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A banging sound caught my attention, and I glanced down the side of the house. There was a detached garage down there with a dented and rusted door. Motioning to Gunnar that I was going to investigate, I said, “Use our signal to let me know when to come through the back.”
I stepped back off the porch soundlessly and made my way down the side of the house.
The windows running down the length were covered in aluminum sheeting also, which served to keep prying eyes out of their business, but also made it hard for them to see who was coming. At the back of the house, the yard was as unkempt as the front, except that the grass was shorter. Burn marks scorched the grass, while piles of large, empty acetone containers were stacked haphazardly against the neighboring fence.
My head turned when there was another bang, and I brought my gun up and approached the back door. The screen wasbanging in the wind, the old hinges doing nothing to stop the motion. Suddenly, a shaft of light from inside hit the dirt and I pressed myself against the wall. Sliding along, I strained to hear any other sounds or voices.
“We’ll get it done,” someone said before something clattered.
“Was that Malcom?” another man asked.
“Yeah. He’s heard from Talon. He wants to double production.”
“We don’t have the manpower for that,” the second voice said.
There was a crash, then, “You think I don’t know that?” the first man screamed. “We’d have to work for a week straight, twenty-four seven to produce enough for La Croix.”
Easing closer to the window, I peered inside a crack in the sheeting.
A man wearing nothing but a pair of workout shorts was standing in the kitchen. Sweat glistened on his bare skin. “How long do we have?”
“Two motherfucking days.” I couldn’t see the other man yet, but I saw a chair being sent into the wall. It splintered on impact.
“Motherfuck!”
The shadow of the man told me he was pacing, his hands cradling his head as he tugged at his hair.
“We’ll produce what we can,” Workout Shorts said. “Work round the clock.”
“We can’t produce what the Devils need in two days, Van! We need a week.”
Van watched the other man pace. “Rich, man, can you buy us more time with the prez?”
The other man—Rich—finally stepped into view. He was a tall motherfucker with tattoos covering both arms and up his neck. With a shaved head and dark eyes with matching darkcircles beneath, he looked as if he was sampling the product as much as he was cooking it.
“Talon ain’t giving us more time. Malcom already asked, and if we don’t produce the producttheyneed, we ain’t getting whatweneed from the Devils.”
Van ran a hand through his hair and scanned the floor. His head jerked up suddenly, and he opened his mouth to shout something when he crumpled to the floor. Rich reached for a gun on the table, but before he could take aim, he’d joined Van on the cracked linoleum—bleeding out.
Gunnar walked into the kitchen a moment later, checking the two men for signs of life and any more weapons before opening the back door.
“Were you just planning on watching all day?” he asked.
I stepped into the kitchen. “You know, you don’t have to approach every problem with force. And what happened to the fucking signal?”
Gunnar scoffed. “Don’t tell me prison has made you soft, Nick. You were always the one to shoot first and ask questions later.”
As I checked the cupboards, I muttered, “Yeah, well, prison taught me to listen before creating the fucking noise.”
Gunnar brushed off the comment, grinning at me. “Where’s the fun in that, Nick? Come on.”
He opened the basement door in the corner of the kitchen, and the intense heat that rushed up was staggering. The smell of ammonia was just as overpowering as the heat. Rap music was blaring from down below, confirming my suspicions that these guys were straight up stupid about security.
“Looks like we found our cook house.”
“I thought you said you already knew it was,” I said, covering my nose and mouth with the top of my t-shirt.
He shrugged. “It was a hunch. Come on.”
