He smiled and emptied his water bottle, moved away from the work station at the same moment his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He crossed the room, hurried down the stairs, and took the back exit. He stepped outside into the alley where he couldn’t be overheard. “Yeah?”
“Got another job,” the voice said cheerfully. “I think you’re getting the hang of this new occupation.”
He held the cell phone pressed to his ear with the hand that had the broken finger and the savaged thumb nail. A quiver started in his belly and wormed itself lower. He felt the sudden tightening of his bowels as they cramped, threatening to loosen. Fuck, don’t let him crap himself.
He’d been expecting the call, but even so, the fear gripped his gut with intense pain.
“You still there?” the disembodied voice asked.
“Yeah, I’m here,” he muttered.
His jaw clenched as he squeezed his butt cheeks. He pushed down the spasm. “Which ones?”
“Check your phone for details.” The line went dead.
He clicked the attachment and widened the view. The requirements were simpler this time: 2A-LKDD12-1RP11P.
Two A-negative, liver, kidney, delivery date 12-1, regular place, eleven p.m.
Chapter 42
Cole Hansen was dreaming of his childhood. He was five and had crawled up onto the dining room table to reach the shiny, sparkling object perched on the top of his mother’s antique cabinet. He wasn’t supposed to play with anything inside or beside the armoire – which was a fancy way of saying old cabinet with fancy glass doors.
But nobody said anything about on top of, which Cole figured was sort of okay. The object that had caught his eye looked like a toy, a little boy’s toy, red and gleaming and shaped like a fire truck.
It had to be meant for him, didn’t it? Although he’d never gotten such a magnificent present before, little boys’ wishes were powerful. Everything else in the cabinet was dishes or crystal glasses or delicate-looking statues of girls and birds. This object was new, and definitely something made for a little boy, something designed for him to play with.
It was a no-brainer, he thought. No-brainer was something he’d heard his dad say once, the last time Cole had seen him. Cole liked the sound of no-brainer and smiled in his sleep, turning onto his side on the narrow cot in Dr. Jones’ garage.
He didn’t hear the click of the side door to the garage, nor the soft, steady tread of Rebok CrossFits on the concrete floor. The figure crossed to the back door of the house and fiddled with the knob.
Candy from a baby.
Hidden in his slumber corner, wrapped inside a sleeping bag piled with more blankets against the chilly October night, Cole was a lumpy shadow beside the Toyota parked in the big garage. Another soft click and the man entered the laundry room of the house in Rosedale.
Candy from a baby.
Upstairs Frankie Jones slept lightly. She was too far away from Cole and the figure downstairs to hear anything like Cole’s faint snoring – or clicks.
In his dream, five-year-old Cole placed a stool on the table and stretched on tippy-toes as far as he could, grabbing for the toy fire engine on top of the cabinet. Suddenly he overreached, teetered precariously, and plunged to the floor, his small feet smashing through the delicately etched design of the armoire’s glass doors.
The crash was like the clap of doom.
Cole jerked awake. A dream, just a dream. No one coming to punish him, although the grown man felt the urgent need to empty his bladder in much the same way that the five-year-old Cole had wet his pants. Listening to the calm, dead silence of the garage, eyes adjusting to the gloom, Cole stood and padded on sock feet to the laundry room door.
It stood ajar.
That wasn’t right. He distinctly remembered Cruz pushing hard to shut it. Wary, he crept into the laundry room and through the kitchen. Everything was gray shades and odd shapes. At the foot of the stairs, he waited a long moment before climbing slowly upward.
He hesitated on the third step, legs shaking unsteadily. Doc wouldn’t be happy if he woke her up.
The crash and tinkle of broken glass woke Frankie immediately. She rolled off the double bed and crouched on the opposite side from the bedroom door. Reached under the bed for the baseball bat – thanks, Dad, for the safety tip – and gripped it with both hands, hunkering low and hidden from sight.
The man entered the room with a swift kick to the bedroom door. Damn, why ruin a perfectly good, unlocked door? Frankie tightened her grip on the bat.
The figure scanned the room for long moments, adjusting his eyes to the darkness, examining the bed where she’d just lain a few moments ago. From her position on the floor, Frankie watched the feet of the intruder tread toward the bed, heard the soft pop-pop-pop of a silenced gun killing her pillow.
Cautious steps approached the bed. Through a thin veneer of calm, she thought of the age-old question: what do you bring to a fist fight? A knife. What do you bring to a knife fight? A gun.