Page 35 of Debt of My Soul

“Not sure. His girl is in on it too. Pleaded for his life just an hour ago as Darrin beat the piss out of him,” Snape says.

Damn.

Shrieking sounds from the warehouse, and a chill runs down my back. I steel my face before eyeing Snape, who sighs. “At least Darrin said he’d let the girlwork. You up for a show?”

No. Never.

I shrug. “We’ll see.”

We both stride over to the hulking, run-down warehouse. It’s one of the better ones, though. Most facilities used to parcel Jackpot are rat-infested cesspools.

The building is long and rectangular. Rusted metal coats the whole thing. Several bays for trucks to load and unload line the back, while a single point of entry funnels everyone in that direction, easily secured or picked off if you aren’t supposed to be there.

Reaching the door, the female’s yelling gets worse, and I brace myself for what I’m about to witness.

Blitz and Goff stand on the inside of the door. Both of them watch the scene unfold. While Blitz is a trusted member, unaddicted to the Jackpot that flows so freely from this place, Goff is not so lucky.

He’s been addicted for several years, accumulating more debt than he can possibly pay back. Always taking drugs or borrowing money from Darrin to gamble or buy a hit. Darrin didn’t demand he deal, though. No, he’s let him work around the compound. His softness with Goff irritates many of the men, but Darrin pretends not to notice.

Goff’s gaze is pinned on the young lady. Streams of mascara blacken underneath her eyes, which are wide in fear as another man holds her elbow. Goff is no doubt thinking of River, his sister. Perhaps wondering if he’ll ever go too far and put her in the position this woman is in.

I scan the warehouse. The packers are still working. Most of them don’t even glance up from where they weigh and measure out the powder into convenient bags, each designated for specific dealers.

A loud thud, as if concrete itself connected with a skull, rings out. Darrin’s fist coils back for another strike. The manwho came crawling, pleading to Darrin the weeks prior, is now riddled with black and blue circles. Hair disheveled, he steps back with a limp, making retreat difficult. Darrin follows his every move.

“You stole from me,” Darrin says, his voice quiet and unfeeling. A predator sizing up his prey. Those deep mismatched eyes harbor so much pent-up rage and emotion as he scans the man’s body, searching for weak points to inflict the most pain.

“I’m s-s-sorry. I can’t help it.”

“I’ve given you a chance. You came here searching for a fix. For a high that onlyIcan give.” Command laces his voice as it thunders throughout the warehouse, reminding everyone exactly who runs and owns this operation. “I provided that, and you … you squandered it.”

A far-off look in Darrin’s eyes catches my attention. But as soon as it’s there, it’s gone. Blinked away and offering no mercy.

“No,” the man pleads. “I promise I won’t do it again. I’ll sell triple. I’ll, I’ll?—”

Darrin grabs the back of his head with his fist and the man jerks, trying to free himself, but Darrin holds fast. The female is crying, full-fledged tears now. Whether for her man or for the drugs she’ll now have to work for instead of freeloading, I’m unsure.

Darrin reaches down to unsheathe a knife from his waistband, and the man’s eyes widen in terror. A wet spot appears on his light-washed jeans as Darrin drags him toward the packers. Large containers of fine powder line the stainless-steel tables, getting ready for weight checks, but before that—bags. Large bags of Jackpot, sizes I’ve never seen before. I stiffen at the knowledge. So much. There’s so much.

His knife splits one, powder spilling out. Goff and Blitz both jerk in surprise. Each for different reasons. Blitz sees the wasted money while Goff sees the wasted high.

All the while, Darrin sees the perfect ending.

He shoves the man’s face down.

Down into the bright white powder piled in the bag, the slice made big enough for his thin nose and mouth.

Silence invades the warehouse. Packers have retreated from their stations. The woman has dropped to her knees, head hung low. There’s a silent scream etched over her mouth and her eyes are desperate, heavy.

Muffled sounds are the only noise echoing in the metal building. Grunts and slaps to the table sounds around the man as he struggles to breathe, nose pushed into the deadly powder. His fingernails scratch and claw at the steel. Fighting. He’s fighting, but it’s for nothing.

Darrin stands over him, his muscled arm holding his head in place over the large, opened bag on the table. Nostrils flared, he doesn’t even look down at the man struggling for his life. He meets the stare of every man in the room. Connecting with their eyes in declaration.

This is my house. My power. My operation, he silently seems to say.

The man’s arms begin to slow, weakening as he aspirates the Jackpot. His head jerks from side to side and Darrin’s hand presses harder, his fingers digging into the man’s scalp.

The scene is violent and, in a sick way, poetic.

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