They were custom-made ones with false bottoms and a top layer full of cheap drop-shipped clothes that I’d dump off at a local shelter when the job was done.
Under all the clothes, though, was where the guns were hiding. Several million’s worth. In the States. But depending on what market Zayn was unloading them in internationally, they could go for millions.
That part was inconsequential to me. I got my flat fee, no matter how much everyone else made or lost in the deal once the goods were out of my hands.
Hell, the goods themselves weren’t usually ever eveninmy hands. This was a rare concession I’d made because these skater idiots didn’t want to deal directly with the bikersorZayn. And the only reason I needed to store them at all was because there was a scheduling issue.
Nowmyass was on the line if those jackasses came into my warehouse and took back the guns they’d promised to the bikers. And by extension, Zayn.
I had no idea how many bodies the bikers had to their name, but I got the impression that all the gators in a twenty-mile radius of their clubhouse were well-fed. And Zayn, well, there was a reason he was wanted not only by the law but by many criminal organizations in several countries.
I didn’t love the idea of being eaten by the local wildlife. I had tickets to a really good movie that weekend, for fuck’s sake.
I crept along the wall, knowing not to trust the silence inside the warehouse. There was a small hallway behind the main area that led to a tiny, tidy office and a bathroom that, well, wasn’t so tidy.Would it kill men to actually aim?
But the office was as empty as it had ever been. And aside from the toilet perpetually running in one of the two bathroom stalls, there was nothing amiss in there either.
Heart thudding, I made my way back to the warehouse itself. And the boxes.
For a moment, I took comfort in the neatness of the clothing nestled inside them.
Until I lifted a crate.
And it was way, way too empty.
The skater guys had moved the clothes, taken the guns, then spent the time to fold the damn clothes again before heading out.
“Ugh!” I grumbled, tossing a polka-dotted bell skirt that only flew an unsatisfying two feet away and floated gently to the floor.
It was right then that I heard the door.
My back stiffened.
My stomach tensed.
Were they back?
Was someone worse?
But it was just then I heard it.
The burst of static—sharp, sudden—then voices all tangled in distortion.
I knew a police radio when I heard one.
I didn’t try to escape. There was no escape.
And I damn sure didn’t waste a second to think.
I turned and ran back to the hallway, using the edge of my shirt to wipe my gun clean, then stashed it in the office drawer under some old junk.
The holster was wiped clean and chucked in the trash.
Then I rushed back out to the front warehouse.
There was no avoiding being discovered and likely arrested.
So I lowered myself down to my knees and placed my hands behind my head.
