Staying hidden, I looked left and right, seeing the other buildings in this small industrial-type compound. One was half fallen down, one side missing and panels of the roof hanging precariously like they could fall any second. The only other building in the area was a small brick-built hut that could have once belonged to the security guards who would have watched over this place. There were holes in the roof and the windows were smashed in—clearly no one was using it now. Three cars were parked on the abandoned space off to my right, none of them nice enough to belong to a Salazar.
Remaining still and quiet, I watched, waiting for my opportunity and deciding if I was just going to burst in. Less than three minutes later, my opportunity presented itself. A guy walked around the corner of the building, staring at the screen of his cell phone, clearly engrossed in whatever he was watching. The security guard making his rounds. I smiled to myself, pushing the strap of my bag across my body so it wouldn’t fall off and pulling out the gun I’d confiscated from the guy who’d attacked Ellie earlier. I had untraceable guns of my own I could use, but I found it amusing that I might get to kill Mateo with one of his own crew’s weapon—I did love a bit of irony.
The security guard stopped, his back to me, put one hand on the door handle, and then let it drop back down to his side as he leaned against the wall, deciding to finish watching what was on his cell instead of going back to work.
I stood, holding my bag steady against my hip as I ran the short distance across to him. He was so engrossed in the TV show, he didn’t even hear me approach until I pressed the barrel of the gun against the back of his head. His whole body stiffened, his hands coming up in a reflexive action, and I saw that he was watching The Walking Dead.
“Don’t move and you’ll live through this,” I ordered, pressing the gun harder against his scalp as I leaned forward and took his cell phone, turning off the video and shoving it into my bag. “Put your hands behind your head,” I instructed, stepping back and moving the gun to dig between his shoulder blades instead. He did as he was told, interlacing his fingers behind his head, his Salazar ink now in full view on his forearm. “Good. How many other guards are there?” I patted down his body, finding a knife and a small handgun strapped to his waist. I removed both, carefully putting them into my bag.
“Just me,” he answered, his voice a lot younger than his face suggested.
“If you’re lying...” I pushed the gun harder into his spine.
“I’m not, I swear,” he replied quickly. He turned his head and his eyes widened. “Oh shit, you’re Kid Cole.”
My reputation precedes me again.
I nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. Is Mateo inside?” I almost growled his name, my anger flaring again.
He shook his head. “No, he hasn’t been here for a couple of days.”
A groan of frustration left my lips. I’d really been pinning my hopes on him being here. “How many people are inside?”
“Three, just three.”
“And are you expecting any deliveries or collections anytime soon?” I asked, glancing up the road, seeing it was still clear, not a passerby in sight.
“No, we had a delivery this morning,” the guy answered. Part of me believed him, but I still needed to be careful. I didn’t know what or who would be inside.
“What’s your name?”
“Stan,” he replied.
“Okay, Stan. Slowly open that door so I can see in”—I nodded to the door he was going to go through earlier—“and remember, if anyone starts shooting, you’ll be the first to die.”
He gulped and nodded. “There’s no one else here apart from the chefs.” He slowly opened the door wide enough that I could see it led to a little security office with a desk and a monitor on it.
“Go in,” I ordered, shoving him forward a little to get him moving because his feet didn’t seem to want to cooperate. He stepped into the office and I cautiously looked around, seeing that it was empty. “Go over to the desk.” He did as he was told again, walking around to the desk with me in tow, the gun on him at all times.
On the monitor were three grainy black-and-white moving pictures—one of outside behind the building, which was clear and empty; another of the front of the building, where we’d just been standing; and the last inside the lab itself. Three people wearing white lab coats, rubber gloves, goggles, and masks were inside, just as Stan had said.
“Okay, we’re going to go in there nice and slow. You’re going in first.” I reached out, putting my hand on his shoulder and holding him at arm’s length ahead of me as I raised the gun, aiming over his shoulder, ready for anything.
Stan nodded, walked to the door slowly so I could keep pace with him, and opened the heavy-looking metal door, letting it swing inward, allowing access to the vast lab. As soon as the door opened, the scent of ammonia and solvents burned my nose and made the back of my throat itch.
