Page 10 of Where's Molly

“Noted,” I respond tonelessly.

Don't really give a fuck what she looks like, either. The only thing I'm concerned with is dropping off the two dead assholes in my trunk.

Eli’s the one who normally takescare of the drops, until he went and got himself shot in the side. Now, he's on bed rest for six weeks, and I was hired to fill in until he recovers.

I'm no stranger to making criminals disappear, though my methods tend to be very different. And less… messy.

“I'll let Legion know when the job’s done. Rest up and leave your goddamn dick alone. I don't want to be hauling around dead bodies longer than I need to,” I grumble, then click off the phone. The line goes dead, finally giving me some peace and fucking quiet.

His response wasn't important, anyway.

The moon guides me down the barren dirt road, my headlights switched off. While this pig farmer supposedly doesn't have a neighbor for miles, I still like to take extra precautions.

My job relies on my ability to cover my bases, and I certainly won't sacrifice that now when there are two corpses rotting in my car.

After a few more minutes, I arrive at a lone ranch house nestled beside a massive barn, sitting on over a hundred acres of land.At the entrance of the driveway is an old sign that readsPaladin Farm.

The corner of my lip quirks as I recall what ‘paladin’ means. How noble.

There's a light shining through a single window from her house and a soft glow emitting from the barn. Otherwise, it's pitch-black out here, allowing an unobstructed view of the Milky Way and its star systems.

I stop by the barn just as a shadowed figure emerges from its depths. She stands at the entrance, hands on her hips as she watches me approach.

Legion warned her that I was comingin Eli’s place, yet based on the stiff set of her shoulders and her tapping foot, she's on edge.

Rightfully so.

The minute I step out of my car, I'm greeted with the chilly March breeze and her smooth, angelic voice.

“You’re here for the delivery?”

My heart pauses, and a distinct part of my brain is blaring an alarm. I've heard thousands of women’s voices over the years, butthatvoice—I swear it’s familiar.

“Last time I checked,” I return dryly, narrowing my eyes to see her better, and failing.

She hums, clearly unimpressed with my answer.

“Two bodies in the trunk,” I inform.

“Bring 'em in,” she clips, before pivoting and disappearing into the barn.

Digging in my pocket, I pull out a pack of nicotine gum and pop one in my mouth. Then, I open the trunk, curling my lip at the abhorrent smell that wafts from within.

They're already beginning to bloat.

I carry the first body in the barn, the aroma from the pigs no better. It's much bigger on the inside with smooth concrete flooring. Three pens are to my right, with five large, fat pigs dispersed between them. On the other side is the woman, her back to me as she dresses head to toe in a bright yellow hazmat suit.

Without looking back, she points to an expansive metal table with hair clippers, a large metal contraption with a few buttons, pliers, and a Sawzall laying atop it. “Lay them right there.”

I do as she says while she begins slipping on oversized rubber gloves that reach up to her elbows.

“I'm going to grab the other one,” I say, regarding her closely.

She's reserved, and though she doesn't watch me with her eyes, I can sense that she knows exactly where I am, aware of every movement I make.

A bead of sweat forms on my brow as I carry in the second man, dropping him on the table next to the other.

Thick, opaque plastic covers the wall in front of her setup, descending to the floor, then across it, reaching the pens.

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