Page 53 of Avenging Kelly

“Where do you want to go?” I asked.

Orr studied me for a moment. “Wherever you’re staying. We have to trust each other or we both die.” That was uplifting...

We ran back to London’s building and up the stairs. I’d dropped the cupcakes when I tackled Orr, and when I checked the bag, I saw they were a crushed mess. I’d have to figure out a way to make it up to my man later.

London was at the Victorian to check in with his colleagues, and I was supposed to meet him there at noon. It was just after eight, so I had plenty of time to talk to Orr.

I unlocked the door to the small apartment and allowed the guy in behind me, watching him as he glanced around the place. “Small, but discrete. Good call. So, what do you know about Operation Jackpot?”

My new burner was charging on the counter. “I gotta pee first,” I said as I quickly grabbed it and took it with me into the bathroom in London’s bedroom.

I closed the door and went to the gun safe under the bed, pulling out my P365 and checking the mag before engaging the safety and taking it with me to the bathroom. After I emptied my bladder, I washed my hands and secured the gun in the hand towel I planned to carry out with me.

I dialed London’s number. “Hey, babe. How’s your morning?”

“Shh. Don’t talk. Just listen. I’m putting the phone in my pocket. Record the conversation.”

I grabbed the towel and stepped into the bedroom, taking a breath. I wasn’t planning to kill Orr, at least until I heard him out. In the end, if it came down to him or me, I would be the one going to see my man to have a pleasant lunch. I hoped I didn’t have to commit murder before I did.

I walked down the hall to find Orr sitting at the small kitchen table. His knife and a tiny ass pistol that maybe he could have hidden behind his balls, both setting on the table in front of him. Seeing no need for further pretense, I tossed the towel before I put my Sig down and my knife next to it in a show of faith.

“What the hell is that?” I asked, pointing to the small silver pistol with the resin grip that sported a star. It was an impressive piece of craftsmanship, even though it appeared to be made for a child gunslinger.

“It’s called a Cowboy Defender. Shoots forty-five Colts or four-ten shotgun shells.” Orr studied my face with an intensity that mirrored my own.

“What’s in it now?”

The man chuckled. “What’s wrong? Don’t like the element of surprise?”

I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Tell me what I don’t know.” I was done playing around.

“Frances Jean Ritchfield, also-known-as The Gambler, has sold the US military a bill of goods that she’s designed a program to beef up the military’s special operations’ troops to be leaner, meaner, fighting machines. She was given the go-ahead for the program trial by General Andrew Tensley. It allowed her to use Army personnel incarcerated at Leavenworth as guinea pigs. Problem is, she’s taking shots in the dark regarding the perfect formula to control us because it takes more and more of the juice to keep us going, which she’s not telling the Pentagon.”

I thought about it for a moment and considered poor Clubs, Davis Willard. He was from Montana, and now he was dead. “Until she overdoses us and kills us, right?”

“Yes. We’re not the first to get sucked into the program, you know. Has she adjusted your meds? You’ve been active in Jackpot for how long?” Orr asked.

“Almost two years. I was in training for a year after I was sentenced to an additional five years for… there was a trumped-up altercation with a guard that I didn’t win. Anyway, yeah, she’s adjusted my meds a few times,” I answered.

“And each time, you felt stronger and more powerful, yes?” he asked, as if he’d read my mind.

“I was told the pain I felt was bones hardening and muscles growing,” I said, completely unsure of anything in my world.

“Yep. Part of the cocktail is anabolic drugs—steroids for muscle growth and bone density enhancers so you can get the shit beaten out of you and not break anything important that could hinder your mission.”

It sounded like something The Gambler would do. The woman was truly evil.

“Her official report to the oversight committee is that she’s shooting us up with a lot of vitamins and antidepressants, but that’s bullshit. She says it’s a vitamin D derivative, but both are triple the strength given to those with osteoporosis and those who have muscle injuries or problems gaining weight,” Orr stated. I was stunned too much to even comment.

“Bone density drugs can cause calcium to build up in the bones and blood, especially if the person taking them isn’t suffering from a lack of bone density. It can lead to osteosarcoma—bone cancer—and build up in the brain, leading to Parkinson’s.”

Stunned by the information, I thought more about how Poker Chips made me feel. “Uh, I get a huge buzz at first. I feel superhuman early on, but it levels off. My mind races, though, for hours. I, uh, I take one dose a day when I’m not on an assignment. When I’ve been in the field, twice a day.”

Spades nodded. “Let me save you some time. When you’re on a mission, you shoot up every twelve hours and never sleep, complete your assignment as quickly as possible, and operate off adrenaline to the point you’re exhausted once you’re finished but still can’t sleep. You record a verbal report on your burner phone and go back to Sin City. You get checked out by The Gambler and then you get a shot that knocks you out for days. When you wake up, you remember nothing.” Yep. He knew the drill.

“Your body then works through a series of side effects—bloody diarrhea or tortuous constipation. Kidney stones that make you beg to die. Blood in your urine. Dizziness, headaches, body aches… Stop me if you’ve never suffered from any of these.”

I discreetly ticked that shit off on my fingers, my heart sinking as I did because I was about to run out of fingers.

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