Page 93 of Something like Redemption

“I’m not carrying,” I say, my eyes never leaving hers as I watch her hand dip under the counter to no doubt reach for a piece.

“Dinero,” I say, giving her a small nod.

I bypass my knife. My fingers twitch for the metal security, but I instead reach for the roll of one-hundred-dollar bills, sitting snugly inside my shoe. Pulling out the cash, I slowly hold it above my head with my hands still raised, indicating I mean no harm.

Taking two cautious steps toward her with Quinn following in hot pursuit, I place the roll of hundreds onto the bench and simply say, “Pistolas.”

I step back and lower my hands to chest level as she greedily eyes the money. I can practically see her counting the cash in her head, and I know we’re good. With a flick of her head over her left shoulder, she directs me toward the storeroom out back.

“Gracias.” I nod, reaching for Quinn’s hand and walking slowly but confidently toward the back of the room.

“Why do I have a feeling you’ve done that before?” he whispers into my ear.

I only smile over my shoulder in response, as I don’t care to admit how often I’ve been involved in such a situation.

Pushing apart the red-and-white-beaded curtain, I take stock of everything in the room, just like I used to when delivering drugs. Old habits die hard.

The storeroom is a smallish, dark warehouse with a roller door as our only other exit if things get dicey. A few dozen wooden crates are stored throughout the warehouse floor, and I glance above me to the second level, scanning the area for hidden men waiting for an ambush. Thankfully, there aren’t any.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, a man with a curly mustache, taupe flares, and heavy gold chains that decorate his thick neck comes strolling out from an office, approaching us with a cocky, shit-eating grin. This dude is stuck in the seventies and lacks zero balls, as he has six beefy men standing behind him with machine guns strapped over their chests like a badge of honor.

Douches like this act like heavy armor makes a man or gives them the balls to be in this line of work. Little do they know, it’s not the gun that makes the man. Instead, it’s his honor. And it’s his heart.

The man standing behind me perfectly exemplifies what a real man encompasses.

“What you want?” he asks in a thick accent, twirling the left side of his mustache as he eyes me hungrily.

This fucker is making my skin crawl, and the sooner we get out of here, the better.

Without hesitation, I rattle off my list, consisting of a colorful selection of pump-action shotguns, Glocks, Berettas, my all-time favorite Colts, and, just for fun, two AK-47s.

He smiles a reptilian smirk, and I nearly gag.

“A girl who knows what she wants. I like.” He licks his lips, making it more than obvious he’s ogling my boobs.

Quinn growls, and I place my hand behind me, stopping his retreat, as that’s exactly what this scumbag wants.

I want this little league hero out of my life, so I’m direct, ensuring I don’t mince my words. “Look, enough with the talking. Do we have a deal or not?”

“Oh, we do.” He chuckles, motioning for his goons to bring the goods.

The whole while the dickhead eyes me, attempting to intimidate me. But I just match his stare, defiantly crossing my arms over my chest.

“Señorita, you got some cojones,” he says with a smirk, then flicks his reptilian eyes to Quinn. “Maybe more than your littleamigo.”

Before Quinn can react, I laugh. “He’s got enough cojones for us both.” I give him a playful wink.

He breaks out into a raspy fit of laughter, and thankfully, there’s no more talk of cojones.

Waiting while this lowlife checks me out and listening to Richie Valens while he sings “La Bamba” is as clichéd as it sounds, so when the henchman returns, bearing arms, my heart beats in excitement. This is the first step toward taking my life back.

This is the first step toward avenging Hank.

“You know how to handle these?” asks the beefy goon while handing me a Glock 19.

Scoffing, I pull back the hammer, cocking the gun, and let off a round into the far corner of the warehouse, narrowly missing the goon’s head. All the men jump, startled, not anticipating me to shoot the gun, but hey, a girl’s gotta feel comfortable with her piece.

“I’ve handled bigger,” I joke, slipping the pistol into the back of my jeans and resting it in the small of my back.

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