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That’s it.
A nagging little voice in the back, I’m talking way, way back, of my mind calls me a damn liar.
I tell it to fuck off.BrielleI had no clue what I was asking when I said use me, and I still don’t. But walking through the junkyard-looking gate and entering a small, confined walkway of dirt and tarps with barking dogs in the distance, I’m not convinced he didn’t bring Micah here for some kind of underground gang ritual that I just threw myself into.
I take slow and steady breaths when the aisle ends and hold it as we wrap around to an open clearing of rottweilers and rocks.
When I stutter step, Royce laughs, sliding his hands in his pockets with ease.
Not one of the dogs come closer, but they each continue to bark until Andre calls out for them to ‘silence’. He tosses them out one by one, and then the big ol’ beasts wag their tails and trot along like sweet boys.
The four of us keep forward, a gang of Brayshaws only steps behind, and we’re quickly in full view of the hidden space.
The yard is wide open and goes on for miles, cypress trees from one edge to the next, completely boxing the giant square in. From the outside, it looks like some sort of old salvage yard, but it’s clean and neat, not a hint of junk to be found.
There’s a huge tin building to the left that has long windows lining the top, ‘Brayshaw’ painted large and proud along the door.
I look to Royce. “The jet?”
He doesn’t look my way, instead down the landing strip. “When we brought you here, we came in and went out on that end. You couldn’t see any of this from there.”
“Was that purposeful?”
His eyes slide my way. “What do you think?”
Of course it was.
I follow his hand as he points to the right. “First row is off-limits, second is where you’ll look.”
I turn to find two parallel lines, the first a line of at least three dozen vehicles, makes and models of all kinds—trucks, Jeeps, SUVs, even a hearse—with a common theme of black on black.
Black paint, rims, and almost completely blacked-out windows.
If someone were to be sitting in any one of them right this moment, you would never know it.
The second row is a mix of more and of no particular style.
There’s everything from a poor kid’s fixer-upper to a rich man’s midlife crisis, silver, blues, and browns, the first being the familiar white car he was driving when he showed up at my aunt’s.
We take a few steps closer and Royce nods to the small house in the front right. “We’re checking out the hangar and then going in. Find a ride and be quick about it. Remember the number on the front and meet us inside. Andre will pull it up when we’re done, and then we’ll tell you where you’re taking it.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, walking his family over to where the jet is and then it’s just me and dozens of plateless cars, cars that have likely seen more than a nightmare could show me.
I start down the aisle, but I only make it past the first few vehicles when my attention is pulled to one stored right behind them.
Sitting against the back gate, tucked into a corner with a tarp lazily thrown over it, is the dented-up front end of a 1972 Cutlass. I’d recognize the rusty red anywhere.
My feet carry me right to it, and I stumble along the rocks, falling before the crushed in bumper.
The license plate hangs by a thread of a single busted bolt, and scrapes the ground beneath it.
I reach out to touch the custom lettering, and it falls face down, hiding the words I’ve read a solid thousand times.
I pick it up, my knees tremble as I grip the microfiber material hiding the rest of the car and tug it back. It gets hooked on something somewhere, but it doesn’t matter. I can see enough.
The passenger side is smashed in, the front tire completely bent beneath it. The windshield is busted, but holds on near the bottom, the upper half pushed in and shattered, hanging low inside the car.
I run around to the driver’s side door, a heavy growl leaving me as I pull on the handle. I lift my foot, planting it on the back door for added force, yanking and jiggling the thing until it finally wrenches open.
Quickly dipping inside, I run my hands over the cool leather he must have had redone without my knowing, but that’s not what has my lungs closing in or my head growing dizzy.
Blood.
Everywhere.
On the seats and the door and the smashed-in windshield.
On the driver and passenger side, the airbags hanging and torn.
I begin to hyperventilate, fumbling to get my phone from my pocket, and dial my brother, but after two rings it goes straight to voicemail.
