Page 27 of Room Nine: Masters of Control

I grin, typing out a response.“We are men of our word and nothing short of death will stop us from keeping our promise to you. Nothing.”

O’Dell drives past Bobby’s apartment building where we clock both vehicles parked on the street. There are two men talking on the sidewalk, one of them with a pit bull mix on a leash. One building down are a couple kids playing outside the doorway, but otherwise, the neighborhood seems quiet.

“I’m going to circle around and park on the south end of the street. We’ll approach from there.”

“You want me to take the backdoor?”

He shakes his head. “Dem will take the window since he’s on the first floor. You and I will take the hallway. I’ll do the approach. He’s really got nowhere else to go.”

“Roger that.”

We approach as a unit, Dem ducking down at the corner of the building while O’Dell and I run beneath the windows of the first floor. They propped the door to the apartment building open and we enter without incident, walking down the hallway toward Bobby’s apartment. The hallways are quiet, almost too quiet, which differs from the building next door bustling with activity.

Dem is in our ears. “The two guys with the pit bull are watching, but they’re not making a move. Something tells me they are used to seeing law enforcement around here.”

O’Dell approaches Bobby’s door and then stops, signaling to me there’s something wrong.

I inch closer and noticed the door has been kicked open, the frame severely damaged. And then we hear the telltale sound of a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun cocking a round.

“Take a step inside, and I’ll fill you full of holes,” A male voice who I can only assume is Bobby calls from inside the apartment.

O’Dell and I both take defensive positions with our weapons drawn. “Did the DiFallo family come to see you today? If so, we’re not with them.”

“Oh yeah? Then who are you?”

“We’re private contractors hired to get you get somewhere safe,” I say, making sure he understands there are at least two of us out here.

Dem is once again in our ears. “Definitely a 12-gauge he has trained at the door.”

“Put the lasers on him,” I whisper.

O’Dell uses his booming voice again. “Bobby Lash—the only way you’re making it out of this alive is by putting the gun down. I’m going to swing the door open, and if your muzzle is pointing in my direction, my friends outside your window are putting two in your chest and one in your head. If you think I’m lying, look down at the red dots on your shirt.”

“Oh shit,” Bobby whimpers.

“Listen to me, man. Be smart,” I say. “Put the cannon down.”

“What are you offering?”

O’Dell shakes his head. “I don’t have the authority to offer you dick, but if you come with us willingly, I promise DiFallo won’t be gutting and displaying you as an example to the rest of his organization. We know how he takes care of people he thinks are snitches, and since the Feds are moving in on him right now, and your house blew up yesterday, he’s going to think you’re a snitch.”

“He already thinks it!” Bobby screams at the door.

“Then you have nothing to lose here, man!” I yell back.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

O’Dell and I lock eyes, and I shake my head. Bobby is spiraling, and I thank Christ they ordered us to come get him. I couldn’t handle him loose and fixated on Kyra in this state.

We hear what sounds like the shotgun being dropped to the floor. Half a second later, Dem confirms it.

O’Dell kicks the door open, barking orders to Bobby to lie down face first on the ground.

I’m right behind him, kicking the shotgun away and keeping my gun trained on him as O’Dell slaps a pair of metal cuffs on him.

Dem walks in ten seconds later, his gun drawn.

But I barely notice my partners, because my gaze is tracing over the wall of driver’s licenses hung like trophies and stuck on the collage of photographs of our sweet Kyra.

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