Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(141)
Besides, if I really want to make my late father proud, I’ve got to stop hiding behind frilly, innocuous fluff articles and blog posts, and start really getting into the nitty-gritty world of journalism. And that means embracing danger, walking bravely into the line of fire just for a shot at capturing that most elusive and beautiful prize: the truth.
Still, I can’t help but gasp in shock at the loud yell I hear next: “What do they know? What have they done?”
I cover my mouth to stifle my heavy panting. I’m so frightened by now that I’ve got goosebumps prickling up along my arms and legs, even under warm layers of clothing. It’s a man’s harsh voice I hear, almost a growl. His tone is accusatory and laced with venom. He sounds mean. Scary. Cruel.
I wait for the reply, which comes after a few tense moments.
“I don’t know! I swear! Don’t you think I’d tell you if — ”
There’s a loud cracking sound and then a man’s pained yelp. I crouch down in fear, suddenly wanting to make myself smaller, less detectable. This certainly doesn’t sound like a civil conversation. It sounds like something dark is going down.
“Get up,” orders a third man. His voice is very deep, his tone controlled. He sounds calmer, and yet more commanding. Even though he isn’t as loud as the other two, his voice carries the long distance, with an impressive resonance that sends a shiver down my spine, even with just those two words. I feel the insatiable need to see what he looks like, to put a face to the compelling voice.
Against my better judgment and every straining fiber of self-preservation in my body, I begin to creep along toward the voices. But my shoes — damn, useless pieces of crap — are too loud. I just can’t bear it. They might overhear me if I keep on this way. So, even though it pains me, I carefully slip them off my feet to carry them instead. As my toes, clad only in thin hosiery, touch the frigid, filthy floor, I grimace with disgust. Would it really have killed me to invest in a pair of sneakers before driving all the way out here? I have a lot to learn. This isn’t a Scooby Doo episode — I can’t run around in Daphne-esque heels and perfectly-styled hair if I’m going to make this work. Especially because the monsters I’m dealing with aren’t fake.
They’re murderers.
I can feel it in my soul. These guys in the warehouse have got to be related to my father’s death in some way or another. It can’t possibly be a coincidence that they’re here right now yelling about cops and stuff, when just a week ago my father’s life was snuffed out in the exact same location. I grit my teeth and force myself to ignore how gross the ground is beneath my feet as I move slowly, cautiously along toward the men.
“My associate gave you an order! Get on your feet, ya bastard!” commands the first voice I heard earlier. There’s the rustle of something like metal dragging on the concrete floor and I furrow my brows trying to figure out what the hell it might be. Then it hits me with a jolt to my heart: chains. It’s the sound of metal chains clinking and rolling across the floor.
What the hell? I crouch down even further as I continue to make my way closer. Even though everything just got a million levels more bizarre and horrifying, I feel totally drawn to the sounds of their voices. I have got to figure out what’s going on, even if doing so thrusts me directly into the lap of danger.
Besides, with my father gone, I don’t exactly have anything else to lose.
“I don’t know anythin’ about it, man! Nichego!” exclaims the second voice. He’s the one being interrogated, the one whose voice is wavering with fear. As I come closer, I peer around the ceiling-high metal storage shelves to see the three men only about fifty yards away from me. My jaw drops at the sight.
There’s a man with both arms chained to the floor, metal links around his wrists keeping him bound to about a ten foot reach. He’s drenched in sweat and his eyes are nearly bugging out of his head, he’s so scared. He looks like a skeevy rat of a man, with receding, blondish hair, scrawny limbs, and a long, hooked nose. He’s wearing a polo shirt and cargo pants which are much too large for him, and he’s kneeling on one knee, looking up at the two other guys with desperate, imploring eyes.
“Bullshit!” snarls the first voice, which I see now belongs to a tall, wiry, brown-haired guy in a light blue shirt and khakis. If not for the rolled-up sleeves and combative stance, he would look for all the world like a harmless Sunday school teacher or something. That image is shattered completely when he reels back and lands a solid kick to the chained guy’s calves.