor like a demon. He seems like that kind of savant. Doesn't matter. I just need him to get lost.
He eyes me for a moment, looks like he wants to say something, but then his gaze averts to the Caddy. He scans her lines and I know he wants to pop the hood. He heard her run enough to understand her pristine condition. If he touches her, I'll kill him.
“Can you kindly fuck off?”
He startles when I speak and his wide-set eyes come back to me. He nods then stumbles in his haste to turn away. He's a creepy fucker. I don't like him, but I've come too far to back out now. I'm contemplating leaving his brain on the floor as I pop the trunk.
The doomed truck sits silently to my left. It's a ten-footer, probably once belonged to a moving company. I don't even have to look underneath to know this banger is on its last legs – or would have been anyway, if it weren't for me.
This place is eerily silent, undertoned by the creaks and groans of a big building below sea level. Anxiety buzzes in my limbs like a blunt to the face, but I just pull on a long breath as I start hoisting my materials into the light. No time to waste.
Crawling under the ass end of the truck is like some kind of muscle memory, pure mechanical instinct. I've gone through this process a million times in my head since yesterday. It's like watching myself work from an outside view, my hands moving and creating a little piece of hell against a backdrop of learning the ways of the mechanic and a chemist at a young age.
Making the explosives was the easy part in all this. Tannerite, the generic chemical compound used for making exploding targets for gun enthusiasts. It's completely legal to obtain, and relatively stable compared to most means of blowing shit up. Ammonium nitrate and aluminum powder, shaken together to create an explosive that is triggered by any shot bigger than a
