Page 65 of A New Days Don

I race through my house, slipping on my Converse before running to the cruiser I drove home. This warehouse had better be obvious, otherwise I know I’m not going to make it in time. In my maps app on my phone, I select the pin I dropped earlier today to make it easier to find County Road 4 and start the GPS.

Against every moral in my body, I speed through town, turning on my lights and sirens to get everyone to move out of the way. It doesn’t take me long to reach the outskirts, though I know I am drawing a lot of attention and eyes. I turn off the siren and lights once the busy streets dwindle into a few cars and pedestrians.

With every mile, I get closer to the outskirts of town, and the unease in my stomach grows. I fiddle with the taser on my hip, my only weapon, trying to calm my racing mind. I will go, get the information I need, and then return home.

“Turn left in one mile.” The robotic voice of my GPS lady prompts.

Sweat pricks at my hands, making me grasp the steering wheel a little tighter. The paved road gives way to dust and gravel as I turn off the main road and into the desert.

A knot forms in my throat as the GPS lady tells me I arrived at my destination. I turn on my brights, keeping an eye out for any sign of the warehouse the unknown number had told me about. In the distance, I can barely make out a fairly well-kept building, aside from some sand blasting against the South side of the building.

I flick my headlights off before turning into the lot, something twisting deep inside of me, telling me to keep myself as inconspicuous as possible. There are two cars parked at the far end of the property. My phone buzzes again making my body stiffen with awareness.

Something’s not right about this.

I slam on my brakes, throwing my cruiser in park. I don’t bother turning the car off, instead I leave it idling in case I need a quick escape. The night air is crisper outside the city, without the sun baking on the concrete all day. There is a gentle breeze that flicks at my ponytail like a warning, sending goosebumps down my arms.

Something rustles nearby, and I grab my taser, holding it towards a small bush. A desert rat skitters by. I have to hold back the yelp of surprise and fear that flashes through me.

It’s only a rat.

I curse at myself for being so jumpy before turning back to the warehouse. The big barn door is slightly ajar, and a gurgling noise comes from within. With each slow step, the trepidation roiling inside of me builds. I keep my taser at the ready.

Once I am mere feet from the door, I can hear some men talking. My feet pause, and I bite my tongue with as much force as I can without making it bleed to stop the gasp wanting to slip out.

This was a bad idea.

I should have waited for Massimo.

Before I can run out of there and to my cruiser, one of the men slurs and gurgles, “You don’ realize what you’re doin…”

“I think I do. So, unless you have any more information to give me, any last words you think will save your pathetic excuse for a life, then I’m done here.” This voice is a cold growl. One that is almost familiar, but the lethal cadence makes my heart stammer before slowing to a near stop.

I peer around the edge of the door. This time, I can’t stop the gasp from releasing.

Five pairs of eyes all turn on their heels, four of the five all pull their guns on me, as a man tied to a chair lolls his head to one side, his face bruised and bloody to the point I can barely make out his features. Below his chair is a puddle of blood.

His blood.

Bleeding from an open wound on his thigh, his missing nails, and a few other delicate cuts around his hands and ankles.

The sight paralyzes me. It is the sight of the dark eyes that had once held so much warmth, but now feel more distant and colder than I have ever seen them, that makes my lip tremble. Massimo has his hand on a blade that presses into the battered man’s carotid.

There is a curse, I think it comes from Massimo, given that his tense jaw moves, but I don’t recognize his voice over the pounding of my heart. It sounds like I’m underwater, and when my lungs stop taking in oxygen, I know the panic is going to set in soon.

My eyes dart for the dripping of blood off the man’s hand as I stumble back. The four men stay back, but Massimo advances on me. His white dress shirt and hands are splattered red. His dark hair is messy, and his eyes barely have an ounce of life in them as he eyes me like his next victim. He looks every bit the reaper he is.

I won’t be a victim again.

The thought is small, but it’s enough to have me pivoting and running for my cruiser. I hear Massimo chasing me, his feet gaining on me. Adrenaline is dumped into my veins, sharpening everything around me as I reach for the cool metal of my cruiser door.

I open it quickly and jump in, knocking my head on the frame, but I don’t have time to baby the throbbing pain. I close the door, but it stops. A force as I have never felt pulls it open, and I scream.

“No!” I cry, kicking my feet at the hands that try to grab me, “Let go of me!”

They do so almost instantly, and through blurry vision, I see a glimpse of the Massimo I thought I knew. His hands pulled back, a look of desperation and remorse clear on his face.

“Mila,” his voice is softer than the one he was using in the warehouse. His eyes dart across my face and down my body.