The chefs didn’t even look up from their work as we entered. I glanced around quickly, seeing all manner of things piled high in the room: stacks of cold pills, bottles and bottles of bleach, large bags of salt, empty soda bottles, cans of drain cleaner, and compressed gas cylinders along with so many other household items that it looked like the cleaning aisle of Walmart.
Chemical stains marred the walls, and large, long tables had been set up along the center of the room where the chefs actually did the cooking. On another table to the right, their finished product lay in plastic bags, tied securely. There was easily a couple of hundred thousand dollars’ worth of ice sitting on that table. As I stepped farther into the room, using Stan as a shield, my eyes started to water from the stench of cleaning fluid, and I wondered how these guys stood it all day. They had flimsy cloth masks over their mouths and noses, but that wouldn’t do much to keep the chemical burn from reaching their throats, surely. Stan clearly felt it too, because he coughed, hacking loudly, and then spat on the floor, making a disgusted sound in his throat.
That caught the attention of the chefs, and two of them looked up at once. The other continued to work, humming a little tune that sounded suspiciously like the Disney song “Bare Necessities” while using a turkey baster to suck up ingredients and add them to a Pyrex dish.
“Nobody fucking move,” I ordered, pointing the gun at each one in turn. The third guy stopped humming when he looked up and saw the gun.
All three of them stood stock-still, their eyes wide and terrified; they weren’t gang members or anything sinister, just junkies who made the product so they could get their fill.
“Put your hands on your head and spread your legs. No one moves a muscle.” I reached into my bag, my hand searching for Stan’s cell phone, then pulled it out and handed it to him. “I want you to call Mateo; tell him I’m here and that I want to talk to him.”
He gulped and took the phone slowly, using one hand to unlock it and scroll for his contact. When he put the phone to his ear, I pressed the gun into his side again, watching. “Mateo, I’m here at the Long Island lab. Kid Cole just turned up with a gun and wants to talk to you.” His face paled at whatever Mateo said and he held the phone out to me to take.
I smiled, taking the phone and pressing it to my ear, keeping my gun trained on Stan and glancing at the others to see that they were standing with their hands on their heads and legs spread as I’d instructed.
“Mateo,” I snarled.
“Kid, what are you doing?” I could hear a note of panic in his tone.
His voice made the anger spike inside me;
rage clouded my vision and I fought to remain in control of it. “You made my shit list sending people after Ellie. I’m about to burn your fucking lab to the ground, just like I promised you I would. Next, I’m coming for you. I’m going to hunt you down and kill you so slowly you’ll be begging me to end it long before I do. You’d better get the fuck off my streets and start running, Salazar; you have a small head start, but it won’t do you any good. I’ll find you.” It was a promise. I’d killed one man in my life; I would make Mateo the second for daring to harm her. I disconnected the call without waiting for any reply, tossing it to Stan.
Everyone was watching me with wide eyes as I reached into my bag, pulling out the first bottle of whiskey with the ripped portion of T-shirt stuffed into the top. I set it on the table, pulling the lighter out next.
A sharp intake of breath from Stan made me look at him. “What the hell are you doing? This whole place will go up, there’s propane in here!” he cried, his eyes darting to the gas tanks and all the chemicals.
“I know.” I sparked the lighter and held it against the cloth. It caught effortlessly and I picked up the bottle, smiling wickedly. “If you want to live, you better start running,” I said, pulling my arm back and launching the firebomb across the lab. It smashed, splattering fiery liquid all over the far wall. None of the ingredients were stored over there, which was why I picked it as my first target.
I stepped back, grinning as all four of them turned on their heels and started sprinting for the door. I pulled out the second bottle, lighting the makeshift fuse and throwing it directly at the table with all the drugs on it, watching the fire come to life, engulfing the table and the wall, creeping over the floor, swallowing the Salazars’ drugs with it. I hefted the third at the back wall again, seeing the fire rapidly expand, the flames now licking up toward the roof. The heat in the room was almost