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He recites the address.
“Is this where we normally tow cars to?” I ask.
“We tow to Cane’s Shop, sir. This is a little unusual.”
“Who owns this place?”
Hank scrubs his jaw. “One of the Monellis owns it.”
“Do you happen to know when the car was brought here?”
“Early this morning.”
Last night, Franko Monelli left the party and sent out feelers about my wife. Likely, they found her car by the plates registered to her, and he picked it up from Cane’s without any fuss since Cane’s deal is with all members of my Order.
This is a bold power move on his part, to come after my wife’s car, then have it moved into one of his locations. For what purpose? To draw me out here to the middle of nowhere? Or just to make a statement?
If it’s the latter, then what statement is he making?
I slide out the compartment again and grab the entire duffel bag. “Off I go, then. Watch for the sirens.”
When one of the Order members is in trouble, they can activate a panic button on their phone. If there are any other Order members around, their phones will start displaying wailing sirens on the screen.
The gate’s manned by a pair of leashed Dobermans, my favorite breed of dog. If I didn’t think they’d bite my hand off, I’d pet them. Still, I pause by the smaller one, who I think might be a female.
Underfed and with a dull chocolate-brown coat, her body is still elegant and beautiful, and her brown eyes watch me as if daring me to approach. With a wink, I keep walking along the unpaved gravel road between the towers of steel that make up this car graveyard in search of humans.
I pass by the office with a desk, a lamp, and a little living space complete with a small TV blaring a soccer game and a table full of empty food boxes and beer cans. A red-and-yellow stained couch faces the TV. A pillow and blanket are on the floor.
Someone lives here.
Hopefully, they’re home. In case they’re in the bathroom, which I presume is behind the small door between the office and the living space, I knock on the window. While waiting, I overhear voices. To my right somewhere, a man and woman argue.
While I wouldn’t expect a woman to work or live in such a way, one never knows, so I move toward the noise. As I get nearer, I hear a man respond, and the woman now sounds upset, her voice rising. They’re way in the back of the piled-up junk cars. When I get close enough to them, I recognize Michela’s voice.
What’s she doing out here? Damn it.
Now, from just around the corner, I hear the pair of them clearly.
“Please, sir,” she says. “I’m late for work.”
“Take a bus. Besides, if that’s your car, you can’t drive out of here.”
I remain hidden from their sight, listening.
“It’s not a junk car. If you take it down, I’ll drive it out of here and get out of your hair. Here. I have money. How much do you want?”
When the man doesn’t answer immediately, I take a step forward, then retreat again, wanting to hear what he’ll say to her before I intervene.
“We can talk about payment in my office.” His tone sounds suspiciously like he just sexually proposed to my wife.
“Or we can settle it here,” she says.
That a girl.
The man doesn’t answer, but I hear heavy boots hit the gravel, and they’re coming my way.
I step out from around the corner. The man stops. He wears blue jeans, a baseball team jersey, and a matching hat. He immediately recognizes a threat and tucks a hand under his leather jacket as if reaching for his piece.
