“Because I didn’t want to be. I wanted to be where Matt was,” she replies.
I wondered. Matt’s face flushes.
“And I grew up with these guys. We know each other well, and work great together as a team.”
“Wait, okay. How do you know the coordinates and no one else does?”
“Esther’s my aunt,” she deadpans.
Shocker. I stare at her dubiously, but no one denies it. Instead, the van hits an uncomfortable patch of road. The mountainous area is dead, void of civilians and cars. What turns out to be an additional half-hour stretches to feel longer, but we arrive at last, and at a warehouse no less. Next door is a rusted, abandoned gas station and an old cottage down the way. A pair of trucks are parked underneath the roof housing the gas pumps. Ambrosia is the first to exit the van.
I grip my HK harder.
“Voices low. Weapons and powers at the ready. We should be in the clear, but you can never be too careful. Mafu, check the perimeter.”
Mafu stalks off while Ambrosia motions for me to follow her and Matt, a suitcase in her grasp. She raps a specific set of knocks on the warehouse door. It opens a second later to reveal someone wearing a black balaclava. Their eyes pierce through the cover’s slit, training on me before looking away and asking Ambrosia for the password. She recites something I can’t quite hear, but we enter the warehouse shortly thereafter.
Inside is dark. In the center is a floodlight illuminating a stack of cargo and four other men. The leader, dressed apart from the rest, watches us impassively.
“Just you,” says Balaclava, pointing at Ambrosia.
She nods and steps forward, but Matt’s hand holds her back.
“Wait—”
“It’s fine,” she says.
He lets her go and watches with worry as she crosses the dark expanse to the man in the middle. Matt’s canteen is slung around his belt while I clutch on to the HK for dear life.
“You take a corner. I’ll take another,” Matt whispers.
We part ways. Outside, another vehicle approaches.
“What’s that?” asks the man.
“More Angelics. Don’t worry, they’re here to help pick up the supplies,” Ambrosia says.
They’re here in case this run goes awry.
Something tells me it might.
“Now, let’s talk money,” the man says.
I recede into the corner where the darkness envelops me. The sound of boots clatters beyond the warehouse’s thin walls, muffling all traces of voices and obscuring the discussion ahead. Even surrounded by nothing but shadows, I feel more exposed now than ever.
My chest hurts, my throat closes in, and my mind shuts off.
Matt is hardly visible from so far away.
“Esther discussed payment with you, I assume?” Ambrosia questions.
“She did,” the man drawls. Top hat, pedo-stache, glasses tinted black. “Fifteen million.”
Fifteen-fucking-million? Is she insane?
Ambrosia hesitates with the suitcase, then lowers it back to her side.
“We agreed on twelve million.”
