Virgin Bride(65)

“You’re okay,” Lacey says softly. “You’re going to be okay.”

I don’t know what she means. I stare at the ground and everything is loopy, strange, and disjointed.

“Stay here,” Lacey says, but I don’t know where else I’d go. Actually, I don’t even know where I am or when it is. I don’t know why the world seems like soup.

I grip onto the wall of the dumpster and lean forward as I throw up. I feel it vaguely, like from a distance, like it’s not even my body getting sick. Lacey is gone and I have no clue how long I’m alone.

“There you are.”

I manage to look up at the new voice. Joe smiles at me, leaning against the dumpster. He comes toward me, a blurry figure. He leans toward me with a wicked smile on his face.

“You don’t look good. Here, let me help you.” He takes me by the waist and steers me away from the dumpster.

I want to say something. Like, I don’t know him, he’s a total stranger. Help me, someone. I don’t want this. Ahead, there’s a van, a huge, gaping black van, and he pushes me inside. I hit the floor like a sack of bricks. My body isn’t responding anymore.

I hear Lacey say something, but I’m not sure what. There’s a scream, piercing and bloodcurdling, but the doors of the van slam shut and everything goes black after that.





2





Logan





I stand across the street from an old warehouse deep in the north part of the city. It’s a big brick thing with graffiti all over the front, but the windows and the doors are all intact, which is strange for this neighborhood. This is the part of the city that time forgot, and although everywhere else has moved on into the twenty-first century, this place is still stuck in the industrial revolution. This factory, in particular, probably used to make candlesticks or some shit like that, although it’s used for a much different purpose now.

I glance at my watch and note that it’s almost time. I’ve been watching the building for an hour at least, and I haven’t seen any activity anywhere around it, which is good and bad. It means that the guys inside are serious and careful, but it also means that they likely have few weaknesses for me to exploit.

Can’t worry about that just yet, though. I can feel the reassuring weight of my gun slipped into the back of my jeans, but if it comes down to a firefight, I likely won’t get out of this place alive.

It won’t come to that. This isn’t some brute force job, anyway. This is going to take a lot more than that. Frankly, it’s the hardest job I’ve ever been assigned, but the money reflects that.

I’ll be set up for a long, long time if I can pull this off.

I let out a soft breath. I know I can pull this off. I’ve done worse, much worse, back when I was a Navy SEAL. I’ve gone through some shit in my time, some real fucking nailbiters, and I made it out the other side. Compared to some of that shit, this is going to be simple.

I stand and head off toward the building. My contacts told me to knock on the blue door in the back, and so I make my way around the building. There’s no sign of life anywhere, which almost disturbs me, but I push that from my mind. I turn the corner and spot the blue door set back up a short stoop.

I climb the three steps then knock. I wait a minute before knocking again.

Silence for what feels like forever. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been set up or if my contacts somehow fucked me. This is the problem with going undercover. You never know who you can fucking trust. It’s even worse when you work for a private security firm like I do, since there’s no fucking oversight. My superiors can do whatever the fuck they want and they act like they’re above the law.

When the door suddenly unlatches and opens, none of that matters. A tall, bald man looks out at me with a scowl on his face. He’s wearing dark clothes and clearly packing heat, and I know it’s game time.

“You the guy?” he asks.

“Logan,” I say. “Here to see Anton.”

He grunts and steps aside. I walk through the door and stop as he puts a hand on my shoulder.

“No guns,” he says.

I pause then nod. “Back waistband.”

He lifts up my shirt and gingerly takes my revolver. He slips it into his own waistband then pats me down. He finds a single knife, which he doesn’t take, and then gives me a nod.

“Follow,” he says.

He leads me down a dark passage. I can hear noises coming from deeper in the factory, but I try not to think about what they mean. He makes a few turns, which I note mentally, before we end up in a large room with a two-way mirror along one side.

It’s clearly not original. This place has been rebuilt and relatively recently. There’s a table in the center of the room with several men sitting around it, playing cards. Further in, there’s another door leading out of the room.