Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
My mind flashed to her coming into the shop with a nasty black eye from the altercation with the local crew.
Was that it?
Was Stan in with that crew, and he had some vendetta against her for sticking her nose in their business?
Had she filed a police report about the attack?
I didn’t remember.
I remembered debating out the pros and cons, but not what she ultimately decided to do.
Milo parked down the street past the house, hidden from view thanks to the stockade fence.
“Now what?” Milo asked, turning to look at us. “I’m sitting in the car again?” he asked.
“No,” August said, voice tense, and I was too consumed with my own feelings to ask why. “No, you’re coming with us this time,” he said, and there must have been an undertone I missed, because all three men were tense as they reached for their weapons.
We were cat-like as we walked up the rear, then side of the property. The street was relatively quiet, save for the occasional sounds of traffic passing.
As we approached the front, the guys hid their guns behind their backs or in fronts of their suit jackets. Hidden. But ready at a moment’s notice.
Sheryl’s house had always been proof of her occupation. A small, old, little rundown farmhouse that had been there for generations.
She didn’t have the money to replace anything substantial, but had lovingly tended to the front flowerbeds that were teeming with native flower species to attract the bees and butterflies that would go into her backyard and pollinate her plants, so they would bear fruit.
“You can’t just break in,” I insisted in a whisper as Aurelio reached for his little kit again.
“Yes, we can,” August said, not giving me any further explanation, just nodding at his cousin, who stooped to work the lock.
It gave much more quickly than the one at Stan’s apartment.
Aurelio’s hand went to the knob, turning it silently, then waiting for August’s nod before throwing it open.
The guns were out then as they moved inside.
I stuck to August’s back as Milo came in behind me, closing the door silently.
Sheryl’s place was exactly how I remembered it.
Mismatched antique furniture, lots of blankets, plants, and old framed art on the walls.
The kitchen cabinets were ancient, in need of yet another sanding and painting, like she had to do every two or three years, with peeling laminate floor, and piles of veggies all over that she was keeping for herself, or going to pack up for the farmer’s market.
There was a half bath and one bedroom on the lower floor, but she used it as a dehydrating and freeze-drying room for her surplus foods, so she had something to sell over the winter for additional income.
We were just about to head up the stairs when the back door in the kitchen flew open, and footsteps moved into the house.
Heavy and confident, not Sheryl’s almost floating steps.
August’s arm shot back, flattening me to the wall as he and Aurelio raised their guns.
But before either of them could react, Milo was rushing out into the doorway as the man’s body appeared, pressing his gun to his temple.
“On your knees,” he demanded, voice low and ruthless. A chill moved through me at it.
The man stiffened but did as he was told, lowering to his knees.
“Hands on the back of your head,” Milo demanded, then tucked his gun away to frisk the guy, finding a gun, and pocketing it. “All good,” he said to August who moved away from me to stand in front of the man.
“It’s not him,” I murmured, getting a curt nod from him.
It wasn’t Stan.
But it was a dealer from one of the neighborhood crews. I couldn’t tell you which, though. Tall, a little on the stocky side, his pale skin ravaged by cystic acne, his face not having lost that pudginess around the jaw that usually happened in your mid-twenties, so he was younger than that. I would put him at no older than eighteen or nineteen.
“Where is Sheryl?” August demanded as he stood in front of the kid who looked equal parts defiant and scared.
There were three of them and only one of him. And he had just been divested of his weapon. It wasn’t looking good for him, and he knew it. But he was also pissed about it.
“Fuck you,” the guy snapped.
I didn’t know what I expected in this situation. I guess I’d never really given much thought to what mafia dudes were like in situations like this.
But I jerked back as August’s hand shifted on his gun, holding it by the muzzle, then pistol-whipping the guy with it.
The crack made my stomach turn over, but the guy jerked his head back up, his jaw tight.
“Let’s try that again. Where is Sheryl?”
“Fuc—“
“Before you finish that,” August said, glaring at the guy with cold eyes, “I’ll remind you that I’ve got all night. And if I get tired, I got two other people here ready to step in.” At that, the guy glanced nervously at Aurelio and Milo who both angled their chins up, looking very capable and willing to beat the shit out of him if necessary. “Now, where is Sheryl.”