“Hey, let me get that as a souvenir,” someone says although the words don’t register with me until I feel my cut being taken off.
Crossing my arms around my stomach takes every bit of energy I have and does nothing but earn me another crack over my head.
It’s daylight the next time I wake up, this time I’m in what seems like a large dog crate, my cheek is resting on hay and sawdust and as I sit up, I see it was scattered to soak up what was either mud or blood. My money’s on it being blood.
Sitting up, my head brushes against the top of the cage but that’s not my immediate concern. Taking a deep breath, I slowly let it out, trying to determine if one of my ribs—because I know a couple of those are broken—have hit my lungs. Of course, I’d probably be dead by now if either of them had been pierced; theonly pain that comes from breathing seems to be from my ribs and muscle aches up and down my back.
My best guess is that my shoulder blade is cracked along with a couple of ribs and a concussion. Overall, I feel like shit.
The Kings know where I was heading, as long as I was only unconscious the one night then it was yesterday morning that I texted Bronco and I just have to hold on until they track my ass down.
I’d left my main cell phone in my kit back in my truck, and my burner is gone along with my wallet and boots. Which means they have the knife I keep there.
Meanwhile, there’s nothing for me to do but rest. The longer I stay quiet, the stronger my body will be, so I tuck myself into the back corner and smile, thinking about what I’m going to do to the son of a bitch who stole my cut.
*
I must have looked too comfortable, because when I wake up again it’s due to the spray of water shooting down on me. A hose has been taped to the grate of the cage over my head and while it solves the issue of my thirst, it’s too fucking cold for this shit. The small metal squares are too small to get my hands through, but eventually I knock it out of the way so it isn’t spraying directly at me.
Of course, sitting in a puddle of water in an unheated old barn in December, isn’t exactly comfortable regardless. The line of the hose stretches across the room and out the door; I guess it doesn’t much matter that it was left open, not with the broken boards all around the space. Leaning under the hose, I take another mouth full and swish it around before spitting it out.
The fact that I have a pulse means that I wasn’t spotted nosing around their operation center yesterday. That went sideways pretty fast, so maybe they’re waiting to exact some revenge.
After driving around town for a little while, I had pulled a coat on over my cut and walked into the Sheriff’s station. Joanie had finally reached out to let me know that she was on maternity leave and couldn’t see me. Her message told me enough. That she was scared, and I wouldn’t help the situation.
I had never seen the man sitting in her usual spot, and I don’t think he was too happy with his current employment; what with his boots being up on the desk, destroying a pile of paperwork, as he bounced a ball off of the nearest wall.
He didn’t say a word to me after barely sparing me a glance. I stood in front of him, waiting to be acknowledged.
“Want something?” he finally asked me.
“Can I talk to Mills?”
“Don’t know a Mills,” he replied, reaching over to a pack of Syn to slide a piece against his gumline.
“He’s the sheriff.”
He snorted before grinning at me. “Not anymore, he ain’t. Now, why don’t you get on out of here before the new sheriff comes back?”
“Well, who’s the sheriff now?” I ask, pushing my luck even as I wondered what kind of sheriff would hire someone with neck tattoos and gauges in his ears.
“May. Now get the fuck out.”
I couldn’t stop myself from looking up at the camera over his shoulder, reminding myself that if I snapped his neck, they’d have me dead to rights in court. Except, that’s when I noticed that the wire leading up to it had been cut.
Turning on my heel, as if I decided to take his advice, I clocked the camera that points straight at the desk—the wire on that one had been cut also.
Staying as calm as a man nicknamed Rage could, I went out to my truck and drove to Mills’ home. My friend was dead, I knew that for certain. Now, I just needed to piece together who all was involved, because none of them were going to see the New Year.
Whoever it was that had tossed his place must have had his key, because his spare one was where he always left it. I reached for that but didn’t need it as the front door wasn’t locked. Maybe it wasn’t the norm for people out this way, but Mills was from Chicago originally and always locked up.
You can take the man out of Chicago. You cannot take Chicago out of the man,was a quote he used to excuse all of his odd habits; namely being a Bears and Cubs fan.
The few things of value he had seem to be missing, plus whoever had been through here threw together a bag of clothes to make it look like he was leaving—except they couldn’t be bothered to grab his toothbrush, deodorant, or shave kit.
As I was leaving, I heard the rumble of a truck and froze. It wasn’t coming up the driveway and the small yard behind the house ran up against government land. While he’d use it for hikes, there wasn’t another road back there.
Or there hadn’t been, I thought, watching a van drive by the opposite side of the house. Waiting until they were out of sight, I tossed my cut in my truck and headed to the garage to borrow Mills’ ATV.
