Page 19 of Ballistic

“N-n-no one. Sir.”

“How did you swipe my card numbers? The old man at the party store?”

Eyes wide, I shook my head. Dear God, I didn’t want to involve Pops. Hopefully he hadn’t gone to him first. “No. It was just me.”

The stranger tipped his head, his gray thunderstorm stare drilling into me. “How?”

“I … I memorized the card numbers.”

“You had my card for two seconds.”

“I have … photographic recall.”

“Photographic memory.” The stern expression on his face twisted into a skeptical smile, with wrinkles that bracketed both his mouth and eyes. “What the fuck …”

“It’s true. I bought stuff online at the library and pawned it off. My mom … she got behind on—”

He held up his hand to cut me off and shook his head. “How old are you, child?”

“Almost twelve.”

“Do you have any idea who I am?”

I shook my head, suddenly wishing I did.

“I’m Dmitry Prochazka. Do you know what I do to those who steal from me?” He didn’t give me the opportunity to answer. “I kill them in very bad, bad ways.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat, but didn’t bother to say a word in response.

“Fortunately for you, I don’t kill children. So I guess I’m going to have to take this one up with the cops.”

“I’m sorry Mr. P-Prochazka. I promise I’ll pay it back. I promise.”

Another glance around the place, and his gaze landed on me again. “I don’t think you can. I don’t think you have shit.”

“I’ll work. Please, I’m begging you. Please don’t call the police.”

He studied me for a good few minutes, then sucked in a drag of his cigarette. “Today’s your lucky day, girl. I’m feeling charitable. You’re gonna come work for me. Until what you owe is paid off.”

A flare of panic struck my chest. I didn’t want to work for him, the scary guy with weird gray eyes, but I didn’t have a choice. If I turned him down, he’d probably go to the police. “What kind of work?”

“Cleaning shit out of my toilets. You have a problem with that?”

Lips thinned, I shook my head. “No.”

“Good.” He stuffed his hand into his pocket and pulled out a card, jotting down an address. “Have your mom, or dad, or whoever, drop you off here.”

As he handed off the card, I stared down at the address, located on the other side of Detroit. “I can’t …. My mom thinks I hocked a wedding ring.”

“Then I guess you better oil up that piece of shit bike outside. It’s a hike.” At my nod, he backed up a couple steps. “Be there first thing in the morning. You fail to show? Expect to hear from me again.”

“Yes. Sir.”

* * *

A crackling snap broke my thoughts, and I glanced over at the older woman, slipping a pair of rubber gloves from her hands and tossing them somewhere beyond my view. She lifted the sheets back over my body and took a moment to massage my arms and legs through the fabric.

None of her ministrations registered really. My body had gone numb.