“The rifle.” I frown at the bag that’s full and remove some of the knives. Figuring out how to remove the rifle from the tripod eats up almost ten minutes. I can disarm a state-of-the-art security system in less than sixty seconds but a simple tripod has me completely perplexed.
I’m sure the rifle comes apart, but hell if I know how to do that. I shove it into the bag and lift the heavy thing up. The end of the rifle busts through.
“Shit.” I grab another bag and double bag everything. Then I glance out the window. No Theo, yet. Lugging weapons in bin bags is not ideal.
“Need help?” A young man with scraggly dark hair and a pathetic excuse for a beard asks as I heave it into the lift.
“Thank you. I’m good. Just some… stuff I’m donating.”
He nods as the lift starts to descend.
“After you.” He holds out his arm when the door opens.
Manners can have a downside. With my luck, one of the guns is loaded and will go off, killing this poor bloke before I get the bag dragged out of the building.
“Thank you.” I grunt, lifting the bag.
“Here.”
“No!”
Before I can stop him, he has the bag hoisted up. I hold my breath.
“Where’s your car?”
Gulp!
“Uh, follow me, but please be careful… some of it’s fragile.”
He follows me to my car.
“Here, put it in the boot.”
He laughs. “The boot?”
“Uh…” I shake my head. “The um… trunk I believe you call it.”
He puts it in the boot—trunk. “You’re not from these parts.”
I return a shaky smile, surveying the area for Theo’s truck. “Just moved here.”
“What apartment are you in?”
“Sorry? Oh, uh…” I laugh. “Gosh, I can’t even remember, I just walk right to it. Um…”
“Well, it has to be four-something.”
I nod. “Yes.” I wave my hands around. “The uh… door down the hall like, second or third from the end. Sorry, it’s been a long day and I’m…”
He laughs. “No problem. I’m Kyle, apartment 512. Don’t hesitate if you need help with anything or…” he shrugs “…if you want to get a drink sometime.”
“Lovely. I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.” I open the door and give him one last smile before closing it, starting the car, and getting the hell out of here.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
My name is Scarlet Stone, and I’m not afraid of death. My mum waits for me with open arms.
Nothing makes onedrive like an eighty-year-old woman quite like a bag of weapons in the boot of a car. I drive to the hotel, cursing every twat that feels the need to ride my arse. The last thing I need is a crash. Tied for the last thing I need is to be pulled over for speeding and land in jail when they check the boot. I want the weapons out, but I can’t risk lugging them to my hotel room or worse: having someone else do it for me. My only choice is to leave them in the boot and deal with them tomorrow, so that’s what I do.
