I move silently, as fast as possible through the debris, sidestepping oil slicks and rusted truck parts.
Almost there…
Another heavy footstep comes from behind me. This one’s got a different gait. I drop behind a haphazard tire stack, the scent of rust and blood and oil in the air.
My nose crinkles. Old blood. But not as old as it should be.
To my left comes another sound. Another pair of feet, lighter, moving fast.
I catch a glimpse of a puffer jacket in a bright shade of purple and a white cap pulled low.
There’s something familiar that pulls at my memory, something about the way the person moves, but I dismiss it.
No one I know is the type of fucking moron who wears purple and white to this no-man’s-land of mafia and cartel. Unless they’re just that fucking naïve.
Is there another meeting? My gaze snaps back to the Marcello truck. Shit.
And who the fuck is moving with those slow, deliberate, menacing steps behind me? What about a gravel-cruncher with his flashy gun?
Ice drips down my spine. This sure has the makings of a shootout.
And I’m right in the fucking middle.
I grip my gun and take half a step forward. Puffer Jacket scurries across my line of sight.
Behind me, the heavy stepper shoots.
The bullet whizzes past, a tiny burning missile, close enough to the side of my head to feel the heat.
Puffer screams and eats dirt. I stay still.
I’m trapped behind the fucking tires, in a place no Murphy should be, not if they don’t want to start a fucking war.
My heart pounds hard. Puffer Jacket is an idiot. I watch the person jump up with alarming grace. Too much grace for an amateur. Then Puffer scurries into the shadows of a shipping container.
Someone who moves like a dancer. Someone who has no idea what they’ve walked into.
Above, the moonlight streams down, lighting a path, one that’s going to make me visible to Puffer Jacket and anyone else out here if I go for the drugs.
Because I’m pretty sure I’ve stumbled into something I shouldn’t have.
It doesn’t matter. I’m here now, and I need to get those drugs back.
I take one step.
Then freeze.
The steps behind me get louder. The grunts and slapping footsteps get closer, and I grip my gun, dropping and rolling under the rusted underbelly of the Marcello truck.
They’re looking around; I’m guessing, for Puffer.
I shouldn’t be here.
But I am.
It’s my fault.
Focus, Dec, fucking focus, you cunt.
