Page 120 of Beautifully Wounded

It takes us ten fucking minutes to get back to the Western, but fuck, it feels like it takes an hour.

The first thing we notice is the men aren’t manning the gates. The second thing is that there are no cop cars in sight.

I leap out as JD drives in, not fucking patient enough for him to pull the van into the underground garage, and the moment my feet hit the pavement, I fucking run.

With my gun ready in my hand, I raise it, prepared to shoot anything in a navy fucking uniform as I leap around the corner of the courtyard entrance and fucking come to a halt.

There are no cops in sight.

“They just left!” Jols calls from the gathered group, the Doxies huddled together, some crying, while my men are fucking battered, bloody and bruised, some on the ground, and a few others limping to chairs.

The others from my van skid to a stop behind me, ready to fucking rumble, but I lower my gun, and so do they.

“What the fuck happened?!”

Smitty’s bellow makes everyone stiffen, but I ignore it, moving forward to do a head count.

“Pres, four cops came.” Stocky puffs, trying to stand, but instantly tumbles back to the ground, his pants soaked in blood near his shin.

“Get him a fucking chair,” I snap, and Darla hurries to get him seated in a chair. “We are two men short. Where the fuck are Morris and Cookie?”

My question results in nothing but blank fucking stares.

“Jols. Have you seen Morris and Cookie?” Smitty asks his stepdaughter.

“No. Last I heard, they were on gate duty.”

“She’s right. They were manning the gates when we left.” I agree, and Smitty picks up a chair and starts smashing it into the ground as he yells.

“Then!” smash, “Why!” smash, “Aren’t!” smash, “They!” smash, “On!” smash, “The!” smash, “Fucking!” smash, “Gate!”

Finally, as he heaves, Smitty throws what’s left of the chair across the courtyard, the fucking piece of white plastic narrowly missing a window and slamming against the brick wall.

No one speaks, and that’s when I know no one has a fucking clue where our two prospects are.

“It’s all sounding a bit fucking suss,” Spud snaps. “They were there when we left and then all of a fucking sudden, the pigs turn up and they are gone.”

“They set off the alert,” Jols offers. “But maybe the police took them? Or maybe they ran thinking they’ll get into trouble by letting them in.”

“Too fucking right, they’re in trouble.” Smitty hisses. “What the fuck did the cops want?”

“Compliance check.” Stocky offers, “Amongst other things.”

“What fucking other things?” I step forward, my gun still tight in my hand, ready to fucking kill.

The way Stocky glances at the Doxies, and then at Jols has me fucking grinding my teeth with impatience, so I turn my sights to the one woman I know won’t fucking lie to me. “Jols?”

“Look, things got a little out of hand,” she gestures to our clearly battered men, “and after checking some of the rooms, the pigs determined that most of the men weren’t here, threatening the breach of lockdown fines.”

“Those fucking cunts,” Smitty snarls.

“Yeah. Twenty K per missing man.” Jols continues, before disbelieving murmurs float up around us as the men protest.

“So, they are fining us?” Smitty asks but Jols shakes her head.

“They took payment in another way.”

She doesn’t have to say more for us to get her meaning, and Smitty picks up another chair and proceeds to break it in another fit of rage.

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