“What about this truck?” Galen asks. “And why is he bringing supply in from Mexico?”
“That’s not usual?” I ask, my interest instantly piqued.
“No. We get guns from the Irish and drugs from the Italians, but he’s always looking for cheaper options, and I guess he found it.”
“Weird he didn’t tell us,” Galen says, taking a turn that leads us to the rougher part of Prestwick. My brow creases as I stare at him. I assumed we were going to his house in Thornton Heights, but this is in the opposite direction.
“I know.” Saint sounds tense.
“You think he suspects something?” I inquire, tucking my hair behind my ears.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Anyway, you can give the intel to Darrow, and that way, we’ll find out exactly what’s going on, Dar will have a win over the Saints, albeit a small one, and Sinner will shit a brick,” Saint says.
“Sounds like a plan,” I agree. “I’ll still make Dar stew until Monday.”
“Gotta go, man,” Galen says, pulling up to the curb across from a neglected three-story townhouse. It sits on its own plot of land, surrounded by forest at the rear and a boarded up corrugated fence in front. We’re parked in front of the fence, and I peer at the old, weathered sign hanging overhead, noting it was once a gas station and car repair workshop. Apart from a couple houses we passed a mile back, this place is isolated and creepy as fuck. It’s giving me a major case of the heebie-jeebies.
“Call if you need backup,” Saint says. “Watch your back, princess,” he adds before cutting the call.
“Where are we?” I inquire as Galen kills the engine and leans his forearms on the steering wheel.
A different kind of tension bleeds into the air.
He looks up at the dilapidated building across the street. Shutters are hanging off the cracked windows, the grass at the front of the house is waist high, and paint peels off the wooden façade. Crumpled cans, cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and other trash rolls around the sidewalk in front of the property.
“What’s going on?” I ask, angling my body so I’m facing him.
“This won’t be pleasant,” he admits, turning to look at me. “The new housekeeper I hired to keep an eye on Mom called me this morning. She never came home last night.” He sighs, looking back up at the house again. “This is usually where I find her.”
Understanding washes over me. “It’s a drug house?”
He nods, pulling a gun out of the glove compartment. “I shouldn’t be too long.” He hands me the gun. “Keep alert. Don’t hesitate to use it if you need to.”
I roll my eyes, checking to make sure the safety is on before placing the small handgun in the inside pocket of my jacket. “Don’t insult my fucking intelligence, Lennox.” I place my hand on the door handle. “I’m coming in with you, and don’t even attempt to argue with me.”
CHAPTER 25
Harlow
THE DOOR CREAKSas Galen pushes it in, and I’m instantly assaulted with an abundance of noxious odors the second I step into the dark hallway. My nose wrinkles as the smell of piss and sweat assaults my nostrils. I keep close to Galen while we climb the stairs.
“Watch out for the broken step third from the top,” he whispers, glancing over his shoulder at me. I nod, carefully sidestepping the large hole in the stairs, landing safely on the first floor.
Galen’s shoulders are locked tight as he walks past a few doorways. The bare floorboards threaten to give way underfoot despite how softly we tread. A couple of doors are open as we pass, but I don’t look too closely, avoiding the vacuous eyes of the woman with the greasy red hair slumped against the floor in one of the rooms as they follow our path.
Galen stops in front of the last door, and his shoulders lift as his heavy breaths filter through the eerie silence. I can see how much of a toll this is taking on him.
How often has he had to do this? And how long has it been going on?
I take his hand, squeezing it in a show of support. His fingers thread through mine, and I lean into him, gently laying my head against his back. Every muscle and sinew in his body is corded into knots, his body strung tight with stress. We stay like this for a minute, before he moves, releasing my hand. “Stay right beside me, and keep your wits about you,” he cautions in a low tone.
“I’ll be okay,” I whisper back. “Just focus on your mom.”
He opens the door, and we step inside. The room is long and wide with high ceilings and peeling wallpaper on the walls. An old-fashioned fireplace is boarded up on one side of the room. A bunch of dirty, torn mattresses are strewn around the exposed wooden floorboards, most occupied with prone bodies. I almost gag over the putrid stench of vomit, piss, and shit. Someone has nailed dark cotton sheets over the two windows, blocking out the real world. The only light comes from slivers of daylight creeping through the side of both windows.
I squint as my eyes adjust to the gloomy room.
“Get the fuck out,” a hoarse voice shouts, and some of the people on the mattresses stir, mumbling and groaning.
