Page 4 of Vendetta
When Vendetta pulled his van into the cracked lot behindINeeda Medical Supplyjust after seven, the morning fog was still clinging to the pavement.His was a pre-owned cargo van with a few dings in its white paint, but he’d gotten a deal on it at the city auction.Stepping out of the van, he took in the warehouse where he’d be working.The building looked like it had been repurposed.It looked like it could have been a tire shop or auto body place.Someone’d slapped a vinyl sign over the front and started pushing boxes of wound care kits and portable oxygen tanks.
Vendetta met Freddie, the manager, at his one interview for the job.People weren’t showing up in droves to work as a delivery driver and he didn’t get the impression that he’d been up against anyone else for the job.Freddie met him at the door just as he said he would.He looked like the kind of guy who told the same three jokes at every company get-together.Mid-fifties, thinning hair slicked back, probably the same way he wore it in the ‘90s.The man’s stomach pressed a little too tight against his neatly tucked button-down and he wore khakis like they were tactical gear.He seemed friendly enough, but he had the kind of humor that made people laugh more out of habit than actual amusement.It didn’t make him a bad guy.Just the kind of man who thought charm and authority came from a tucked shirt and a clipboard.
The man grinned as he approached the loading dock, clipboard in hand.“You’re early, Jason Evans,” he said.“Didn’t figure a guy with that much beard would be punctual.”
The long beard wasn’t something he’d worn as Tank.It gave him a different look and that was useful.Vendetta gave a tight smile and said nothing.He wasn’t here to make friends.He was here to work, to watch, and when the time came, to strike.He towered over Freddie who had to glance up to hold his gaze.The lack of friendly banter had the man skipping more talk and moving ahead to the work.Vendetta was anxious to get on with that.
Freddie grabbed a folded uniform shirt from the table behind him, squinting at the chest like he was already picturing the embroidery.“We do names here.Customers like it.And it helps the drivers feel like part of the team.You want ‘Jason’ stitched on yours, or something cooler?”He grinned like he thought that was hilarious.
Vendetta shook his head.“No name.I’m good.”
Freddie paused in folding the shirt.“C’mon, man, makes it official.”
Vendetta met his gaze.“Still Jason.Just don’t stitch it.”
Freddie looked like he wanted to push, but something in Vendetta’s expression must’ve told him not to.Shrugging, he laughed and handed him the shirt.“All right.Suit yourself, mystery man.”
Vendetta didn’t answer, just pulled the shirt on right over the long-sleeved T-shirt he wore to conceal his scars; the one around his neck along with those from service, and any identifying tattoos.He followed Freddie out the warehouse doors.Leading him through the back of the warehouse, his new boss pointed out shelves stacked with everything from wound dressings to portable oxygen tanks.
“The back wall is for scheduled clinic runs.Dialysis stuff, diabetic supplies, the usual,” Freddie said.“You’ll load up over here.Zone 3.That’ll be your area for now.There are a few nursing homes, assisted living places, and a couple clinics.”
Vendetta followed him, listening, not talking, taking it all in.To his new boss, this was just inventory.Boxes with barcodes, delivery routes, and time windows.To Vendetta, it was intel.Each stop would be a new opportunity.Each facility was a chance for him to ask the right question or overhear the wrong name.If the criminal network was funneling victims through Oak Grove, someone would have to be patching them up.And he was about to be the guy who delivered straight to their doors.
Freddie pointed to a clipboard with route sheets, still yammering about mileage logs and signoffs.Vendetta wasn’t really paying attention.He wasn’t here for the paycheck.He was here to look for the cracks.And the second they started turning up?He’d wedge it wide fucking open.
“Oh, I should mention that since you’re the new guy, you also get stuck with the restaurant and bar deliveries,” Freddie continued, gesturing toward a separate rack of clearly labeled boxes.They were smaller, but still under theINeedalogo.“There’s not a lot of those, fortunately.It’s mostly first aid kits, gloves, and hand sanitizer.A couple places just like to keep up appearances, I guess.”
Vendetta’s attention snapped to that rack.Bars and restaurants, not medical centers or clinics.Regular public places.Why the hell would some dive bar need hospital-grade medical supplies?
“What kind of places are we talking about?”Vendetta asked, keeping his tone casual.
Freddie shrugged.“Just a handful.That Irish pub off Highway 8, the pizza place in town, and some bar over on Main.Uh, what’s it called now…Ned’s Sundown Lounge?Something like that.Just got bought out recently.”
That had Vendetta’s full attention.He didn’t say anything, just nodded like it was nothing.But his thoughts were coming together.
Bars weren’t supposed to be on this route.But if the Cottonmouths were using any of them as a front, keeping injured victims somewhere, laundering money through food service, even staging meetings, it made sense to stock them with basic supplies to avoid raising suspicion.And now he had an excuse to walk through the front door of every one of them.
Perfect.
Vendetta half-listened to the rest of what Freddie had to say.But his mind was already spinning with plans.There were routes and schedules to study.There were building layouts, security habits -- all of it a mental blueprint taking shape while his new boss rambled on about clipboard protocol and break room etiquette.He caught the end of it, just as Freddie clapped a hand on another man’s shoulder.
“Jason, meet Alan Perkins.He’s one of our best.You’ll ride along with him for a couple days.”
Alan was mid-forties, wiry, friendly in that small-town way.He had a smoker’s voice and a habit of talking too much when the cab went quiet.But he was efficient, knew every stop by heart, and didn’t ask too many questions.Vendetta kept his answers short, stuck to the basics, and watched everything closely.
By the time they wrapped up the route and rolled back into the warehouse, he already knew which clinics ran tight on inventory.He knew which ones had loose security, and which doors were always left cracked open in the back.
That night, back in his motel room, Vendetta ate lukewarm takeout straight from the container.The TV played the local news in the background.They reported something about a school board dispute and a car fire near the interstate.But his mind was consumed with everything he’d learned that day.Every face he’d seen, every note Alan made on the log sheet all looped through his head like puzzle pieces waiting for a match.
Oak Grove had no idea he was back.And soon enough, it wouldn’t matter.
* * *
Dylan
Ned’s Sundown Loungelooked rougher in the light of day than it ever did at night.
Dylan Crizer waited across the street with her keys clenched in her hand, taking it all in.The building looked old, dressed in faded black brick.The same flickering neon sign that barely spelled the word “Open” was still there.She remembered it from passing by that building as a child.The tinted windows smeared with fingerprints and smoke stains were new.While the building wasn’t falling apart just yet, it had clearly seen better days.Maybe better decades.
