Page 24 of Satan's Naughty List
“Have you heard from Widower or Nomad?”
“It was a few hours ago. They didn’t say what it was, just asked if there was manpower. There’s about three groups running tonight.”
“Shit, if they kept me in the loop, I’d know that,” I sass, running a hand through my hair. “Do you think they went on one of the missions with another group?”
“No, it seemed like it was for something else,” he pauses, then shots ring out before his line goes dead.
“No luck?” Hudson calls from the bedroom.
“Nah, I’m going to go check on them. Lock the door behind me,” I call, slipping back into my shoes.
“You’d never know that I once ran a club,” he harrumphs, walking toward me.
“Yeah, ran it into the ground.” His fists clench while I laugh, dancing out the door quickly.
“Be safe, yeah?” He calls, watching as I stride toward the main room. Throwing the bird over my shoulder, he laughs. I hear the lock click into place, solidifying that I’m not truly alone.
Am I scared? A little. It’s eerily quiet for a club that tends to be jam packed. No noise reverberates up the stairs, no laughing or sounds of fucking. Just…air.
Checking my phone again, there doesn’t seem to be a jammed line, and it didn’t sound like a com failure when I tried calling earlier. Lines that get fluxed out by signal blockers tend to sound like white noise static.
Another shitty scenario adds to the mix of my fears because I’ve called three different people, none answering my damn call. Then I reach out to one of the guys who aren’t even in the club right now and they answer. Which means, there’s one of two instances happening right now.
One, they’re fine and just ignoring our calls because they’re busy. This one is not as often as people believe. It’s truly important for us to ensure we’re all safe. So, this one is concerning none-the-less.
Two, they’re not fine and they’re dead somewhere in a ditch.
For my brain capacity, there’s no in between.
Slipping into the club area, it’s pretty deserted. There’s only a few guys milling around who weren’t chosen to go out on runs. Run days tend to be the slowest, but not always. This mission? Payday. No one is at the bar, only two guys playing pool and one guy making out with his ole’ lady in the corner. Other than that, there’s no one.
Walking to the bar, I wave to the tender who smiles lightly. She’s new, not someone I remember seeing before, but an unfamiliar face none-the-less.
“What can I get started for you?” She asks, throwing the rag over her shoulder and propping her palms on the bartop. I take in her features, analyzing her from the employee profiles. Maybe one of the prospects did her paperwork, and I just signed the dotted line. Sitting down, I level her with a stare.
“Vodka soda.” She nods with that small smile, turning around and making the drink. I debate on getting straight to the point or not. She seems like the type that could appreciate it.
Fuck it.
“Anything else I can get for you?” She questions, plopping the thick glass on the counter. Smirking, I bring the glass to my lips.
“Information,” I state, taking another swig. “Have you seen Widower or Nomad around lately?” Her eye twitches, but she keeps her strong smile placed on her face.
“I think I saw them a few minutes ago. Nomad came steam rolling through here.” She points to the stairs then drags her finger toward the main door.
Humming, I take another slow swig. The liquid sloshes around as I tip it around. She watches me closely, brows furrowed like she’s in confusion.
“Was he still wearing his bomber jacket? He probably forgot to take it off before he went and tortured someone,” I laugh, lying right through my teeth. Nomad doesn’t have a bomber jacket. They’re too…preppy.
“I think he was wearing it,” she giggles, rolling her hair between her two fingers. “It had red marks on it, so he may have forgotten. These men tend to be so ditzy.” Furrowing my brow, I try to make sense of her words. Ditzy? That’s more how she’s acting right now.
Fuck all, I’m not a fucking executioner. Gathering information is a lot harder than it sounds.
Sighing heavily, I drop my line of sight to the counter top, swirling the liquid around in the tumbler. I catch sight of something sitting at the bottom. Digging my finger into the glass, I bring out a mostly-fizzled-out pill.
She’s drugging me.
Jaw dropping, I glance up at her only to see the barrel of the gun glaring back at me.
