My stomach tightened instantly. The warehouse I was unconsciously looking for sat behind a chain-link fence wrapped in weeds and old graffiti. The loading dock was bare, and half the windows were painted black.
A strange pressure built behind my eyes the moment I pulled in, and images flashed through my head too fast to fully grab. Men laughed. Music echoed through the building. Stacks of cash were spread across a table. Booda stood near a scale with a gun tucked into his waistband.
Even worse, I knew the gate code before I even looked at the keypad, and I knew where the side entrance was. I knew this place in and out.
I hit the brakes hard enough to jolt the man awake in the backseat.
Booda looked over at me calmly. “You remember this place.”
“No,” I lied.
If I admitted I remembered this place, then I also had to admit that whatever version of me existed before the hospital wasn’t as innocent or morally decent as I’d like to believe.
And that terrified me.
Not because I remembered the warehouse, but because the memories didn’t feel foreign. Nothing about the place felt unfamiliar to my body. I’d been here before—with people who’d pissed me off in some form or fashion.
Many times.
The man whimpered in my backseat as I climbed out of the car. Blood soaked through the seat beneath him, and the smell of it mixed with oil, rust, and old rainwater that lingered in the air around the building.
Booda walked toward the side entrance, and I followed him.
The keypad was hidden behind a loose metal panel near the door. My fingers froze over it for half a second. Then a set of numbers entered my head. I typed them in, and the lock buzzed.
“You remember more than you think,” Booda said behind me.
I ignored him and shoved the door open. The warehouse was dark except for a few dim overhead lights near the center of the room. Dust floated through the air. Metal shelves lined the walls, and old plastic wrap covered stacks of abandoned boxes near the loading dock.
But underneath the dust, the place still felt lived in. A folding table was near the back wall beside two metal chairs. A mini fridge rested in one corner. A security monitor flickered near another table covered in old tools.
“You good?” Booda asked.
“No,” I answered honestly as I turned around to head back out.
As soon as I made it outdoors, the man groaned again from the car, and reality rushed back in. He screamed when we pulled him out, and even louder when his broken arm bounced off the concrete floor. We paid him no mind as we dragged him inside together.
“Please,” he cried. “Listen! I got money. I can pay.”
“Fuck your money,” Booda spat.
I shut the warehouse door behind us while the man shook on the ground.
Blood spread slowly beneath him, and he looked worse under the lights. One side of his face was badly swollen, and glass glittered on his shirt and hairline.
“You know who I am?” I asked.
His eyes found mine, and fear swallowed the little toughness he had left.
“Yes.”
“Then you know why you here.”
“I ain’t touch your money,” he rushed out. “I swear to God.”
My expression didn’t change.
“You got thirty seconds before I stop caring about your injuries.”
