Page 44 of Fired at the Heart

Raphael throws me an irritated glare. “What my associate means is that we can make this worth your while. Financially.”

The tension in the room thickens. Caleb radiates anger beside me, his scent sharp with aggression, and Cassian shifts his position by the door.

“I can’t help you,” the owner says finally. “Even if I wanted to, we’re not told where they take them after they leave here. Different destinations for different merchandise. It’s compartmentalized.”

“Bullshit,” Caleb spits.

The owner’s eye darts to Caleb, then back to Raphael. “It’s the truth. I get my cut for providing the space and keeping the merchandise maintained. The transportation and final delivery are all handled by others.”

“Names,” I demand. “We need names.”

“I don’t have names. Just a burner phone number.”

“Give it to us.”

The owner hesitates. “It changes every week.”

My patience snaps, and I grab the man by his collar. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not?—”

“You’re lying,” I repeat, pulling him forward until our faces are inches apart. “Every operation like this has backup protocols. Contingencies. There’s no way you only have one burner phone number with no other contact information.”

“I can’t.” His double chin wobbles. “These people will torture me if they find out I told you anything.”

“I’lltorture you right now.” I poke him in the belly. “You like eating. How about I take you back to my playhouse, and cut off your tiny cock? I’ll put it in the freezer to keep it nice and safe while I let you starve. And when you’re desperate enough, I’ll cook you up a nice little sausage to eat. You can spend months consuming yourself. Your toes, your fingers, your calves, your forearms?—”

“The Finishing House is mobile!” His pulse spikes in his throat. “The Finishing House is mobile! It moves. That’s all I know.”

Raphael places a hand on my shoulder. “Avery?—”

I shrug him off, the contact sending unwanted heat through my system. “Don’t touch me.”

Cassian stomps forward, his focus fixed on Raphael, losing focus with his jealousy. The warehouse owner’s body tenses, his expression a mask of desperation.

“Cassian,” I warn, but too late.

The owner kicks hard against the floor, sending the rolling chair backward. It crashes into Cassian, throwing him off balance. In the split second of confusion, the owner’s zip-tied hands reach out, grabbing for Cassian’s gun.

Everything moves in a terrible slow motion. Cassian recovers, reaching for his weapon, but the owner already has his fingers on it. Raphael lunges forward. Caleb shouts.

I dive for the man’s arms, but my fingers close on empty air.

The gun goes off, a deafening crack in the confined space. But the barrel isn’t pointed at any of us.

It’s angled up, pressed under the owner’s chin.

Blood sprays the ceiling in a fine mist as the owner’s head snaps back, his remaining eye wide and staring. His body convulses once, twice, then falls limp, slumping in the chair as gravity takes over.

Silence descends, broken only by our heavy breathing.

“Fuck!” Caleb kicks the desk, sending papers flying. “Fuck!”

The metallic smell of blood fills the room, mixing with the acrid scent of gunpowder. I step back, my shoes squeaking on the floor where blood begins to pool.

“He chose death over talking,” Raphael says. “What the hell was he so afraid of?”

Caleb whips toward me. “You went too far with your fucking mind games!”

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