“He's all yours, Charlie,” I whisper to the nothing around me.
I drop to my knees, adrenaline spiking in my veins. I feel like I just did a big line of cocaine as I meticulously remove the scope and put the Dragon in her case. I click the clasps closed and take toward the stairs at a run.
Downstairs, I ease into the suffocating night, toss the gun in the back and slide into the driver's seat. I insert the key and then turn the engine. The engine doesn't turn. It makes a few choked noises and stalls out. No. No no no! Not now. My Caddy would never leave me hanging at a time like this.
“Fuck,” I scream, smashing my hand against the dashboard. I try again. No dice.
The sirens are getting closer.
Chapter 33 Rookie
Joshua
The truck left several minutes ago, but there are still guys posted up out front. They're shooting the shit about strippers, one in particular they think they both know. Fine, that's good. Let them be distracted by Star, or Jasmine, or Candy – whichever naked slut wants to be my cover. They're too immersed in the special talents of said slut to hear me sneaking along the back of the garage. There's a dirt-colored door back here that wants to know if I can pop its lock.
As I ease my picks into the lock, I hear a muffled cry from inside, reverberating through the metal walls. The sound sends chills across my skin, it's so miserable. My hands start to shake, so that I have to pull the picks out and take a long breath. My Glock is loaded, one in the chamber, at my hip. It doesn't make me feel much better about what's going on.
Get your shit together, Joshua. Pick the lock like Charlie taught you.
My hair itches against the back of my neck. I fight the urge to scratch at it. Sweat tickles me, creeping from under my thick curls downward. I push the picks back into the lock and close my eyes.
It takes me a few long minutes to finally get the thing to give, not at all the grace I've seen Maria use to coax a lock open. But it'll do. There's a click and the picks move. Yes. Not so hard.
Now for the hard part. I draw my .40 and slowly push the door open. The hinges creak, but thankfully only a little. The room is small, cramped, and dark. It stinks of gasoline and motor oil and stale beer. Hulking bits of automobiles sit around, stacked haphazardly, left to disuse. My foot hits an oil pan, which skitters across the floor.
I freeze. Shit. I listen hard for any sign of what's going on in the next room. I can't hear anything, except then there's another half-strangled cry that turns my blood cold. I think it's Freddy's voice, if I could imagine him making that kind of noise.
I turn the doorknob slowly. The door makes the slightest creak when I push it open the tiniest bit so that I can see into the garage. I push again, inch by inch, until I can fit through the opening. Then I step out into the light.
Movement to my left catches my eye, a blur of arms moving toward me. I duck away, spin around with gun drawn, and pin a degenerate-looking fucker to the wall with my barrel pressed between his eyes. He stares at me, dumbfounded, and I wonder if he even realizes what the fuck just happened. I'm actually surprised he's not drooling by the empty look in his eyes. He raises his open hands at his sides, and I deliver him a sharp, downward pistol whip that crumples him against the wall.
His body slides down and slumps forward. Isaiah said Freddy paid someone off to get in here. I wonder if that was the kid. I hesitate, long enough to listen, to see if anyone might have heard the impact of my gun butt with his skull. So far, I can't hear anyone else close by.
I creep along the wall to the corner, where I presume the space opens to the main garage. As I peer around the corner, I hear a voice say, “I really cherish these last moments togethah, Freddy. I'm just so glad you decided to join me.”
A crack resounds, metal against metal, and Freddy grunts. From my point of view, I can't see anyone else. No more guards or workers. So this Derrik guy sent his goons outside, smug that he was alone with the doofus wonder.
I level my gun at ready as I turn the corner into the garage. To my right, I can see the office, door open, the slender form with a massive, bloody wrench raised high into the air. His other hand is missing. I don't even think, just take aim at the hand holding the wrench and squeeze the trigger.
The kick knocks me back half a step, and my ears explode into a constant, nerve-wracking tone, but my aim is true. The bullet tears his hand to shreds, pings off the wrench and sends it flying onto the floor. Derrik makes a twisted howl that turns into a roar. He whirls around to see his aggressor. I don't give him time to recognize me before I bury another bullet in his forehead.
His head snaps back. His body drops to the floor. I just stand there for a long stretch, unprepared for the anger that sleaze stirred in me. I never knew him, never knew he existed until he strolled into the wrong situation on Magazine Street. My eyes drop to my Glock.
I've never killed anyone before.
A voice from the office snaps me out of my
