He’s done nothing you haven’t done.Yes, he had. Lucky never tried to kill anyone or betray his family. And he didn’t get the moral high ground often.
Being in unfamiliar territory left him with few choices. He could either limp through the warehouse where he made an easy target but knew the lay of the land, or find out what waited behind door number one.
He chose the door and hunkered down in a janitor’s closet. Footsteps pounded by. “Get the little asshole!” the boss of the group shouted.
Lucky crouched, putting him in position to use the ankle-holstered gun he’d properly thank Jimmy for later.
He cracked open the door and peeped out, straining his ears in the silence.
Bap, bap, bap, bap, bap.
Oh shit. Gunfire. Never a good thing. And Bo out there, God knew where. The toy-sized gun with a thirteen-shot clip fit oddly in Lucky’s hand, nothing like his .38.
Thirteen shots better be more than he needed. He eased out of the closet, his back to the wall and his gun at the ready. The room where they’d met to deal lay to the right, and the shots came from the left.
Right, then.
In times like these, his lack of height gave him a huge advantage, making him much harder to spot.
He paused long enough by the conference room door to snap and send a few pictures, and clue in the listeners-of-the-mic to his whereabouts. Too bad they couldn’t tell him what the fuck the shots were about.
More footsteps, coming his way.
The empty office across the way made an excellent vantage point. The boss came back, huffing for breath, shoved some drugs and cash into the pack, and shot down the hall to the right, one hand pressed to his side.
He’d left behind quite a haul. Desperate, then.
Lucky counted to ten, murmured his intent to his tie tack, and silently stalked his prey. Dark spots glistened wetly on dingy, industrial-gray carpeting. Ahead several light fixtures lacked bulbs, giving both predator and prey darkness for hiding.
The asshole who said he’d had Bristol killed would answer to a pissed off Lucklighter.
The blood trail led straight down the hallway and veered off once or twice, into windowless rooms. The wounded man sought a way out, and didn’t appear totally familiar with the building. Worked for Lucky.
According to the plans Lucky reviewed earlier, the warehouse lay that way, conference room, offices with no windows. The hall eventually led to an exit with a chained metal door and metal grids on all windows.
Both he and his quarry worked their way into a dead end.
He observed but didn’t try to apprehend. Not without backup.
Walter’s lessons finally hit home. Boss would be so proud.
The hallway came to a T intersection. Movement caught his eye and he fused his back with the wall. The blood marked a turn. Someone—and not the one he sought—lingered in the hall to his left. They stopped, so might suspect his presence.
Not good. He counted to three, gripped the gun in both hands, and popped out of his hiding place.
And stared down a gun barrel.
He froze a scant second before his brain screamed,Shoot!
Bo’s wide eyes met his. Relief whooshed out of him. If choosing one person to run into at a time like this, Bo ranked number one.
Bo ranked number one anytime. Lucky pointed toward where the dealer dripped blood, down an unlit hallway.
Bo nodded.
He’d kiss the guy later. Lucky took point, darting down the hall and squeezing himself into a recessed doorway. He bounced from doorway to doorway, Bo taking each shelter he vacated.
A breeze brushed Lucky’s face, and he glanced around a ledge to an outside door standing partially open. Oops. Jimmy gave him bad intel about chained exits.
