Jake’s green eyes bore into mine, hungry and predatory. His hair’s a mess, sticking up in all directions, but somehow it just makes him look more…Fuck. No. I’m not here to reminisce about bad decisions.
I close the distance between us, getting right in his face. The stench of stale beer and cigarettes assaults my nostrils.
“Well, if you’re so turned on,” I purr, “maybe you’ll enjoy this.”
Before he can react, I reach down and grab his junk, squeezing hard. Jake yelps, his smug expression morphing into pain.
“Listen up, dickhead,” I growl, maintaining my grip. “I’m not here to play games. I need information, and you’re gonna give it to me. Got it?”
I release him, and Jake stumbles back, gasping. “Fuck, Wren,” he wheezes. “What the hell?”
I pull out my phone and shove it in Jake’s face.
“Do you know these fuckers?”
His eyes dart to the screen, but they don’t move away. Instead, he stares at the images, the footage from Kim’s Liquor, his face draining of color. Slowly, his hand reaches up, almost hesitant, like he’s afraid to touch the phone. But he grabs it, pulling it closer. His eyes twitch, brows furrowing as if he’s trying to unsee what’s right in front of him.
Then he pulls back abruptly, as if the thing burned him. He turns away, knocking over a bottle on the counter, but doesn’t even flinch. He’s too busy rummaging through the mess, hands shaking like a leaf in the wind.
“Shit… shit…” he mutters, finally pulling out a crumpled pack of smokes. His hands tremble as he lights up, taking a long drag, the cigarette barely staying steady between his lips.
“The Skull Collectors,” he whispers, his voice cracked, like the words hurt to say. He exhales smoke, glancing back at me. “What do you want with them, Wren?”
I clench my jaw, eyes fixed on him.
“They got John,” I say, voice low, watching his every move.
Jake chokes on the smoke, coughing violently. “John?” he sputters. “As in your fucking drunk father?”
“Yes, him,” I snap, not in the mood for his bullshit. I stride over, invading his space again. “Now tell me who the fuck they are and where I can find them.”
Jake takes another drag, exhaling slowly.
His eyes dart around the room, refusing to meet mine. “Look, I don’t know much, alright? They’re new in town, real nasty fuckers. Russian.”
“Where do they operate?” I demand, my patience wearing thin.
He hesitates, running a hand through his greasy hair. “There’s a warehouse,” he mumbles. “Down by the docks. Looks like a legit distribution center, but word on the street is they run their operation outta there.”
“Address,” I bark. “Now.”
Jake sighs heavily, reaching for a pizza box on the counter. He flips it over, scribbling an address on the greasy cardboard.
“Here,” he says, holding it out. “But Wren, seriously, these guys are—”
I snatch the pizza box, cutting him off. My eyes scan the room, landing on a battered cupboard in the corner. I march over and yank it open, revealing a small arsenal. Pistols, shotguns, even a couple of assault rifles.
“Still in the arms business, I see,” I mutter.
Jake shifts uncomfortably behind me. “Gotta make a living somehow,” he mumbles.
I grab a compact 9mm and a box of ammo, tucking them into my waistband. The weight of the gun is oddly comforting against my skin.
“Wren, wait,” Jake says, his voice uncharacteristically serious. I turn to face him, raising an eyebrow. There’s agitation clear on his face. “These Russian fuckers you’re about to face off with… they’re not like the local thugs. They’ll fucking kill you if you get caught. No hesitation, no mercy.”
For a moment, I see a flicker of the guy I used to know—the one who wasn’t completely consumed by drugs and street life. It throws me off balance.
“I can handle myself,” I say roughly.
