Page 63 of The Woman in the Warehouse

“There’s a house that they work out of. But as far as I can tell, shit has been calm there. Dead calm,” he added. “Can’t find anyone who has seen Matej. Not sounding good.”

We fell into a silence on the short drive from the port to the neighborhood where this Czech crew was operating. It was a congested street, the houses all but on top of each other with small strips of grass in the front, and not much more out back.

All the houses were two stories with a steep staircase up to the first level, reminding me a bit of the street of row houses we’d been watching. Except each of these had their own unique styles and colors instead of matching.

Elio pulled to an open spot at the end of the block, but we had to walk halfway up to move in front of a bright green house with a protruding picture window and a sunken front door.

Elio stopped, pointing down the narrow space between the house and the one next door.

We made our way in single file down the side of the house, feet crunching on the loose gravel stone between the strip of concrete down the center.

In the back was a raised porch with a set of steep stairs.

Elio started toward them, then waved around to us, silently telling us to keep an eye as he went up and tried the back door.

I glanced over at Saylor, finding her positioned so she could see around the side of the house, but also up at Elio. Her hand held her gun casually, like someone who was comfortable as fuck with them.

I wondered how good of a shot she was. If she practiced. There were a couple of ranges in the city. I’d practically been raised in them, always knowing my future would involve being in the Family, and wanting to be an asset, not a liability.

I was a good shot.

Whether I would trip and fall while drawing a weapon was another story entirely.

Above me, Elio let out a whistle, and I gestured for Saylor to go up first with me taking up the rear, keeping an eye around us as Elio produced a lockpick kit, and getting to work on the door with Saylor being his eyes for him.

As silent as we all were, we heard the click in unison.

Elio straightened, sucked in a deep breath as he tucked his kit away, and reached again for his gun.

Then, with a nod, we moved inside.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Saylor

My blood was rushing through my veins, my pulse pounding in my neck and wrists.

I didn’t know this crew like Elio did. But there was something off about the silence of the house as we stood outside of it, as Elio worked the lock free, then grabbed the knob to throw it open.

Inside, all there was to be found was unexpected silence, cut through by the ceiling fan in another room that was a ticking metronome that must have been maddening to listen to after a few moments.

We walked first into a small mud room dominated by a built-in cabinet where several men’s jackets and shoes were organized even though the room itself was thick with dust.

Organized but not tidy.

Nothing felt out of place in the mud room.

It wasn’t until we all moved into the kitchen that we froze, all three of us cursing in unison.

Because it was a fucking slaughterhouse.

Blood was splattered across the walls in violent arcs. Arterial spray and knife castoff.

The fridge, once likely a gleaming stainless steel, had bloody handprints all up the front.

There were more on the lightwood cabinets, the dishwasher, the off-white material cushions of the island chairs, overturned and scattered around the floor.

And the floor.

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