One gunshot reverberates through the building, followed immediately by several others.
Then silence.
I slide my phone into my pocket.
Tonight did not go as planned. And the shouts breaking out in the warehouse behind me prove the point.
I called Valentine because I wanted to see her face. Because these days away from her have been frustrating and stressful, and I’ve gotten used to her presence in my daily life.
But instead of making her smile, I made her cry. And not just a single tear. My wife was sitting there alone in our bed, crying.
“Fuck.”
I turn around and jerk the door open.
My footsteps bounce off the rafters, and the arguing men quiet as I near them.
The large and growing pool of blood on the floor tells me our possible informant is dead.
I look over at Nick, the man I put in charge, but he points to another man, one of the locals we’re using for the week.
“Explain,” I demand.
The local bows his head. “He jumped out of the chair and grabbed Oz’s gun out of his holster, so I shot him.”
I glance at another local, Oz, then back to the first man. “He got Oz’s gun.” The man nods. “And then what?”
He finally looks at me. “What do you mean? Uh, sir.”
“I mean.” I step closer, avoiding the blood but putting the toe of my shoe against the dead man’s shoulders. “His hands are tied behind his fucking back. He might’ve gotten a gun off one of you girl scouts, but he’s not shooting up a building with his hands tied behind his fucking back!” Everyone flinches at my volume.
Oz shuffles his feet. “He, um, did get a shot off.”
“Takes one wild shot behind his back, with his feet also fucking tied together, and you decided to fill him with holes. Did you assholes come from the police academy?” They shake their heads like I was asking a serious question. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Give me your guns.”
The two men start to pull their weapons free, and I hear the sound of my men aiming their guns at the locals.
I gesture to the other men from the local gang. “All of you.”
One man squares his shoulders, making me turn toward him.
My steps are slow, but I close the distance between us. “I’m not disarming you so I can kill you. I’m disarming you because you fucking imbeciles don’t deserve to carry weapons.” I take another step closer, invading his space. “But I’m in a bit of a mood right now. My wife is at home, crying because she misses me, and I’m here, wasting my fucking time. So please, do something stupid and give me an excuse to add your blood to the collection on the floor before we leave your filthy city.”
Anger blazes in the man’s eyes, and I almost wish he’d take a swing at me. But if he did, I’d kill him. And cooperation with these dummies has been useful, so it’s probably for the best that he lowers his gaze and hands me his gun.
I tuck it into the waistband of my pants, then direct a command to the gunless men. “Clean this up.” Then to my men. “Get your shit. We’re going to Phoenix.”
Done with this night, I walk out of the building.
Inhaling the evening air, I push away the guilt that talking to Valentine caused and focus on the important part.
She was wearing my sweatshirt.
