A lazy laugh follows. “Does he say that before or after that girl bit Rigo?”
I ghost past a boarded window and risk a look through a cracked corner. I see them now, two men at a folding table littered with cash and liquor bottles. One has a serpent inked up his neck. A third stands near the wall, gun tucked in his waistband.
“And Briggs?”
“Idiot saw too much. Keep him breathing until Serrano decides.”
I let the heat rise in me and then I make it sit.
I track the space behind them, peering down a darker hall. That’s when I catch the edge of a figure slumped in a chair, half-hidden by shadows.
Briggs.
I count the guards again. There’s three between me and Briggs and two in the hall behind him. No clean shot without drawing attention. I ease down a side corridor, away from the main hall. There’s an office with busted-out windows and water damage creeping down the walls. There’s an ungodly stench of mildew and decay riding the air. I move fast, slipping inside, weaving around a busted desk and file cabinets rusted through at the hinges. I slide through a crooked door on the far side and catch movement of the two men posted behind Briggs, arms folded, backs to me. I flank them from behind, crowbar tight in my grip. Both men are armed. One’s smoking. The other’s twitchy, foot bouncing like he’s jacked on something. They’ve got no clue I’m coming.
I keep to the wall, inching toward them. When I’m steps behind them, I close the gap in a burst of motion, crowbar raised above my head. I swing hard. The crowbar connects with the base of his skull with a wet, cracking thud. He drops with a grunt, nothing more than dead weight on the floor.
The second man’s halfway to his weapon when I drive the steel hook up into his gut before the gun clears the waistband of his pants. I drag him back into the dark. He thrashes, his elbow connecting with my jaw, but I twist the crowbar until the hook catches ribs. He tries to scream but it comes out as a gurgle. I slam him into the wall until he slides down, leaving blood smearing a trail in the wake.
My heart’s still hammering. My jaw aches from the hit, and the copper taste of it spreads behind my teeth.
I breathe through it, stepping past the bodies.
The noise draws two more. One rushes in, swinging wide, but I meet him halfway driving my shoulder into his gut and slamming him against the frame hard enough to rattle his spine. He coughs, teeth bared, tries to bring his elbow down on myback, but I hook the crowbar behind his knee and yank. He goes down with a snarl scrambling for his gun. I kick his pistol out of his hand, grab his collar, and drive my fist into his face. Once, twice, until he goes limp beneath me. Blood spatters the concrete.
The fourth man freezes, staring at the bodies. His choice is fight or run. He runs. I don’t go after him, not yet. I drop the crowbar, kneeling before Briggs zip-tied to a chair. His face is swollen, his lip split, and shirt stained with blood. His head lifts weakly, and for a second, I don’t know if he recognizes me.
Then he tries to grin through the blood. “Took your sweet time.”
I cut the zip-ties with the switch blade from my pocket. He sags forward, coughing.
“On your feet,” I tell him.
He shakes his head weakly, blood dripping from his lip. “Can’t leave… not without the drives.”
“What drives?”
“Lockbox… in the office. Encrypted flash drives. Auctioned girls, fights, buyers… “ His voice is shredded. “Everything we need to take down Serrano for good this time.”
The words sink in cold. My stomach knots, rage grinding against my ribs. Serrano’s filth I can stomach. He’s always been a parasite. But this? Auctioning girls, turning their pain into leverage? That’s a line he doesn’t get to cross. Not while I’m breathing.
I drag Briggs into the corner and shove the crowbar into his hands. “Anyone comes through that door, you swing until they stop moving.”
I backtrack to the office I crossed through. The air’s damp and sour, every breath clinging to the back of my throat. I glance around, my eyes narrowing on the rusted file cabinet pulled away from the wall. Behind it, poorly hidden, sits a metal case.I drop to one knee and yank it out. I pry at the latch with my switch blade. It holds for a second before snapping with a sharp crack. Inside I find matte black flash drives, each labeled with numbers and initials. Exactly the kind of insurance men like Serrano keep.
I pocket the drives, every last one of them and rush back to Briggs. He’s leaning against the wall, eyes glassy, jaw clenched to keep from groaning.
“We have to move now,” I say.
He nods pushing off the wall and stumbling forward with a grunt. He catches himself on the crowbar like a cane. He’s in no condition to make a run for it. I loop his arm over my shoulder and steer us back the way I came. My ears strain past the creaks for any shift in the quiet.
Outside, the lights started to shift, the low sun bleeding orange against the metal siding. We’re exposed. Nowhere to go but across the open yard and into the line of sight.
“Keep moving,” I hiss, dragging Briggs forward.
A shout echoes from behind us. “There! By the tracks!”
Shit.
