Page 61 of Choices

A condensed invisible fog hits me in the face as we step inside. Despite the open space, it’s stifling, the musky stench like damp socks slapping into me. Light suddenly engulfs the place, and Dodger grins from beside the switch.

A few crates line the back wall. Dodger goes straight for them, popping the lids. Callan jerks his chin to the small safe sitting in the corner of the room. Checking it out, I attempt to move it, and it shifts easily. It’s freestanding, not even bolted to the floor.

“Dodger, you think you can open this?” Callan asks.

Looking over to see what he’s talking about, Dodger nods. “Not here, though. Too noisy. Bring it with us.”

“What you got over there?” I ask.

Digging into the crate, he pulls out an AK-47. “Five crates full, two empty.”

Callan nods, satisfied. “Let’s get this shit loaded up.”

Grabbing the legs of the last guard, Monster heaves his shoulders, and we push him into the incinerator. “It’s too hot for this shit,” I groan, snatching a bottle of water from the bag and tipping it over my face before gulping half the contents.

“I told you I could handle it.” Monster grins, stroking a hand through his beard.

“Fuck that. Those cunts were heavy.”

“I would have cut them into more manageable pieces,” he says without an ounce of mirth.

“Well, glad I could save you the trouble.”

“You want to get a beer?” he asks.

Checking my watch, I frown. “It’s seven in the morning.”

“So?”

“So, I’ve got somewhere I need to be. You good locking this place up?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks. I’ll catch you later.”

Pushing out of the outhouse stationed at the back of the compound, I jog over to the garage and help myself to Callan’s SUV keys. He left us to do clean up after receiving a picture message from Rogue. I’ve never seen the bastard move so fast.His dick practically tented his jeans as he made excuses to abandon us.

Jumping in the car, I adjust the seat and kick over the engine. Pulling up to the gate, the camera registers the license plate and the metal clanks as it releases.

With a quick nod of acknowledgement to Smiler in the watchtower, I peel out of the compound and make my way down the winding road. I switch the radio on and drum my fingers on the wheel. The streets are empty, and I make it to my destination in under ten minutes.

Parking, I step out of the truck, my boots pounding the sidewalk. Rays of blinding light sneak over the buildings as the sun creeps higher in the sky.

“We open at eight,” a scruffy-looking kid says, sucking on a vape. I fucking hate those things.

“You want to make an exception?” I pull out my money clip, slip out two hundreds, and hold them up to him.

His eyes almost bug out of his pin-sized head. “What do you need?”

The image of Kitty on the floor, manic, defeated, broken, bleeding sparks in my head, and a knife twists in my chest.

“A goldfish.”

CHAPTER 20

FRESH

KITTY

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