Page 105 of The Grief We Hold

Instead, I’m thinking about the way Fen sat at the table with us to eat his dinner and told me all about the outdoor projects he’d done at kindergarten, and how he hated sushi even though he’d never had it because it was raw, and that the label on his T-shirt made him itch.

And the whole while, I’d glance over at Raven in the hope I’d catch her eye so I could get lost in her for a second.

Butcher’s van rolls down onto a deserted street on an industrial estate ahead of us. We hold back. Nondescript warehouses and storage companies line either side. Two of the streetlights are missing bulbs, which helps our cause.

“Quiet as a fucking morgue on the street,” Butcher says over the radio. “But there are lights on in the building. Three cars parked outside. In and out, brothers. In and out.”

Catfish pulls us up closer to Butcher’s van, and we drop out.

“Follow me,” I encourage as we slip down the narrow path along the side of the building. Vines have taken over the wire fencing, leaving it overgrown. Garbage and cardboard packaging has accumulated in places. It’s dark and provides us all the cover we need.

A man stands outside, looking up at the sky. One hand is in his pocket; the other holds a cigarette to his lips. I slip up behind him and run my knife straight along his neck. Blood pumps out as he gurgles, but no other noise escapes.

He slumps to the floor, his eyes wide.

“Surprise,” I say, and wipe my knife on his jacket.

Catfish points to two prospects, who reach beneath the guy’s arms and drag him back into the alley. Nothing saysyou’re under attacklike a dead body in the parking lot.

The door isn’t locked.

“Nice and secure,” Catfish whispers.

I nudge the door open with the end of my Glock, but all it reveals is a long, sterile corridor with blue laminate flooring, white walls, and fluorescent lighting that fizzes and hums.

It’ll make for a gnarly exit if we’re chased. Hard to miss when the corridor is barely two people wide and longer than a shooting range.

We make our way up it, weapons raised, backs to the wall, single file. Deeper into the building, I can hear the muted notes of music being played.

There’s a door ahead of us with a pane of glass in it. I hold out my hand to stop those following me and creep up to it. And there’s our fucking weed. The plants are under grow lamps, but the pots are numbered the way all our plants were. Dates when they were planted, repotted, pruned.

“You in?” I say into the earpiece.

“Slight distraction. Three down,” Grudge says. “I’m front right.”

“Back right corner,” I say. “In three, two?—”

“Who the fuck are you?” The face appears at the window, and then seven levels of shit explode.

He pulls his weapon and fires through the glass as I duck out of the way.

Catfish steps out from the wall and fires, killing the man instantly.

“You forgot to say ‘one’,” Grudge says in my ear.

“One, you asshole.” I shove the door wide open, pushing the dead man’s body out of my path.

Men begin shouting, running off the main warehouse floor. There must be weapons somewhere, but none of them are carrying them. I guess they’re all up on the mezzanine, because that’s where they seem to be headed.

“Catfish. Cut off the stairs. Don’t let them get up there.”

He positions himself on one knee and starts picking off the men trying to make it.

There are gas tanks along the far wall. Guess they may have been using propane heaters to keep everything nice and toasty. “Watch your fire toward the back wall. Gas cylinders.”

Smoke huffs. “That’s gonna be cheaper and faster than laying explosive.”

“I’m over being the lookout while you guys have all the fun,” Butcher grumbles. “I’m coming in. Sitting in this truck is boring as fuck.”

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